Episode 66: White Heat/White Lights

This is the memory palace. I'm Nate Demet. Some were running from, and some were running towards. Some were born there, born with the city and their veins, they tell you. And in the summer of 1892, there were 3.3 million people living in New York. The city bulged with immigrants from abroad, people fleeing famines, pogroms, and with transplants from other states and other cities that simply weren't New York. They came looking for jobs, for opportunity, for more out of life, you know, to make it, to hustle, to scrape, to push themselves forward in a city unafraid to push back. So they squeezed into tenements, found a space on the floor of a flop house, pushed a cart, shined a shoe, still a watch from a pocket on a trolley platform. In some would go to the opera, in some would trade in diamonds, in some would shout orders for stocks on the floor of the exchange for the railroad companies and the shipping concerns that brought still more people to New York. Some would deposit checks and notes in the banks, fat with capital, that would build the buildings that would rise ever taller to be seen from farther and farther away by still more people looking for more out of life. In all of them, these 3.3 million New Yorkers, all of them would sweat. Because it was the summer, and it was 1892, and there was no air conditioning, no oscillating fans, no refrigeration. But there were strawberries rotting on the backs of fruit carts. There were horses and manure everywhere, steaming in the streets. And there was trash piled and poured into places that maybe you couldn't see, but you sure could smell on the thick still air, on your clothes, in your nose, in your stifling room, with no air conditioning, no oscillating fan, maybe no window. And there were other people, 3.3 million. Some of them, several probably. Sleeping right there in that same room with you. Maybe in that same bed. While you tried to sleep through the sticky night, so you could spend the next day in a sweltering factory, sitting elbow to elbow, stitching, packing, lifting, watching the clock. Looking up at the newly invented electric lights that had been newly installed in the ceiling, maybe thinking about the promise, the way that electricity was supposed to change everything. Supposed to make all that stitching and packing and lifting easier. Maybe obsolete. But so far all it meant to you was another hot thing in that hot room. When you were out of the sun at least. You're not on a trolley or on a nomnabus. With more people, more bodies, more armpits, more sweaty backs. All packed in like sardines, but at least sardines get to be packed in water. In everyone, all these bodies, rushing, always trying to get somewhere. Because that's what you did in New York. That's what you do. Walking blocks upon blocks. Amidst buildings that were taller than you'd ever seen, but not yet tall enough to cast those long shadows that can make a man hat in summer something approaching bearable today. And you'd keep rushing. Keep pushing. Trying to get somewhere, trying to make a life in the city that beats you down like the summer sun. This city that doesn't sleep because it simply can't. Because there are those nights in July and August. When it just doesn't break the heat. And you wonder why you came here at all. There have to be other places. Cooler than this. Well, not cooler, but cooler than this. Easier than this. Where you can live a life without pushing through crowds. Where you don't have to push so hard. In one of those nights. July 1892. People looked out from their tenement windows. They stepped out from their stuffy office into this stuffy evening. They staggered out from the factory and stretched out their sore backs and their croaked fingers. And they saw something incredible. The Cumberland Hotel was an odd structure set as it was in the triangular plot of land made by the intersection of fifth and Broadway in 23rd. The building was a 12-story wedge that towered over a row of squat one-story storefronts. It had one windowless wall that could be seen from just about anywhere in lower Manhattan. In suddenly, on this one July night, there were letters on that wall. 107 of them. Each is tall as a man. In each of them, electrified. Lied by nearly 1500 new Edison bulbs. Green, blue, red, frosted white. It was the first electric illuminated sign anywhere in the world. The first light up billboard. And it was just just. Crowd spilled out into the streets to stare at this marvel. They climbed out onto their fire escapes up to their rooftops. Shirts still sticking to their skin in the humid night. They jockeyed for a spot at the window. They stopped in their tracks and watched wonderstruck as the lights blinked on and off like. Well, like nothing else they'd ever seen. The billboard was hypnotizing. And it's message and intoxicating. "Buy homes on Long Island," it said. "Sweep by ocean breezes." "Buy homes on Long Island." "Sweep by ocean breezes." Blinking on and off. On and on. Calling to you through the swell-dream night. And how could you not want that? That home by the ocean. How could you not want to escape? Get away from this city for good. And it's heat and it's horses. And it's 3.3 million. Somewhere where you didn't have to push so hard. Somewhere that didn't push back. Maybe it was time to head home. But there were lights in New York City now. How could you ever leave? [Music] This episode of Memory Palace was written and produced by me, Nate D'Ameio, in July of 2015. Back before I was saying, this show is a proud member of Radio Topia, a network of independent artist-owned listeners supported podcasts from PRX and not-for-profit public media company. If you ever want to drop me a line, you can do so at Nate@TheM Memory Palace.org. I have to say that my spam filter has gotten too good or something like that. And I have been missing a fair amount of emails that have come through lately. I can tell because I just caught a bunch in the like the 30-day save period. And so I apologize if you've written. In, I don't know, the last several months, I may well have missed your emails. A number of them just simply aren't ending up with what they're supposed to. I made some adjustments so if you want to try again, feel free. You know, I [email protected]. You can follow me on Instagram and threads at The Memory Palace podcast. You can follow me on Blue Sky at Nate D'Ameio or on Facebook and very, very occasionally Twitter @TheMemoryPallus. I'll talk to you guys again. [Music] Radio Tepi. From PRX.