The Mole People: Life in the Tunnels Beneath New York City [Anglais] [Broché]

Alligators breeding in the sewers of New York City is an urban legend; thousands of people living in the tunnels beneath New York is not. Ms. Toth has written a compelling, compassionate and extraordinary documentary about the "Mole People."

Toth's firsthand account of the sad, bizarre subculture of people who live in New York's abandoned subway tunnels and sewage lines.
Copyright 1995 Reed Business Information, Inc.

"Mole people" are the thousands of homeless people who live in the subway, railroad, and sewage tunnels of New York City. Drawing on her interviews with these tunnel dwellers, who speak candidly and demonstrate their humanness, journalist Toth pulls the reader into this nether world, revealing lives of addiction and abuse. She also portrays people who try to help, including a woman who teaches the children and a kind man known as the mayor who does all he can to help others survive. In providing a historical backround, Toth informs the reader that living underground was not always considered "inhuman." Highly recommended for public and academic libraries.
- Kevin Whalen, Montville Township P.L., N.J.
Copyright 1993 Reed Business Information, Inc. --Ce texte fait référence à une édition épuisée ou non disponible de ce titre.

There is, says Raleigh News & Observer staffer Toth, a city below New York City: a fantastic underworld of men, women, and children who are born, live, and die in the darkness beneath the streets. In the early 90's, the author, then a Los Angeles Times intern, spent a year exploring that nether world, preparing this startling report. Toth first heard about ``the mole people'' from a child who claimed that her classmate lived underground; further research brought the author into contact with Sgt. Bryan Henry, a Grand Central Station cop who introduced her to one ``J.C.'' (most of Toth's homeless use pseudonyms), the ``self-described'' spokesman for an underground community of 200--a large but not unprecedented number for one of the dozens of camps, gangs, and roving bands that Toth found in the tunnels. These tunnels--including gas and sewer lines as well as abandoned subway tunnels and stations--honeycomb the city's foundation, descending to seven levels and housing perhaps 5,000 lost souls. To the uninitiated and, at first, to Toth, the tunnels are terrifying: She walks them both guided and alone, aware of forms flitting past, of rats and madmen. She visits camps whose members stay below for weeks at a time; she watches a ``filthy and bearded'' loner skewer and roast a ``track rabbit''--a rat; she talks to graffiti artists, women, teenagers, and a kill- for-hire gang whose services cost $20. Pausing in her chronicle, she surveys underground life in history and literature, from Egyptian slaves living in mines to Ralph Ellison's Invisible Man. Finally, Toth flees the city's depths, her life threatened by a mole man who thinks her a police informer. The life expectancy of the average mole person, stricken by drugs and disease, is under five years. Toth's unusual sociological adventure story, then, is as saddening as it is gripping. -- Copyright ©1993, Kirkus Associates, LP. All rights reserved. --Ce texte fait référence à une édition épuisée ou non disponible de ce titre.

There is a city of people under the streets of New York City: a nether world where people make their homes and develop communities in the subway tunnels, sewage lines, and electricity conduits under the city. Toth’s research uncovered many thought-provoking stories of poverty, addiction, and street life, exposing the human side of individuals living under the city. An engrossing revelation.

The Mole People

Life in the Tunnels Beneath New York City

By Jennifer Toth

Three nights earlier he was stabbed while being robbed by a man he had considered his best friend, just after they had shared a Meals-on-Wheels sandwich and a park bench in East Side Manhattan’s Alphabet City. Two nights ago a man tried to rape him at a city shelter where he hoped for sleep to heal his bandaged arm. Last night, as he lay curled in a doorway to stay warm, a group of young thugs kicked him in the head until blood filled his eyes. They tore the pint of cheap whiskey from his hands and poured it over him, then tried to ignite him with an iridescent yellow lighter until a woman began screaming. He could have gone to the cops, but what for? He couldn’t identify them and he wouldn’t risk fingering the wrong kids. That had happened to his brother once and it just wasn’t right.

The names they called him hurt more than their kicks and blows from a pipe across his back. “Nigger” and “worthless leech” and “sorry shit.” “They should round up all you homeless fuckheads and shoot you dead, exterminate you like roaches, and then they should hang your mother for having you,” one kid yelled while kicking him. He remembers the sharp pain of each kick and the smash of the pipe until he had given up fighting, and each blow in turn passed to thuds against his body that he heard but did not feel. Only the terror of being set ablaze made him cry out.

He still cringes, not because of the pain, but because he had urinated in his pants and because he needed the woman’s scream to help him, and because she had seen his weakness.

As bad as the streets are for a homeless man with a clean face, they are far more hostile for one with still-weeping scabs and eyes swollen into slits from the beating. People cleared a path for him, and their eyes, when not indifferent, showed anger that he would expose them to his misery. Worse still was that his slowed movements and visible wounds made him easy prey for other vicious youths looking for violent ways to express their frustration and hatred.

So how can this tunnel, even if it were that tunnel, be more dangerous for him than the streets this night?

He walks deeper, quietly, like a ghost, he thinks, and his heart gradually stops fluttering like a netted butterfly. It belongs to him again, his own. He stops and then he hears what he will remember as “echoing darkness.” It’s the only way to describe what he hears, a velvety blackness that rebounds from side to side, and then wraps around him gently as he sinks to the floor at the wall, a spot that now feels safe and his own. With his back comforted by the wall, he draws his knees up to his ribs and lingers with his thoughts as he drifts toward sleep. The quiet is broken only by the patient fall of dripping water in the distance, a soft and pleasant sound that he knows would be lost to the noise of New York’s busy streets. He is soothed despite the dampness that seeps through his frayed jacket and torn trousers. All the way down, he muses, are layers upon layers upon layers of tunnels, with no bottom. This layer is safer than the street above, the one below even safer, and ! the one below it is even safer, and so on, beyond thought, all the way down. A soothing numbness takes him. Nothing really matters. It could suddenly start snowing up above, or raining, or there could be warm sun. Nothing matters because all of that would change, it would pass. He feels his breath condensing, but he is content with simply being, and being without being seen, secretly in a new world, sensing he could see out to watch those who could not see him. He was living a life that others were afraid even to imagine.

In such a life, he thinks, there is a truth. You can be so cold that you can’t become wetter. You can feel so deeply that you are saturated, numb but still intensely alert—beyond fear—as if living a memory. Beyond living, he thinks. Surviving.

The morning brings a splinter of light through a hole high in the wall opposite. He stirs and moves into the mote-filled beam. He persuades himself that it warms him. He feels he never slept so well since he became one of the homeless. So what if this is that tunnel, he thinks. He has found a home.