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Tales From the Urban Crypt
Legendary
whoppers about Gotham
run the ghastly and ghostly gamut
By J.D. HEIMAN
Daily News Staff Writer
 ver
hear the one about mob-hit victims who are buried under Yankee Stadium?
How about the corker featuring the hapless rat who falls into a fast-food fryer and
gets served up as crunchy Chicken De-Lite? Or the tale of the lady whose beehive hairdo is
infested with hundreds of creepy, crawly cockroaches?
There's a name for these grapevine-friendly whoppers people insist actually happened to
uh, er, a friend of a friend of a friend — they're called urban legends.
New Yorkers are supposed to be born skeptics, but we're actually the most accomplished
spinners of these tall tales. Not only is New York featured in urban legends that spread
around the globe, there are scores of homegrown legends associated with Gotham landmarks.
"Because this city is so large and diverse, it's particularly rich in urban
myths," says Steve Zeitlin, director of CityLore, a Manhattan-based organization that
collects area folklore.
From sewer alligators to skyscraper-spooking ghosts, urban legends are the contemporary
equivalent of fairy tales, injecting a note of the fantastic into otherwise predictable
modern life. But no matter how bizarre, most urban legends are just this side of
believable — and often betray real concern about issues such as crime, health care
and sexual promiscuity.
There are a million urban legends in the naked city; here are just a few all-time
favorites. Some have spread beyond the five boroughs, while others are intimately
connected to our bridges, tunnels and famous buildings. Chances are, you've been snookered
into believing at least one of these yarns was the gospel truth.
Pennies From Heaven
The world's most famous skyscraper has almost as many urban legends associated with it
as floors. Tales of coins hurtling from the roof and imbedding themselves in the pavement
— or in the skull of a passer-by — have been kicking around almost since the
foundation was laid.
"If I hear the penny story again, I'll shoot myself," complains Lydia Ruth, a
spokeswoman for the Empire State Building and Observatories. "Once a week I get phone
calls from people trying to settle arguments and win bets."
Ruth disappoints callers by explaining that the aerodynamic shape of the tower creates
a considerable updraft, so pennies thrown from the observation deck invariably blow back
up against the structure, frequently landing on the 86th-floor window ledges. There, they
are pocketed by maintenance workers.
But coin-tossing tales are just the tip of the skyscraper. "For some reason,
people insist that there are aliens buried in the basement," says Ruth, "or that
the building is sinking by several feet a year." Officials steadfastly claim no ETs
are stashed in the cellar, and that the tower sits firmly on bedrock, tall as it ever was.
Another story often associated with the Empire State Building concerns a man who jumps
off the top of the building to commit suicide, only to catch a stray bullet on the way
down. Police charge a man who fired the shot during a squabble on a lower floor with
murder. A version of the legend even popped up on the detective drama
"Homicide." The account is a quirky premise for a cop show, but it's pure
fantasy.
Underground Myths
Stories of secret civilizations in the city's miles of abandoned tunnels abound, but
while the homeless often seek shelter underground, no one has yet discovered an Atlantis
of the unfortunate beneath our sidewalks.
The most popular underground tales concern the subway system. One of the most durable
concerns what transit cops call a "space case."
According to this legend, a careless commuter falls between the station platform and
oncoming train. As the engine screeches to a halt, the victim is spun around violently and
wedged between the cars and the platform. Horribly squished, the straphanger is held in
place by the pressure of the train against the station floor. While the train is stopped,
the individual is alive and conscious. But when the train is moved, his internal organs
will rupture, causing death.
"It's one of the worst things a police officer can witness," says an NYPD
spokesman. "There's nothing you can do. You bring in a phone line for the victim, you
can clear the station and have people say their goodbyes. It doesn't happen that often,
but it happens."
No, it doesn't, says Dr. Jesse Blumenthal, head of the trauma service at St. Vincent's
Hospital. "Totally ridiculous — like something out of a horror movie,"
pooh-poohs Blumenthal, whose team handles about 100 serious subway accidents a year.
"People who fall between the platform and the train are crushed, not squeezed."
Nevertheless, the legend traveled through town more times than the A train. A few years
back, CityLore researchers traced the legend to a story involving a transit cop named
Ronnie Johnson. But no officer by that name ever existed. Turns out, variations of the
space case story are told around the country, including as a plot line on — you
guessed it — "Homicide."
If that story is poppycock, how about the one about the drunk who relieves himself on
the tracks, and is electrocuted when his urine hits the third rail? "Electrocutions
do happen," concedes Blumenthal, "but usually to people working on the tracks or
stumbling around on them. It's unlikely that someone standing on the platform would hit
the third rail." Unless your aim is exceptional, the tracks are fairly safe for an
illicit tinkle.
A pair of classic subway yarns deal with mistaken identity. In one, a white lawyer is
jostled by a black youth on a train. The attorney discovers his wallet is missing, follows
the young man off the train and demands it back. The frightened thief forks it over and
flees. When the triumphant yuppie calls his wife to tell her the news, she tells him that
his wallet is on the dresser — he's mugged an innocent man.
Another tale features a commuter who sees a businessman leave the train without a pair
of gloves that sit on the seat next to him. The good Samaritan rushes to catch the man as
the train doors close, tossing the gloves after him. As the train pulls away from the
station, a homeless man who was sharing the same row of seats with the executive demands
to know why his gloves were tossed out of the car.
But the most celebrated underground story concerns the existence of the so-called
"Money Train" — said to pick up cash receipts from token booths and ferry
them to an undisclosed location, inspiring a popular movie of the same name. That's one
legend that the MTA won't confirm or deny, citing security reasons: "When it comes to
the famed 'Money Train' urban legend, all I can say is there may be one and there may not
be one," says MTA spokesman Tom Kelly.
Well, "there is one, and I've been on it," says Daily News columnist Jim
Dwyer, who penned a book about a day in the life of the subway system.
Gotham Ghost Stories
Like many of New York's venerable structures, the Empire State Building is said to be
haunted. Building lore says that a young woman in '40s dress roams the halls, waiting for
the young man who promised to meet her at the top of the building during V-J Day — a
Gotham update on a ghost maiden tale that's been told for centuries.
There are scores of other haunted buildings in New York — in fact, the spirit
population seems almost as dense as the living one. Greenwich Village's White Horse Tavern
is inhabited by the ghost of famed patron Dylan Thomas. Chumley's, the Bedford St.
speakeasy, plays host to Henrietta, a long-dead bar mistress who occasionally comes in for
her customary Manhattan, and Spring St.'s Ear Inn is home to Mickey, a sailor who was hit
by a car in front of the establishment.
Uptown, the ghost of Eliza Jumel — who supposedly murdered her husband Stephen in
order to marry Aaron Burr — roams the historic Morris-Jumel Mansion on 160th St. Out
in Flushing, both the historic Kingsland Homestead and Bowne House are spooked by their
former owners.
Revenge of the Sewer Gators
Perhaps the most famous New York legend of all has it that alligators prowl our
plumbing. The story goes like this: A few decades back, a vogue for pet baby gators swept
through the city. People soon tired of the scaly critters, and got rid of them by flushing
them down the toilet.
Hundreds of discarded reptiles ended up in the city's disposal system, where they fed
on raw sewage, rats and the occasional sanitation worker. Deprived of sunlight for
decades, the alligators became blind and albino. Today, they still slither through the
tunnel system, making a snack of whatever is unlucky enough to get in their way.
"It's a myth that will never die," says Kathy DelliCarpini, spokeswoman for
the Department of Environmental Protection, which has spent more than 30 years insisting
that the creatures don't exist. "Sewers simply are not a prime environment for
alligators," DelliCarpini explains.
Interestingly, this urban legend has its basis in a sliver of truth. Back in 1935,
newspapers reported a single alligator being caught and killed in an East Harlem sewer,
spawning rumors of more giant lizards below. The legend revived in the 1960s, at least
partly because Thomas Pynchon mentioned blind albino alligators in the city's sewers in
his novel "V."
But since a real, live sewer-gator hasn't been spotted since before World War II, you
can breathe easy next time you go to the loo.
The Great Kidney Caper
New Yorkers have told ghost stories for decades, but contemporary legends are made of
more lurid stuff. In a popular urban myth currently circulating, a group of junior Wall
Streeters goes for a tipple at the Waldorf-Astoria's Bull & Bear pub. One meets a
dazzlingly beautiful woman, and accompanies her upstairs to her hotel room. There, the
young financial analyst blacks out.
Later, he awakens groggily in the same room, naked and half-submerged in a bathtub
filled with ice. On either side of his lower back are two sets of crude stitches, and on
his chest this dire warning is scrawled in lipstick: CALL 911 OR YOU WILL DIE. To his
horror, he discovers his kidneys have been stolen for sale on the black market.
"Stories of people stealing kidneys are completely false," says Esther
Benenson of the United Network for Organ Sharing, the nation's organ donor clearinghouse.
"You can't just pick some random stranger out of a bar, do major surgery in some
apartment, and show up at a hospital with an organ in a paper bag."
Experts say the phony kidney-nap story betrays our paranoia about both the health-care
system and the singles scene. "Urban legends are often tied to our urban fears,"
says Zeitlin. Before the organ-snatching story became widespread, a popular cautionary
tale starred "AIDS Mary," a beautiful young woman who picked up men in bars, had
sex with them and left them a grim message scrawled in lipstick on bedroom mirrors the
next morning: "Welcome to the World of AIDS."
The legend spread like wildfire, but AIDS Mary never existed.
The Snapple Scare
Some urban legends are a public relations executive's worst nightmare. They also can
tap into racial tensions, and have caused some big-name local companies big headaches.
Snapple, for example, has been the subject of false rumors that say the clipper ship
featured on its label is actually a slave ship, and that the company is owned by the Ku
Klux Klan.
In the early '90s, a Brooklyn-made fruit drink called Tropical Fantasy was the subject
of a boycott because legend had it that the product caused sterility in black men.
Similarly, designer Tommy Hilfiger has been dogged by stories that he was kicked off
"Oprah Winfrey" for making racist comments — even though he's never
appeared on Winfrey's program.
"The same story circulated about Liz Claiborne," says Patricia Turner, a
professor of African-American studies at the University of California-Davis, and an expert
on urban legends in the black community. "No matter how many times you explain to
people it isn't true, there's always somebody who insists they have the video tape."
Another big Seventh Avenue name slandered in an urban legend is shoe designer Kenneth
Cole, whose mod mules are said to be made by Chinese slave laborers. Nope; they're made in
Western Europe. Folklorists say such myths may have their genesis in consumer suspicion of
products that are expensive and suddenly trendy.
"These stories sound ridiculous to outsiders," says Turner. "But they
ring true to their intended audience."
While some African-Americans believed Snapple had ties to the KKK, a number of whites
believed another untrue story — that the company had ties to anti-abortion groups.
Turner says consumer suspicion of trendy products may be what sets off the rumor mill.
"It's not usually competitors who spread these stories," Turner says. "They
spread organically — trying to debunk them only seems to give them new life."
Crime & the Classifieds
If racial issues frequently surface in New York legends, so do the city's twin
obsessions — crime and real estate. There's the chestnut about the young couple who
move into a downtown flat and discover the previous owner has left an elegant Persian rug
rolled up in a corner. Thrilled at their good fortune, they unroll the beautiful rug
— and discover the remains of a corpse inside it.
But it takes more than a dead body to keep a true New Yorker out of a good apartment.
The old saw about people finding rental bargains by combing the obituaries has been around
for years. "Nonsense," says Barbara Corcoran of the Corcoran Group. "If
anyone ever actually found an apartment in the obituaries, all New Yorkers would admire
them."
In another apartment legend, a couple rents a flat in a "Mafia neighborhood."
When the couple discovers their house has been burgled, they tell a wiseguy neighbor, who
asks them to delay calling the cops while he makes "a few phone calls." Hours
later, the doorbell rings, and the burglary victims open to find all of their possessions
returned, courtesy of "the family."
Bridge & Tunnel Takes
Each of the numerous spans that link Manhattan to the rest of the world has a
remarkable history, but one popular bit of bridge lore is myth.
"People say there are bodies buried in the base of the George Washington
Bridge," says Alan Morrison, a spokesman for the Port Authority. "But I can
assure you, nobody's down there. Nobody — except maybe Jimmy Hoffa."
Stories that the city's commuter tunnels are in imminent danger of being crushed by
water pressure from outside, and then flooded, are also false. "The tunnels are
buried well underground — they aren't just laying on the bottom of the Hudson,"
explains Morrison.
Not all of New York's infrastructure is the subject of such grim rumor. Grand Central
Station hosts one of the city's most charming stories — its quirky acoustics allow
people to whisper to each other by standing on opposite sides of the hallway in front of
the Oyster Bar Restaurant. The bonus is that this urban legend actually rings true.
"People come and stand there whispering all day long," says Oyster Bar manager
Michael Garvey. "When they began renovations, it altered the acoustics and the
whisper trick didn't work anymore." Luckily, Garvey says the magic equilibrium seems
to have been restored.
Hotel Hijinks
New York's palatial hotels are known around the world — so it should be no
surprise that they often serve as the backdrop for famous urban legends. One such story,
frequently set at the Plaza and quite popular on the Internet, concerns a nuptial
nightmare for a jilted bride.
During a swanky wedding reception, the groom rises to address the assembled guests,
instructing everyone to look under his seat. Taped under each chair is an envelope
containing a photograph taken by a private eye of the best man and bride in bed together.
The room erupts in gasps, and the groom announces the wedding will be annulled the next
day.
Another popular — and equally untrue — legend concerns dessert at the
Waldorf-Astoria. A patron at the hotel restaurant is smitten by its delicious red velvet
cake. She sends word to the chef that she would like a copy of the recipe, and the waiter
returns with it on a printed card. Then the waiter brings the bill — the customer has
been charged $500 for the recipe alone! Outraged, she consults a lawyer, who tells her
since she asked for the recipe, she must pay the bill. To get even, the woman distributes
the recipe to everyone she knows for free. In newer versions circulating in cyberspace,
Mrs. Fields Cookies and Neiman-Marcus department stores are the recipe ripoff artists.
A particularly long-lived legend stars two old biddies from the hinterlands who
nervously come to the Big Apple on vacation. A taxi driver warns them to cooperate if they
are about to be mugged. A day into their visit, they board a hotel elevator, and several
burly black men enter on another floor. One of them points to the elevator control panel
and barks "hit the floor" to his colleagues — meaning "press the
button." The terrified out-of-towners assume the stranger is about to rob them, and
dive to the ground. Later, it turns out the speaker is Eddie Murphy. Amused by the
misunderstanding, he buys the rubes dinner.
The story circulated for more than a decade, and so upset Murphy that he denied it in
Premiere magazine. But he wasn't the first celebrity to be caught up in the legend. Reggie
Jackson, Muhammad Ali and Lionel Richie have also been featured in this tale that
underlines Middle America's fear of the big city.
Broadway Horror Stories
Strange things have happened on Broadway — and not all of them have been on stage.
Ghost stories have always crept about the Great White Way, many of them now elevated to
legendary status.
Probably the most famous is the one involving producer David Belasco, who built the
Belasco Theater on W. 44th St.
In Belasco's day, the impresario would sit in his special box and take in a production
— often rushing backstage afterward to critique the performances.
"He always dressed like a priest — black suit and white collar," recalls
theater historian Louis Botto of Playbill magazine. "He had a sumptuous apartment
upstairs, and practically every night he would bring up a beautiful actress for a
rendezvous."
Belasco died in New York May 14, 1931, and soon people began hearing strange noises in
his theater — especially on opening nights.
"People insisted that they could see the ghost of Belasco sitting in his box
seat," Botto reports, "scowling if he didn't like a performance.
"But nobody has seen him since 'Oh! Calcutta!' in the 1970s. That was an all-nude
show and I guess he didn't appreciate it."
The last time anybody heard anything unusual was about five or six years ago.
"One day, around 4 o'clock in the afternoon, a caretaker heard the chains of the
elevator to Belasco's old apartment rattling. The caretaker's dog became very tense —
as if he'd seen an apparition," says Botto.
Broadway's most recent tale from the crypt involves the newly renovated New Amsterdam
Theater on W. 42nd St., where Disney's "The Lion King" is on the prowl.
"A great many construction men claim they often saw a beautiful young woman
wandering aimlessly through the theater while they were working," says Botto.
"She always appeared dressed in a Follies costume — in its heyday, the New
Amsterdam had been home to the Ziegfeld Follies — holding a blue glass in her hand.
"She seemed to be confused as she walked around the gutted theater.
"The woman bore a sash with the name Olive on it. It's believed the ghost was that
of Olive Thomas, a Ziegfeld Girl who died of syphilis in the 1920s. She was a beauty.
"One day, while reconstruction was going on, one of the workers called me,"
Botto says. "He said they had just seen a ghost and all of the workers had run out of
the building.
"Another time, a worker was standing in the lobby when he heard a voice call out,
'How are you doing, handsome?' When he turned around, there was nobody there."
One thing, though: Thomas died in Paris. So how did her ghost get back to Broadway?
Phil Roura contributed to this story
Original Publication Date: 09/13/1998
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