Life on Times Square in the Early 1980s: An Eyewitness Account
Hell’s Kitchen, 45th Street at Eighth Avenue – four long decades ago
New York, N.Y. In the 1980s, New York City’s Times Square wasn’t so much the “Crossroads of the World” as it was the wrong side of the tracks. The sex market and drug trade thrived in the area, and homeless encampments dotted its streets.
In 1981, Rolling Stone called West 42nd Street the “sleaziest block in America,” and one scholar described Times Square as “an open-air meat rack” for flesh-peddling.
Stepping into Times Square in the early 1980s was like diving headfirst into a neon-lit circus, where the line between reality and spectacle blurred with every flashing sign.
It was an era before the Disneyfication of the area, where the grit and the glam coexisted in a dazzling, chaotic embrace. As soon as I emerged from the subway station, I was greeted by a cacophony of sounds: the relentless honking of yellow cabs, the melodious chaos of street performers, and the ever-present hum of humanity. The smell was a potent mix of street food, exhaust fumes, and, well, let’s just say the sanitation department had its work cut out for them.
When I first arrived in the Big Apple, an ad on the back page of the Village Voice brought me to an illegal, shared apartment on 45th Street and Eighth Avenue. It was a converted warehouse used to shelter exotic birds for use in commercials. Their seed fell to the cold cement floor where it was devoured by scampering rats.
My bed was a mattress lying on packing crate pallets. I had one dresser with broken drawers and no window. The bathroom with a dirty toilet and an even dirtier shower was shared with about six others. The space was managed by a graphic artist freelancer for the Times. He was so talented, but his skills had been blunted by heavy drug use.
The theater marquees lit up the night, showcasing everything from Broadway hits to the more, shall we say, ‘adventurous’ cinematic experiences. Porn theaters stood shoulder to shoulder with grand old dames like the Lyceum, each offering its own unique form of escapism.
Speaking of escapism, Times Square was also home to a colorful array of characters—hustlers, buskers, and the occasional mime who, ironically, couldn’t keep quiet.
I had my first job, working with a Japanese bank on Wall Street. Every morning at 8am, I would head for the Times Square subway station, stopping for a cup of coffee. Often, transvestite hookers who were still up from the night before would be in line with me to get their coffee, and we would chat.
One time, one of them grabbed my crotch and asked if I would like to have some real fun. Flabbergasted, I could only stammer, politely, “Please let go.” I replied to propositions on the street with a cheery, “No, thank you.”
Of course, this was before we had cell phones or apps, so I was married to my MTA subway map. However, I quickly realized that reading the map made one a mark for pickpockets and other bad actors as it screamed ‘tourist.’ So I would do my best to memorize the map in the privacy of my own space.
When I walked the sidewalks, many would ask for change. I realized that the most vocal were perhaps the ones buying booze and drugs, while the quieter ones were simply trying to maintain a dignified survival.
One time, a pleasant-looking black man was standing by the subway entrance with his cup outstretched. It occurred to me that he really could make it—that we were all basically one paycheck from being homeless. And perhaps my spare change could really help him.
So I reached deep into my pocket and pulled out every last coin, tossing them quickly in his cup as I sped by. “What the hell did you do to my coffee?!” he screamed as coffee splashed all over him. My bad—he had not been panhandling. Embarrassed, I fled down the subway steps and onto the waiting train.
Every corner had a story. There was the guy in the Spider-Man suit who, for a dollar, would let you take a Polaroid with him. Just down the block, you could find a fortune teller whose storefront was an explosion of glitter and velvet, promising to unveil the secrets of your future for a reasonable fee. Spoiler alert: she always saw a tall, dark stranger in my path. And encouraged me to have a private ‘reading’ with her ‘daughter’ upstairs.
One night, I stumbled upon a street performance that could only be described as a microcosm of Times Square itself—utterly unpredictable and hilariously bizarre. A man in a gorilla suit was attempting to juggle flaming torches while balancing on a unicycle. His assistant, a woman dressed as a mermaid, provided a running commentary that was part cheerleader, part roast master. The crowd was a mix of tourists and locals, all equally captivated by the absurdity of the scene.
Then there were the infamous peep shows, where a quarter bought you a glimpse of something ‘naughty.’ The peep show operators were as much a part of the show as the performers themselves, hawking their wares with a mix of charm and chutzpah that could sell ice to an Eskimo—or at least a glimpse of skin to a wide-eyed Midwesterner.
Despite its reputation for seediness, there was a strange camaraderie among the regulars. We were all part of the same neon jungle, navigating its perils and pleasures together. There was the hot dog vendor who knew your order before you even approached and the newsstand guy who would save you the last copy of the evening edition.
Times Square in the early ’80s was a place where you could lose yourself and find a story worth telling. It was a theater of life, with each night offering a new performance, a new adventure. And while it might have been a little rough around the edges, it was undeniably alive, a pulsing heart of a city that never slept.
For an eyewitness like me, it was a time and place that was equal parts maddening and magical—a snapshot of New York in all its unpolished glory. And as I look back, I can’t help but smile at the sheer audacity of it all.
Neon Nights, Hustler’s Delight: My Times Square Adventures in the Early ’80s (June 26, 2012)
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Tags: Times Square, 1980s New York, Eyewitness Account, Urban Life, New York History