He has played the Kennedy Center and Carnegie Hall. He has performed abroad and earned international acclaim. But most days find Sean Grissom, the Cajun Cellist, playing his favorite venue — the streets and subways of New York City.
By Eli Epstein Photographed by Dana Ullman
The crowds bustle by the rows of vendors that line the Lexington Avenue side of Grand Central Terminal. It is 5 p.m. on a Friday — rush hour — and most New Yorkers scurry past the upscale skincare shops and eateries with unseeing eyes. But as they pass a man on the corner, many do a double take; some stop in their tracks.
It could be his rainbow button-down shirt that draws their gaze, an abstract array of bright-colored shapes that looks like it belongs in a postmodern art museum. Maybe it’s his beaming smile. Or, it could be the large wooden cello he is playing — unconventionally — with the verve and daring of the Texas fiddler he once was, bowing his way through an eclectic set of twangy zydeco numbers and sweet classical arias.
Sean Grissom is the Cajun Cellist. Over his nearly three-decade career as a musician, he’s won his share of fame — invitations to play in Russia and Japan, performances at the Kennedy Center and Carnegie Hall. But Grissom maintains that none of these venues are more important to him than, say, a late afternoon set at the Staten Island Ferry Terminal, playing for the dreary but appreciative workers heading home. Most days find Grissom in the streets and subways of New York, filling the urban air with his unique mix of classical, jazz, country, swing, and Cajun rock melodies.
“It’s important to be able to play for everybody,” Grissom says. “Underground you’re playing for nine million people in the course of a year.” He has played for well-heeled crowds in the world’s best concert halls, but for the price of a New York subway fare, he says, anyone can listen to him: “It’s the best $2.25 show you’ll see.”
The Underground Scene
At Grand Central, Grissom plays under the auspices of MUNY — or, as he refers to it, “the program.” MUNY, which stands for Music Under New York, was founded in 1985 by the Arts for Transit division of the Metropolitan Transportation Authority. It gives selected performers a set schedule every week (Grissom mostly plays at Grand Central, the Union Square subway station, Penn Station, and the Staten Island Ferry Terminal) and an official banner to hang above their setup, which in the subway musician community is treated like gold.
New York’s subways host dozens of performers and musicians, but few of these can gain the MUNY stamp of approval. The program prefers acts that reflect “the people and culture of New York,” says Lydia Bradshaw, the MTA Arts for Transit and Music Under New York manager. The selection process is rigorous. Applications and demo tapes are screened by a committee that includes veteran MUNY performers. After whittling down the initial pool, the judges invite the remaining applicants for a five-minute audition in Grand Central — what Grissom calls “the cattle call.” Every year about 200 new acts apply to MUNY. The handful that pass the auditions are accepted into the program, where they’re welcome for as long as they choose to keep playing.
Grissom constantly competes for the attention of commuters at Grand Central. As he plays his set, he must ignore the booming train announcements and the incessant clamor of cell phone chatter and scuttling feet. To respect the sound space of the neighboring vendors, Grissom points his amplifier toward the wall. (Thanks to the station’s acoustics, the sound bounces off the marble and proceeds up into the arches, finding its way onto the other side of the vendors.)
Entertaining an audience underground is different than it is on any another stage — and yes, Grissom is adamant that his two- by four-foot space in Grand Central is a stage, just like Carnegie Hall. The main difference, he says, is that playing for a non-captive audience is even more challenging. “You have a ninety-second window to attract somebody — sometimes twenty seconds,” he says. “If you can learn how to grab their attention and distract them for ever a brief moment, then playing for a captive audience, that wants to be entertained, is that much easier. The energy is just there.”
The Cajun Cellist is approaching fifty. He wears his frizzy gray hair in a ponytail; rimless glasses are perched comfortably on his nose. But as he starts another long set at Grand Central, he attacks the strings with youthful gusto. He plays the James Bond theme song with exaggerated arm motions. With the Pink Panther theme, he shifts his torso to the “ba-dump” rhythm. Then, when he plays “America the Beautiful” a few minutes later, his shoulders sway to the same slowed pace of his bow.
Grissom’s set is three hours long, and he doesn’t like to repeat material.
A Cajun on a Subway, a Fiddle on a Cello
Sean Grissom was born in Texas in 1961. He grew up in a conservative household, in a particularly devout part of the state where, as he recalls, “a town wasn’t a town until it had a Baptist church.” When he was sixteen he moved to New York City. Grissom originally followed his cello teacher to New York, but a few years into his music studies, he began questioning his career choice. He enrolled at the Pratt Institute and earned degrees in painting, graphic design, and musicology. In college he would lug his classical cello outside Lincoln Center to play for change.
Grissom later enrolled in a graduate music program at Hunter College, part of the public City University of New York system. The program allowed him to work with teachers at other schools, and Grissom studied under Channing Robbins, a Juilliard professor. (“I got a Juilliard degree for a City price.”)
During his years in school, Grissom would return home to Texas on his breaks. It was then that he melded his Cajun roots with his classical cello education. “I found a fiddle teacher and I memorized more fiddle tunes in one summer than I had classical songs in my entire life,” he says. “Classical music for me was always notes on a page, whereas I had a knack for fiddle music.” Grissom was playing fiddle tunes on his cello — much to the chagrin of his teachers in New York, who told him to stick to the “three Bs” — Bach, Brahms, and Beethoven.
In 1983, Grissom got his hands on an old cello from the 1920s. “I looked at that thing, and I said … ‘I want to hotrod that.’ So I made it electric.”
Over the next two decades, Grissom played his electric cello as a member of numerous New York bands, including an Irish rock band. He did solo performances in the subways and at local hospitals. He even managed to bring his souped-up cello onto the grand stage of the New York punk scene. “I used to lay down bass lines and solo lines at CBGB,” he says, proudly.
Nearly twenty years later, Grissom still uses the same homemade instrument. Despite its sonorous qualities, his electric cello has an antique, rustic quality to it. Its oaky color has faded over years of use. Its uneven and beaten edges confirm its salvaged beginnings. But Grissom loves his instrument and even dresses it for the occasion. He adorns its belly with a large polka-dotted handkerchief — what he calls his subway shmata (Yiddish for “rag”), used to catch cello varnish before it smears his clothing. On top of the instrument’s scroll he places a coonskin tip.
Many commuters have no idea that the ramshackle piece of wood and strings he is playing is actually a high-functioning electric cello. They gape at his strange instrument and his outlandish clothing. At this point in his career, Grissom is unfazed by crooked glances. In fact, he openly welcomes inquiries from passersby.
Grissom repeatedly insists that he doesn’t play for the money. He likes it when his listeners put cash in his black tip cap, but he prefers when they take his business card. A pile of cards sits directly to the left of his tip hat, next to a stack of his CDs (Grissom has self-produced ten records, with a classic rock album on the way). He calls his business cards “seeds” — they are how onlookers find out how to schedule him for private shows. One time, a commuter took his business card on the subway. The man moved to San Francisco. Five years later the man returned to New York and happened to find the card, and hired Grissom to play at a friend’s birthday party.
Playing on the subway makes him a better musician, Grissom adds. He says he doesn’t measure his day by the content of his tip hat, but by the quality of his performance. Did he incorporate audience interactions into his set? Was his closing number as sharp as his opening piece? Did he work in new material? “If people aren’t into what I’m doing, then I can just practice for myself to maintain my level of play,” he says. “That’s why the subway is in between a rehearsal and a performance.”
This week, MUNY has assigned Grissom to play a noon to 3 p.m. set at the Union Square subway station, right above the entrance to the N, Q, and R trains. He is happy with the new venue. At Grand Central, which he likens to a more formal cocktail hour gig, Grissom prefers not to bring his electric cello, which is too noisy for the confined space and disturbs the surrounding vendors. At Union Square, though, he sees more possibilities for experimentation and funk. The greater socioeconomic diversity of Union Square subway riders makes a difference, he says. “Union Square has a rock-club environment. It’s more indicative of subway travelers, with the L-train hipsters. The crowd is much more spontaneous.”
As a nod to the less conservative atmosphere, today Grissom has added shiny purple shoes and a black-and-yellow bow tie to his outfit. His set list has also taken on a markedly different shape than the one he played at Grand Central the previous Friday. Now, with his electric cello, he jams away to a veritable classic-rock hit list. There’s “Baba O’Riley” by the Who, “Wish You Were Here” by Pink Floyd, and “Sweet Jane” by the Velvet Underground. The set is lively and leans heavily on Grissom’s fiddle background. At times he frantically bangs his bow against the cello’s body. Throughout the performance he bobs his head up and down with the beat.
As the Cajun Cellist plays his set in the subway station, a woman walks by warily, staring at his handmade instrument with a confounded gaze.
“It’s a cello!” Grissom yells out to her, over the screech of the train.
Video: Sean Grissom Plays in New York’s Union Square Subway Station
Eli Epstein is a freelance writer in New York City. His work has appeared online in the Atlantic, Fortune, and Esquire.
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Big John plays chess for a three-dollar donation. C bets customers five bucks they can’t beat him. John plays days. C works the chessboard until 5 a.m. John has a family, an apartment, a job. C hustles to survive. These are New York’s street players.
He rocks in his chair from excitement, and it creaks under his weight. Finally, Cameron, a young man who goes only by “C,” moves his white bishop across the board. He takes his opponent’s knight, smashes the button on the timer with the same hand, and taunts, “How you like that?”
The opponent, Big John, calmly takes C’s bishop with a pawn. It is an even exchange in terms of the pieces’ values, but it leaves John in a better position, controlling more of the center of the board. C stares at the board intently, and — for a moment, at least — is quiet.
Big John about to make his move.
C has dark skin, bright eyes, and a neatly trimmed black beard. He is wide around the middle, and his loose-fitting clothes make him seem even larger. Every pound of C is filled with energy. He rattles off his words rapidly, and often berates opponents for poor moves (“What was that, what you thinking?”).
John Hill, forty-nine, who goes by “Big John” or just “John,” is a tall man with wide shoulders, whose grayish white stubble stands out against his dark face. He is soft-spoken and purposeful. He speaks unhurriedly, drawing out each of his words, even as he cracks lighthearted jokes. John reminds me of one of Tolkien’s Ents (the towering, mythical, tree-like creatures who are never rushed), while C brings to mind a 200-pound hummingbird.
John asks for a three-dollar donation for every game played, while C hustles, betting customers five dollars on the game’s outcome. John plays during the day, while C arrives in the park — New York’s Union Square — later in the afternoon, often playing until5 a.m.
John works the night shift as a security guard, his primary source of income. After work he might stop by home for a nap, but he then goes to the park to play chess, and does so on many weekend days as well.
C does not have a steady job, though he certainly does work. He plays chess in Union Square almost full-time. On days when the forecast predicts rain, C brings a large gym bag full of cheap umbrellas, which he hawks on the sidewalk. (“I got to get my money. It’s a recession! I got to get every nickel and dime. Every nickel and dime.”)
A few seconds pass before C decides on his next move — and is back to trash-talking. “You’re my fish, you’re my fish!” he yells, slamming the timer.
The under-the-table cash economy is vital to the street chess scene.
“No, you’re my fish.” John almost never goads an opponent, but C’s exuberance can be contagious.
“I’ve got you, I’ve got you. I’ve got you hooked,” continues C, moving a piece.
“Yeah, yeah — keep talking,” John answers, unruffled.
The onlookers, many of them street players or regular customers, watch with interest, grinning at the banter but keeping silent. Only after John wins do they begin commenting — “Oh, John, I thought you had him here when the pieces were like this,” or “Hey C, why didn’t you move here when he did this?”
After the game, C talks loudly about how in a real game John would have lost by a technicality — John had advanced his pawn to the last line of squares, but did not announce that he was promoting it to queen. John does not seem to pay C any mind. He just relaxes in his chair, triumphant.
The Game
Chess is one of the oldest board games in the world, originating in India about 1,500 years ago. In the centuries that followed, it was a game of kings, a pastime associated with high culture and martial strategy, played in royal courts in the Middle East and Europe.
But there is little that is regal about the men — and it is almost entirely men — who hold court today in Union Square and elsewhere, playing street chess for money. These men are public figures, who choose places of high visibility to sell chess games. In New York, they can be found in many parks or places of social gathering. They are a diverse group. Some are homeless, and some have jobs, apartments, and families. For some, chess is a vital — perhaps only — source of income. For others, the game is a hobby that provides additional cash. Some ask for straight donations. Others gamble, betting on the game’s outcome.
Big John has an apartment, a family, and a job, but he also spends hours every day outside, playing chess and smoking Newport cigarettes. He spends as much time in Union Square as one would spend at a full-time job. Street chess provides him with a small supplementary income, but he insists that he plays it in the parks because he loves the game. “Chess is the only sport — and I consider it a sport — that anyone of any height, weight, race, nationality, or even eyesight can do. It’s a level playing field,” he says. “Chess makes us all equal. It’s one of the things I love about it so much: that anyone can play.”
John has played chess ever since a childhood accident kept him home from school for a few years. As he grew up, he continued playing. For years he played in public parks — as a customer, playing against street players. As he began beating them, he decided to set up his own spot outside, to allow his “hobby to pay for itself.” He tried different places, including Washington Square Park and Times Square, but they didn’t have the right atmosphere. Finally, two years ago, John settled on Union Square.
The Cash Box
It is a sunny Saturday just before noon, the first clear day after a week of rain and snow. John has just arrived at Union Square and is setting up. He places a huge clipboard — the kind that art students use — on top of a cardboard box, to make a table. He drapes newspaper over upside-down plastic milk crates to make chairs. As he works, John leisurely starts to tells a story from his Brooklyn childhood, when he and some friends sneaked into an abandoned apartment building in their neighborhood.
Out of his gym bag John pulls a rolled-up mat with white and green squares. He straightens out the chessboard and clips one side of it to the clipboard. He takes a roll of tape from his bag, and slowly begins taping down his board.
It’s a new board, one that John recently bought from the Village Chess Shop, an iconic store in Greenwich Village that has catered to chess players for more than three decades. It is open all night and lets people play each other for $2.50 per hour. There you can find players of all kinds — grandmasters and children, street players and tourists. “It’s an equalizer — chess,” says Michael Propper, the shop’s owner. “You have a guy worth a million dollars, and you’ve got the guy with no home. And the big shot is the guy with no home, ’cause he’s a great chess player. And if he comes in here, he’s got authority, he’s got respect.”
Street players go to the chess shop mostly at night or when the weather is bad, especially during the winter. It provides a warm place indoors, but then their games are not as profitable, because they have to pay the house and because gambling is against the rules. (“There’s some subtle gambling that we overlook, that we know takes place, where they play for a couple of dollars against each other,” Propper says. “We have people who come here for thirty hours straight, and they’re clearly gambling.”)
Whether or not a street player chooses to play at the Village Chess Shop, he will still usually shop there. The chess shop, which also sells a $400 rosewood board, does steady business selling no-frills $8.50 chess sets to the park crowd.
John bought his new chessboard and set of pieces for twenty-five dollars, spending extra money to get heavier pieces that wouldn’t blow away in the wind and that wouldn’t break if stepped on. The color of John’s old set had also started to wear off, the white pieces turning beige from so much cleaning. Many street players make do with beat-up sets — one player uses a soda cap instead of a lost pawn, and C mixes pieces from different sets. But John says he’s aiming to attract customers. “Out here you always want to present something that’s desirable — new set, shiny pieces,” he says. “It just made more sense to go ahead and invest in a new set.”
Once his board is taped flat, John turns his attention to his cash box, the cardboard container that holds the day’s earnings. He tapes the bottom so it will hold, and he tapes down each of the four cardboard flaps so they will not be in the way. Then he reaches into his gym bag and retrieves yet another piece of cardboard. It’s a sign with John’s writing in blue pastel: “If you take a photo of the chess players please leave a donation.”
He tapes the sign to his cash box at an angle, so that the sign can flip down. That way, it can act as a lid and cover the contents of the box if a park ranger walks by. (While the authorities generally tolerate street players, gambling on chess is technically illegal, and players have been known to be hassled or fined wherever money overtly changes hands.) The cash box itself can be disassembled and reassembled fairly easily — if, for instance, skateboarders keep bumping against it.
John reaches into his bag again for a piece of purple checkered fabric, which he uses to line the bottom of his cash box. He dumps a handful of his own dollar bills into the box; this will encourage other people to donate. It’s one of the many tricks that John has picked up over the years to increase his chess income. But he does not live on what he earns in the park, nor could he. “I tend to do okay: maybe forty, fifty bucks,” he says. “A great day for me would be around eighty dollars.” But that’s just “once in a blue moon,” John adds. “This in no way is like a great windfall. You eek out a few dollars here or there.”
One reason that John makes less than some of the other players is that his prices are so low. Most players charge five dollars for games, but John charges just three dollars — to “make it inviting,” he says. “You make it affordable, where someone can actually enjoy the game if their game is not that good — someone who plays for, like I said, the love of the game.”
Finally, John pulls out his new set of weighted chess pieces, along with a sleek digital chess clock. As he meticulously puts each piece in its place, he nears the end of his story, too — this now twenty-minute chronicle of John when he was eight years old, exploring an empty apartment in Brooklyn with his friends. They were poking innocently around the rooms, John says, when suddenly his world turned upside down.
“I didn’t know what happened,” he says. “And then my friend looks at me, and he starts screaming.”
Putting down the rook he’s been holding, John whips off his cap. His silver hair is cut short, almost to the skin, making his head look like a grizzled coconut. He takes my hand and runs it along a deep groove in his skull — a scar from where a falling brick embedded itself in his head decades ago. After his accident, John remained housebound for a few years. Stuck inside, he would look out the window at kids playing outside and wish he could join them. This was the time of his life when he learned chess.
I find myself wondering where this story started: what question had I asked to provoke the twenty-minute tale? It was like John Nash in A Beautiful Mind, taking twenty minutes to answer, “Would you prefer coffee or tea?” Then I remember: earlier I had marveled that John was not tired, coming straight to the park from his graveyard shift as a security guard. His story, throughout which the mantra “enjoy life” was repeated, was an elaboration of his answer: “I like the sunshine.”
John finishes setting up his pieces. Nearby, other street players are yelling their catch phrase — “Do you play, sir?” — to passersby. But John just leans back on his crate. Behind him, the park’s performance acrobats have drawn a large crowd, their stereo blasting pop reggae. John bops his shoulders to the beat, grinning.
Chess players intentionally choose public places, like New York’s Union Square, to ply their trade.
The Players
A few hours later, John is still in good spirits. He has played a few games against the pedestrians who have dribbled in through the afternoon, and is now sucking a lollipop and playing Mike Koufakis. Mike is an eight-and-a-half-year-old whose feet dangle from his milk-crate seat, inches off the ground.
“Oh, heeeeey. He’s got me now. That’s not nice, that’s not nice.” John makes a show of mock defiance. “They sent me a ringer.”
Mike is playing well, but making mistakes. At one point he takes John’s bishop, leaving his own white queen in jeopardy. John slowly puts his bishop back where it was and taps the white queen to alert his opponent to the danger.
“How long has he been playing?” John asks Mike’s father.
“Two years,” replies Steve Koufakis.
“He’s good. He rushes, though.” As John waits, he scratches a lottery ticket with a dime. “Most of his mistakes are because he rushes.”
After John checkmates Mike and shakes his tiny hand, Mike’s father throws three dollars into the cardboard box by the table. As Mike gets up, a twenty-something man sits down. This customer is a regular.
“ I do now have a small gallery of repeat customers, ’cause I’ve been here a little while,” John says. “Most of them work in the office buildings, so they’ll take their lunch when their business is done.”
Regular customers are a vital part of street chess, but can also be a source of tension: poaching customers sometimes causes conflict. Once, another street player yelled at John for playing a steady customer. “He goes, ‘Traitor, traitor!’” John says. “It’s like, ‘Oh, you play with me.’ And it’s like, ‘Well, you know, you don’t own anybody.’”
Street players are protective of their regular customers and encourage them to come back. John asks a lower price of his regulars — two dollars instead of three. Another way that street players ensure steady business is to let their regulars win occasionally. Not everyone does this, but many do. John says that letting regulars win keeps up their morale, encourages them to keep playing chess, and ultimately teaches as well. “It’s a customer-by-customer judgment,” John says. “I enjoy this, so I try to make it enjoyable for the people I’m playing.”
For players like C who bet five dollars on a game’s outcome, letting a regular customer win once in a while is seen as a cost of doing business. After “I beat them enough where they get frustrated,” then C will consider throwing a game, he says. “Sometimes you have to give a little to make a lot. I give them five bucks, but I’ve won fifty, sixty from them.” On the other hand, some regulars are so good that they don’t need to be given wins. But hustlers like C cannot afford to play too many players like these.
Besides repeat customers, John also has repeat onlookers he recognizes. “He’s a professional watcher,” John jokes after one man refuses a game but hangs around anyway. Half-circles form around particularly intriguing or lively chess matches. These are mostly composed of interested street players, friends of customers currently playing, and customers waiting for a match. If a child is playing, this draws a particularly large crowd. John does not mind onlookers because they might evolve and “become customers,” and also because crowds cause curiosity and generate business. John compares having a crowd of onlookers to “advertising.”
The crowd is also good for any nearby street players. As Big John plays, the player next to him — also named “John,” but smaller — asks the onlookers if any of them would like to play. This is one of the reasons that chess players who are friendly with each other congregate together at the park. Another reason is security: John often asks adjacent players to watch his things if he has to run across the street to use the bathroom at Whole Foods.
Big John often teaches younger children the finer points of the game.
Rules of the Game
In the afternoon Big John is quietly engrossed in a match when a booming voice behind him announces, “The General has returned.”
“I’m back, I’m back!” C whoops, making his entrance.
“Heeeeeaaay,” John drawls, shaking C’s hand. “Where ya been?”
“Oh, you know, you know — around,” replies C, slapping hands and doling out one-armed hugs to the other players. C grabs a seat next to “Little John,” and the two begin playing.
C plays other street players, which is rare in their world. “It’s not that they have anything against each other, it’s just that some people don’t want to tip their skill level to the other player,” John explains. “If you have a bunch of people who have tables set up, one may be better than the other, a couple might be better than the rest. If you begin to play each other, then the other people know, ‘I’m better than him, I’ve played him.’ And a rivalry will begin like that. A lot of people can’t take a loss.”
When he was a street chess customer, John played all of the Union Square players. But after he set up his own spot in the park, the rules of social interaction changed — he could no longer play against other street players. “That’s like bothering someone’s other stand,” John says, motioning to the nearby Union Square vendors selling art and souvenirs. “You have a stand and you’re working. Tend to your business and let him tend his.” The only street player John will play is his friend C — and only when there are no paying customers. “Yesterday me and him played most of the day because it was real slow — I think I had like two participants all day.”
When C does play street players, he is very conscious of the difference in roles. If playing on his own board, he may stop a game at a moment’s notice if a customer shows up. But if C is playing another street player on that person’s board, he is even more hyper-aware of potential customers. Normally C might try to solicit a game from every fourth or fifth passerby, but when taking up a customer’s seat, C will ask almost every lingering pedestrian, “Do you play?”
“Do You Play?”
C looks up from his match with Little John. A young couple with cameras is watching the game.
“Do you guys play?” he asks them.
The woman shakes her head, and the man walks away. C shrugs and returns to the game. Less then a minute later an old man pauses as he walks by, and C immediately yells out, “You play, sir?”
As a means of soliciting customers, “Do you play?” is significant in that it is designed not to close conversation. If a passerby answers “Yes,” then the chess player invites that person to sit and only then — once it is more awkward to refuse — brings up money. But even if the potential customer answers “No,” the lines of dialogue remain open.
As a young woman in a college sweatshirt walks by, C asks, “Do you play?”
“No,” she answers, smiling.
“Want to learn?”
She shakes her head and walks away. But C’s follow-up question is fairly standard for street players. Dozens of times a day, the player switches roles — from a worthy adversary offering a challenging and fun match, to a patient teacher willing to impart his expertise.
Street players often do teach chess; during the summers John has parents who pay for weekly lessons for their children. But John points out that he is still learning, too. Even though they play chess for hours every day, he and other street players still actively try to improve their game. C says he occasionally pays for a chess tutor, and John keeps his skills sharp by playing bullet chess with one of his regular customers, for a reduced price. Bullet chess is an especially intense form of speed chess where each player has just one minute on the clock. (In most speed games played on the street, players have between three and ten minutes.)
When business is slow, street players pair off for a game of chess or cards.
The Endgame
It’s around eight in the evening, and John is putting away his set. He places all the black pieces in one Ziploc bag and all the white pieces in another, and wraps both baggies in a cellophane grocery bag that he stows in his gym bag. Then he slowly removes the tape holding his chessboard to the clipboard. He rolls up the mat into a tube, secures it with a rubber band, and puts it in another cellophane bag. He takes out his Walkman CD player, wraps the headphones around it, and places it in his jacket pocket. As he puts his things in order, John talks in his meandering way about how the cost of movies has risen since he was a child.
John turns his attention to his cash box. He scoops out all the dollar bills and stuffs them into his pants pocket. “I usually don’t count till I get home,” John says. “I find it’s bad etiquette.” But he guesses it was a fairly average day, netting about forty to fifty dollars.
John removes the cloth lining from the bottom of the box, and several coins clink free. (Some tourists, seeing the sign asking for donations in exchange for photos, drop loose change instead of dollar bills.) John sighs as he reaches down to pick up a nickel, a dime, and several pennies. “I used to have a dollar sign on the box,” he says. “I might put it back up.”
He folds the cash box flat, while keeping the sign attached to it. Then he lifts the clipboard off the larger cardboard box that made the table, and folds that, too.
He shakes hands with the other street players who remain, and gathers up the two folded boxes, the clipboard, and the two plastic milk crates. He walks to the west side of the square, and slides the boxes and clipboard snuggly between a wall and a recycling bin. He hides the milk crates behind a statue.
Big John adjusts the strap of his gym bag, then stretches out his large hand. “I’ll see you when I see you.”
As he walks away he turns and says, over his shoulder, “But, you know I’ll be out here tomorrow.”
A frenzy of construction activity has arisen to the cause of building new New York-area sports stadiums. It’s not that the old stadiums were falling apart but because new stadiums represent presumably more interest and revenues for the sports teams. Even though tear-down and construction of the stadiums could reap environmental disaster, as long as more money pours out from the stadiums, that’s all that really seems to matter. Green building has been gaining in popularity and is much easier to utilize and abide by environmental rules. It’s good to see that many of the new stadiums will be green, but unfortunately some of the new arenas decided against any sort of environmental aspects during and after construction. Lew Blaustein wrote an excellent article, "Green fields of dreams," for green-links.org detailing his search for answers about how green the new stadiums are/will be. Below are some sum-ups of his findings:
The Prudential Arena for NHL’s New Jersey Devils in Newark, NJ: Green aspect: The fact that it will be downtown and easily accessible by public transport, something that their old Continental Arena in the Meadowlands did not offer. Non-green aspects: Everything else about it, even though ironically the architect firm HOK Sport has collaborated with the U.S. Green Building Council on other stadiums.
Red Bull Park for the Red Bull New York major league soccer team in Harrison, NJ: Green aspects: The new stadium will reclaim New Jersey’s largest brownfield (a commerical or industrial site unused due to environmental pollution) area and will clean up 100 acres along the Passaic River waterfront. It will also be accessible by public transport. Once built and in use, the stadium will supply only recycled paper products from a local company and will use clean energy supplied by carrier PSE&G. Non-green aspects: Building plans and materials are not finalized and therefore LEED (Leadership in Environmental and Energy Design) compliancy — in other words, the green building industry benchmark guidelines — is not certain.
Citi Field for baseball’s New York Mets in Flushing, NY: Green aspects: Lew calls it a "veritable Green Grand Slam!" Will be LEED-compliant where possible during construction and operation. Public transportation, green energy use, sustainable building operations, among other implementations, are emphasized. Non-green aspects: LEED currently does not have guidelines for open-air stadiums, but this stadium’s commitment to environmental protection sets its own high standards.
New Yankee Stadium for baseball’s New York Yankees in Bronx, NY: Green aspects: No one associated with the stadium would talk to Lew about its greenness, therefore making him come to the conclusion that it is not green. Everyone likes good publicity, so he concluded that they would definitely be willing to talk up any sort of green aspect in the building or design if there was any. However, a new MetroNorth train stop is to be built by the stadium, giving it access by public transport. Non-green aspects: The land taken over for building the stadium was two well-used public parks. A new mall will be built next to the stadium that will attract CO2-spewing vehicles.
Barclay’s Center Atlantic Yards for New Jersey Nets basketball team in Brooklyn, NY: Green aspects: This Frank Gehry-designed stadium will be completely LEED-compliant and the first LEED-certified green arena. It will be built on environmentally-damaged land and will develop and clean up the area, creating public spaces, environmental homes, and office buildings. Construction will minimize environmental damage by using particulate filters, ultra-low sulfur diesel fuel, and noise barriers, among other things. Once completed, the arena will be easily accessed by public transportation and sewer overflow into the Gowanus Canal will be reduced by simply reusing rainwater. Non-green aspects: Lew didn’t write about any.
Jets-Giants Stadium at the Meadowlands in East Rutherford, NJ: Green aspects: Sustainabilty is a definite high priority for the building of this stadium. The separate teams decided to share the stadium, thereby cutting down instantly on the environmental detriment of building two different stadiums. A new light rail system will be constructed and car traffic is anticipated to be cut by 5,000 vehicles per game. Construction will be LEED-compliant. Non-green aspects: Lew didn’t write about any.
The most exciting news about New York City environmental conservation is the report of a wild beaver seen building a nest in the former toxic waste dump of the Bronx River. His mud and stick house was spotted in the river earlier, but it wasn’t until Wednesday, February 21, 2007 that biologists caught the beaver on videotape, thereby confirming his existence. Beaver, once abundant around the Bronx River, were heavily hunted for their fur and have not been seen in the area since the early 1800s.
Since last fall, scientists began monitoring the river after several reports of beaver sightings from residents. Previously dismissed as the more common muskrat, the biologists changed their tune when they discovered a 12-foot-long dirt and twig habitat near gnawed-off trees by the riverbank — this definitely pointed to a beaver. And the actual beaver sighting on Wednesday showed him swimming around looking for more building materials for his growing lodge. The scientists believe the beaver is a young male about two to three years old who is looking for a female partner.
Beavers are especially meaningful to New York State because they are the official state animal. They appear on the City of New York’s official flag twice as well as on the official state seal.
Bronx River woes The history of the beaver trapping along the Bronx River began in the early 1600s when Europeans came to the area, then known by the Mohegan Indian name Auqehung. The river soon became an industrial mill zone, the water powering several plants such as paper and flour mills. Jonas Bronck was the mastermind behind the mills; after buying some 500 acres of land from the Native Americans, soon the river was known as “Bronck’s River.” By the early 1800s, when the last beaver was sighted, the river area was still an ecological wonder with thick forests and pristine drinking water. However, by the mid-1800s, the river changed into an industrial waste zone and its degradation would continue until the 1970s. The Bronx River Restoration Project began in 1974 to begin the cleanup that 33 years later led to native species like the beaver returning. Organizations like the Bronx River Alliance lead the way for environmental protection of the river.
Beavers are vital for the environment Beavers create sustainable habitats that are essential for surrounding flora and fauna alike. They naturally prune and rid areas of foliage and, in doing so, create a thriving environment for the leftover vegetation. The dams they build create a natural filter, slow erosion, and build wetlands for birds and reptiles. Beavers also naturally regulate their population by breeding only once a year and instinctively know when to have more or less babies, called kits. For more about these critters, click here.
Environmental cleanup does have substantial success as evidenced in this case of the first beaver to be spotted in the Bronx River in 200 years. The rewards and environmental benefits that native species bring to an ecological area are so positive that, by changing our polluting habits, we are also greatly improving our own lives.
New York City is one of the most populous cities in the U.S. — where eight million people live in close proximity to each other — meaning sharing space is a big issue. And this is most apparent in the air that residents breathe. Toxic fumes are spewed out by road vehicles like buses, taxis, and cars every day. Luckily, unlike most sprawled-out, freeway-taken-over American cities — hello, L.A. — New York is compact enough and has a good public transportation system that is a faster, more economical, and overall better choice than owning and driving a car. And for those who take taxis around the city, environmental controls like stricter emissions standards and alternative fuel taxis help control air pollution as well.
In recent years, the Metropolitan Transportation Authority (MTA), which oversees New York’s public transportation, has actively regulated the system by buying and using hybrid buses.
According to the 2005 MTA report, more than 200 hybrid-electric buses are in service and 216 more were to be introduced in 2006-7. With annual bus ridership at about 740 million, the use of hybrid buses makes a noticeable impact. The hybrid buses use a combination of clean-burning diesel fuel and electric battery power, therefore using less gas and leading to less pollution, which equals overall better air quality. Hybrid buses are being introduced to every borough in the city, so taking the bus is becoming a good way of reducing your contribution to air pollution.
The MTA also environmentally upgraded recently merged private bus companies’ fleets. This included replacing older buses with hybrids, using clean-burning, ultra-low sulfur diesel fuel, and taking buses out of service that did not conform to strict fluid-consumption rules.
In addition to the hybrid buses, New York City taxis must be clean as well. At the start of 2005, a new emissions test called OBD II became a requirement for all licensed taxi vehicles. The test regulates emissions more closely, making it difficult for taxicabs to skirt around. In 2006, the auction for taxi medallions (licenses needed to legally run a cab) required that a large percentage would go to alternative fuel or hybrid vehicles. The Taxi and Limousine Commission (TLC) already has a growing list of approved “green” vehicles legal for use as taxicabs.
The growing commitment that New York City has toward environmentally friendly transportation helps clean the air and create a healthier and more livable city. New York City is a leader in environmental change, and hopefully other cities and states will be inspired by the example and follow suit.
For more on the toxic gases spewed into the air, please read a recent ever green post about the danger of non-odorous gas.
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