The Powerhouse
The Bronx 1941
It was a silent witness to everything that went on in the neighborhood. Like the Parthenon sitting atop the Acropolis, it rested majestically at the high point where the East 172 Street hill intersected Boston Road. From its classical lines one could have mistaken it for a bank, a museum or a federal building. What was it doing there surrounded by its shabby, turn of the century tenements? What went on inside? We never saw anyone enter; we never saw anyone leave. We didn’t try, but we were convinced that its massive bolted metal doors were sealed.
This two story square building was an enigma. It was called The Powerhouse but there was no indication that energy was being produced there. It had eight large, wire embedded, translucent windows covered with a sooty film, protected by metal mesh gates facing the street. As the soot accumulated, translucent became opaque. Oxidized throughout the years, a powdery green shroudlike patina covered the upper surface of its two massive brass doors. Four shiny brass standpipes projecting from the corner of the Powerhouse were the only connection between the inner building and the outside world. Like many of the surrounding buildings that were originally tan, it too was discolored by any pollutant that decided to stay. Therefore, the soot and cinders it had accumulated throughout the years veiled its original marble-gray complexion.
We called it The Powerhouse because that’s what our predecessors called it. The Powerhouse belonged to the family of buildings on E. 172nd Street. Its aristocratic appearance caused a degree of separation from its neighbor, but like royalty, it did not earn the awe by which we held it. Women didn’t sit and gossip in front of it. We didn’t use its walls for street games. It just stood at the top of the hill enveloped in mystery.
Its secret persisted as the neighborhood as its nearby buildings went through a rapid decay in the 1970s. It stood out, all alone, as a symbol of defiance against the surrounding blight. But finally, like an infectious disease, the contagion was passed on from the adjacent ailing tenements. Its majestic facade was defaced with ugly, illiterate graffiti.
In the early 1980s, I took a detour while driving home from work to see if it was still standing among the hollow shells of buildings that surrounded it. It was there. It was still staring at P.S. 61 across Boston Rd. A sign riveted over a small doorway on Boston Rd. said, Sally Sherman Foods, Processor and Distributor of Cole Slaw and Potato Salad. This blemish did not sully my memory of this grand and mysterious building.
In my day, it stood tall and proud, fully aware of its status among the surrounding buildings. When the neighborhood declined, its fading image collapsed without a wrecking ball as a part of. My return in 2002 found P.S. 61 staring across Boston Road at a space where the regal Powerhouse once proudly stood. That space became a part of a community called, Charlotte Gardens.