The Sin Set
A collection of things I find curious, strange, or wonderful [Currently: Scanning The Covers of my old comics]
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When I was very young, my family rented out a room to a boarder. It seems that it was a more common thing to do back then, in the early 70’s, than it is now. Working, middle class families would often rent out a spare room for a weekly rate to help make ends meet. Indeed, we had a spare room, albeit a small one. It was in the upstairs part of the house, at the end of the hall, and situated somewhat off to itself from the rest of my family’s domain. Our tenant was one Mr. Walter Zanick. I only knew his name from the very rare occasions when I’d see a letter addressed to him. It would be delivered with our mail, and my mother would lay it on the floor outside the door to his room. He’d leave every morning, six days a week at about 6:00 am, before any of us were awake. Occasionally, if I couldn’t sleep, I’d hear him coming in late at night. After midnight at the earliest, sometimes later, in the wee hours of the night. I remember seeing Mr. Zanick only a handful times over the years, usually on a Sunday morning, when he’d leave the house later than normal, and say a simple “Hello” if I happened to be playing outside as he left. Other than that, it was almost as if he didn’t exist; I rarely ever saw him or heard him. I simply knew that he was the gentleman that lived in the room at the end of the hall. One Saturday afternoon, when I was nine years old, I recall my parents getting the spare key to Mr. Zanick’s room (a skeleton key, at that) and unlocking his door. I asked why they were going into Mr. Zanick’s room. They had gotten a phone call informing them that he had passed away the day before. When the door to the mysterious room at the end of the hall swung open, I remember how strikingly different it seemed compared to all the other rooms in the house. Ours was the type of house that was “lived in” with knick knacks all about, books and records (yes, vinyl records), and always plenty of toys in the kids room. In stark contrast was this room I’d never seen the inside of before, which couldn’t have been bigger than about 10’x6’. There was a neatly made single bed against the wall, and a modest sized dresser against the opposing wall, with barely a few feet of space between the two. Next to the headboard of the bed, under the sole window in the room, was a small nightstand. There was a watch, a pair of glasses, and some cufflinks on the dresser. A sole book laid atop the night stand, and behind that was a single, plain wooden picture frame with a color 8x10 photo. It all seemed so empty, and cold, and lifeless. My parents removed about a half dozen suits from the small closet, and packed them into a box, along with a number of shirts and slacks from the dresser, some still wrapped in brown paper and tied with string, as was customary from the local Chinese laundry back in those days. Apparently Mr. Zanick had no family, no relatives and no next of kin, so there it was; all that remained of this mysterious gentleman’s life was packed up neatly into a box or two and were donated to St. John’s Lutheran Church for their next rummage sale. All except for the photograph that was in that single picture frame on his nightstand. I had asked my parents if we could keep that, and they said sure. The photo was of Mr. Zanick celebrating New Years Eve at what could have been any of the local bars in South Brooklyn at the time. Party hats, (mostly) smiling faces and a hearty toast were displayed all along the bar. I don’t know if they were truly his friends, just acquaintances, or simply a random gathering of other neighborhood folks who had nowhere else to go on New Years Eve. I suppose that will always remain a mystery, much like Mr. Zanick himself. Even though it’s become creased and faded over the decades, I still have the photograph to this day. It makes me wonder how painful it must be to grow old without any family, or any real friends, or anyone to celebrate those special occasions with. Then again, behind those raised glasses on that particular New Years Eve, those were indeed smiling faces.  Cheers, Mr. Zanick.
7
“The Most Beautiful Suicide” 23 year old Evelyn McHale, of Long Island, became engaged in early 1947. On April 30th, she took the train to Easton, PA to spend her fiance’s birthday with him at his college dorm. They planned to be married that June. She boarded a 7:00 AM train back to New York the following morning but never did make it home. Upon her arrival in New York City, she checked into the Governor Clinton Hotel on 31st Street, where she composed a note, and tucked it into her purse. From there, she went to the 86th floor observation deck of the Empire State Building. Just before 10:30 am, on May 1, she calmly, and neatly, folder her coat, placing it against the guard railing alongside her purse and her makeup bag. She then flung herself off the building, falling more than 1,000 feet and landing squarely on the roof of a 1947 Cadillac parked on the street below. The note that Evelyn left in her purse read: “I don’t want anyone in or out of my family to see any part of me. Could you destroy my body by cremation? I beg of you and my family – don’t have any service for me or remembrance for me. My fiance asked me to marry him in June. I don’t think I would make a good wife for anybody. He is much better off without me. Tell my father, I have too many of my mother’s tendencies.” Ironically, for someone who wanted to throw herself into obscurity, never to be remembered, a nearby photographer captured this image within minutes of her demise, and by the following week it appeared as a full page print in Life Magazine. The image of her lifeless body lying gracefully, and peacefully, atop the wreckage, immortalized forever. Sometimes you can simply never get what is that you want in life, even in death.
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Collier School Of Embalming - New York City, NY, 1932
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NYC Bus with Passengers, 1969
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“TRAGG! He Who Stalks The Subway” Monsters On The Prowl #13 - Marvel Comics, October, 1971
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“Return Of The Titan” Monsters On The Prowl #14 - Marvel Comics, December, 1971
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A Can Of Mind Control And A Gallon Of Gravity. Seen in the window of the Brooklyn Superhero Supply Company - Park Slope, Brooklyn, NY
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Frank Lava Gunsmith - 240 Centre Street, New York, NY. [Photo taken on February 4, 1937] Frank Lava’s Gun Shop was founded in 1850 by Eli Parker. It was shuttered during the Civil War, but was re-opened and back in business by 1870. The Lava Gunsmiths would do repair and weapons service for the New York Police Department, until the department finally retained their own, in-house, armorers, which ultimately led to the demise and closure of the shop.
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New York City: El Station Interior, Columbus Ave at 72nd Street, Feb. 6, 1936 Photo by B. Abbott, 1936
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