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The book business is in essence, the storytelling business. So I think it is fitting that BookExpo holds its convention at the Javits Center, which is a helluva New York story.
That boxy black glass building on the Hudson was conceived as the Crystal Palace of its generation—a new, modern and much-needed convention center for the country's largest city. The new convention center was going to generate millions in business and help revitalize the far west side of Manhattan island, which had fallen into blight since the mobs—both the Irish and Italian branches—helped chase the shipping business out of New York. The saying goes, everyone was happy with cases of merchandise being stolen, but greed being greed, soon whole ships were gone to pilferage. So went the shipping industry. The Javits Center represented the future, a bold new city divorced from the old way of doing business. Yeah, right. Instead it came to be the last great symbol of the golden age of municipal corruption that stretched all the way back to the depredations of Boss Tweed, and beyond.
As soon as the plans for the colossus were announced in the late '70s, the bodies started to drop. Like a pack of wolves chasing the last of the woolly mammoths, local gangsters got busy and they got ugly. How many died before groundbreaking? Some say 30, some say 40, but nobody has an honest count. As the various mobs fought over control of the soon-to-be-cash-generating monstrosity, corpses littered streets, turned up in long-term parking, were fished out of rivers.
Nothing, however, could stop the job. It went on. And it went on, and it went on. The original budget was $250 million, and it came in a mere half a billion over budget. That's $500 million over budget in 1980 dollars. That's a lot of swimming pools in the surrounding suburbs, a lot of booze-fueled benders to Vegas and Atlantic City, all kinds of gaudy baubles around necks, even a lot of college tuition for the next generation squared away.
I worked on the Javits project, or I should say alongside it. In 1985, as the construction was dragging to a close, I was sent down to work with a crew that was sinking new sewer catch basins that would deal with all those conventioneer restroom needs. The first week I was there, Michael Holly, a construction worker from the West Side was gunned down a block from the Javits by an Irish gangster who wore a blond wig so as to frame another Irish gangster for the crime. Welcome to the Wild West Side, kid.
The neighborhood was a wasteland of vice. We started work at six a.m. and as you walked up to the site in the blue light of dawn, the legions of prostitutes that worked those ruined streets would be there, more naked than clothed, bleary eyed from their labors, still flagging cars. Used condoms, empty beer bottles and crack vials littered the sidewalks. The men took to calling the area Turkey Alley because of the rhythmic bobbing of the working girls' heads as they earned in sedans with Jersey and Connecticut plates.
There were all sorts of rackets going on. You could play the daily number at 600—1 odds; you could bet sports, or the ponies; you could borrow money at rates not much worse than your Citibank Visa (although with far stiffer penalties for tardiness); you could purchase drugs of all sorts, or beer from men with giant coolers filled with ice. Guns? You want guns? One fella would patrol the perimeter intoning, "I got guns, nines, Glocks, 357s, AK47s." On occasion he sold hand grenades. On payday, vans filled with swag would pull up; you could outfit your house with the latest electronics, still boxed, or get yourself a nice leather jacket, cheap. The job was in essence an urban Wild West boomtown where everybody made money, and some paid a very high price. Nobody knew it then, but it was to be the last of its kind.
Those days are gone, and for the most part that's a good thing. People ask me all the time, what are my favorite things in New York. You can keep the kind of fancy clubs and latest hot stuff eateries that can be found in any city. You want to have a great time? First, walk. Just get out of your hotel and go, man, go. New York is safe now, as safe as any big city can be, which means you should still pay attention, but there are really no places that need be avoided. So get out there. New York remains the greatest walking city in the Americas. One of the beautiful things about it is that every day every minute brings something new, something unique. No single street you stroll down will have the same composition of light, of sound, of faces, ever again.
Want a great way to spend a few hours? Head over to Herald Square and walk down Broadway to Madison Square Park and behold the Flatiron Building at 23rd Street. Keep going down Broadway to Union Square and push on through the Village and down across Houston Street into SoHo. You'll skirt Little Italy, Chinatown, TriBeCa and end up at City Hall, behind which stands the infamous Tweed Courthouse, granddaddy to the Javits Center. Behold its 130-year-old magnificence. Back in the day they stole, but, damn, they built them to last. Along the way, raise your eyes one story above the Starbucks, and McDonald's, above the cell phone shops, and you are transported back in time. Just keep a little pep in your step and don't walk back on your heels.
Secondly, get out of Manhattan. Walk over the Brooklyn Bridge and back. Ride the Staten Island Ferry—it's free. Take the D train to Coney Island and ride the Cyclone, still the craziest roller coaster in the world. Check out the surf and have a Nathan's hot dog. Play Shoot the Freak. Trust me on that one. And by all means get up to my favorite place, the Bronx. Hop a Metro North train from Grand Central to Fordham Road and explore the real Little Italy; shop in the food market on Arthur Avenue, sampling the meats and cheeses and produce, eat bread hot from the oven, then go around the corner for lunch or dinner at Roberto's, the best Italian restaurant in America. Walk the few blocks to the Botanical Gardens or check out the Bronx Zoo, which when I was a kid seemed to be inhabited solely by demented chimpanzees, but is now a world-class institution. Catch a Yankee game, when you can—but the Bombers are on the road the first weekend of June. So check out the Mets, in Flushing, Queens, playing host to the former New YorkGiants.
Oh, and by God, eat. This is the best eating city in the world, and many of the places are very cheap. Pick up a good guide like the Time Out New York restaurant directory and get away from the tourist joints. The East Village is a great neighborhood for amazing, reasonable meals from every corner of the globe. I'll be watching, and if I catch anyone of you eating in those big chain joints around Times Square, paying 13 bucks for a truly awful cheeseburger, it's concrete shoes for you.
Finally, go to what I now call my building, the Empire State. It took them 13 months to build it and it took me four years to write a book about it. It stays open till midnight. Up there, once again, it's the highest spot on the Eastern seaboard, and you can see forever.
