The Ghost of Broad Street

“No name yet,” says a South Philly boy with a world-class moniker: Anura Karthik Vivekananthan. “Kar” is VP of EB development. He knows this property once housed Mulford Pharmaceuticals, which, back in 1925, produced a diphtheria serum that traveled from 640 North Broad Street to Seattle, Washington, by rail and then to the train’s last stop, Nenana, Alaska. After small planes were ruled out because 40 degrees below would kill the anti-toxins, 20 drivers (Russian, Irish, Norwegian, Indian) and 100 huskies were hooked up to dogsleds that traversed nearly 700 miles from Nenana to Nome and saved who-knows-how-many lives. As Eskimos had no immunity to white man’s disease, diphtheria could wipe out whole villages. That rescue journey is commemorated every year with the Iditarod Trail Sled Dog Race.

Why not name this new complex the Iditarod Apartments?

“Oh no,” says Kar. “Some dog lovers hate the Iditarod, consider it cruel to the animals, and we wouldn’t want to offend dog lovers.”

Will you allow dogs at 640 North Broad?

“Oh no. No dogs allowed.”

As I approach City Hall in late afternoon, so do a hundred angry workers, four television camera crews, two hovering helicopters, and horses with police on their backs. District Council 33 is pissed off. The blue-collar wing of the American Federation of State, County and Municipal Employees just heard that District Council 47, the uppity white-collar wing, has made a deal with the city after discovering a “secret” $2.8 million in its health-care fund. So the members of 33 are singing songs and carrying signs, marching right where Mummers get judged and win prizes.

I join the marchers. Who can resist? Of all the sounds in the world, workers’ voices raised in unison and determination is perhaps the most stirring:

“We are the union, the mighty mighty union, everywhere we go, people want to know, who we are, so we tell them. We are the union, the mighty mighty union, everywhere we go … ”

All this takes place right under the eyes and ears of the 37-foot replica of Billy Penn built by Alexander Milne Calder, father of sculptor Alexander Stirling Calder, and grandfather of Alexander “Sandy” Calder, famed for his mobiles (so named by Marcel Duchamp). Is it possible that Sandy got the seed of the idea for metal moving in the air from staring up at Grandpa’s most famous statue? After all, little Sandy had his own studio by age 10, and was making sculptures at age 11. And from the west side of town, against a noon blue sky, William Penn appears to have a long, thin erection, slightly downturned, pointing toward North Philly, delicate enough to get blown in the wind. Did Penn’s penis give rise to the first mobile?

“Can you help out?” asks a toothless man with his hand out in the plush part of town. I give him a dollar.

“I need two dollars,” he says. “Chicken wings cost two dollars.”

Why shouldn’t panhandlers ask for a raise? Inflation takes its toll on everyone. I wonder if the bellhe bellhop in front of the Park Hyatt gets the same tips he did five years ago, 10 years ago, maybe 20.

“If you have the time,” I say, “I’d like to talk about gratuities.”

“You need Tolstoy,” says the bellhop.

“I prefer talking to someone who works here.”

“Tolstoy,” he insists. “He’s the bellman.”