7 Days: The City Below

"The world beneath Man­hattan is a cake of endless layers, a foundation as deep as the Chrysler Build­ing is high."


When Adam Moss stepped down as editor of New York magazine last month, it marked the end of an era. Since taking the helm of the august title in 2004, Moss had helped set the industry standard for magazine journalism, documenting the life of the city in all its highbrow, lowbrow, brilliant, and despicable glory. 

Of course, as dedicated media-watchers know, much of the New York‘s DNA was apparent three decades ago, when Moss emerged from Manhattan’s media landscape as the 30-year-old wunderkind behind the much-loved, short-lived 7 Days magazine. Published by then-Voice owner Leonard Stern for two years bridging the ’80s and ’90s, 7 Days was a glorious failure, bleeding money, but minting the reputations for a generation of fledgling journalists

Flipping through the 7 Days archives today is an exercise in delightful discovery. There’s Jeffrey Toobin writing about the Yankees, long before he became the lead legal analyst for the New Yorker; future best-selling author Meg Wolitzer (The Wife) writing the weekly crossword puzzle; a regular magazine-watching column from fellow future best-selling author Walter Kirn (Up in the Air); Peter Schjeldahl covering the arts scene; Joan Acocella on dance. 

Over the next week, we here at the Voice archives will be sharing some of these treasures from the vault. Welcome to seven days of 7 Days

December 6, 1989

Open Up a Manhole and Jump Right In

Imagine grabbing Manhattan by the Empire State Building and pulling the en­tire island up by its roots. Imagine shaking it. Imagine millions of wires and hundreds of thousands of cables freeing themselves from great hunks of rock and tons of musty and polluted dirt. Imagine a sewer system and a set of water lines each three times as long as the Hudson River. Picture mysterious little vaults hidden just beneath the crust of the sidewalk, a sweaty grid of steam pipes 103 miles long, a turn-of-the-18th-century merchant ship buried under Front Street, rusty old natural-gas lines that could be wrapped 23 times around Manhattan, and huge, bombproof concrete tubes that descend almost 80 stories into the ground.

It’s all down there: the planned and the un­planned, the infrastructure and the archaeological sur­prises. There are old pneu­matic tubes that once moved letters around the city; snapping turtles swimming in the sewers; and a six-lane highway built in the late 1960s un­derneath the subway at Chrystie Street, then sealed, abandoned, and forgotten. There’s a city beneath the streets, but most New Yorkers don’t bother themselves with it, until a steam pipe explodes and kills three people in Gramercy Park, as one did in August, or a water main breaks and flushes shut the Eighth Avenue subway, as one did in September. Even in those dramatic cases, even when the newspapers fill their pages with graphs and charts, people only get a neat little outline — a me­ticulous diagram of a slop­py bowl of linguine. Com­puter graphics are too calculated to capture the randomness of the world beneath the avenues. Ab­stract Impressionists would do better.

The world beneath Man­hattan is a cake of endless layers, a foundation as deep as the Chrysler Build­ing is high. On the top lies a 3-inch strip of asphalt. Next comes almost 10 inches of coarse concrete. After that, soil, a nasty soil that soaks up chemicals from the street. In another inch or 3 come the wires — ­telephone and electric, streetlight and fire alarm, and, the newest addition, cable TV — all buried in casings and kept close to the curbs. Gas lines puff away another foot below; water mains gurgle 4 feet under; steam pipes are.buried 6 feet deep. Every sewer pipe is different (they’re installed at an angle so that sewage is always flowing down), but they’re generally above the vaults of the subways, which vary in depth from a few dozen inches (the Lex­ington Avenue line) to 18 stories below St. Nicholas Av­enue (191st Street on the Broadway local). Water tun­nels — running between 200 and 800 feet — mark the farthest reach of the underground.

Every so often, there are the scares. In the ’70s, for example, before cleaning up asbestos became a profit­able business, New Yorkers were worrying about red lead paint on their water pipes. But somehow, in its hodgepodge way, the underground keeps pumping and flowing and growing. It never gives out.


“A lot of water leaks are caused by city borings,” says the water department’s Doug Greeley. “A contractor went through an 18-inch gas line with a backhoe,” says Con Ed’s Bob Greis. “We’ve dug in some places with spoons,” says Ed Moloney, an engineer with Vollmer Associates, a firm known for its knowledge of the underground.

Moloney, a kind-faced Irishman dressed in shirt ­sleeves and a tie, knows better than most how crowded it is down there. He helped engineer the Van Wyck Ex­pressway, the Cross Bronx, and. the Grand Central Parkway, and by the end of the ’50s was working on a daily basis with Robert Moses’ office. In the late ’60s, Moloney signed on with Arnold Vollmer, an engineer and landscape architect whose firm had become familiar with buried cables and wires after digging thousands of holes for the city’s sidewalk trees. At Vollmer, Moloney set out to document the path of each and every utility beneath the 2,000 or so intersections from 60th Street south to the Battery. He came up with a system for mea­suring the density of utility lines, representing the least dense areas with green, more dense areas with yellow, and those stuffed completely with red. And what did he find? “A lot of red,” he says, “particularly in lower Manhattan.”

Moloney’s expertise is so widely known that the FBI once called him to find out if terrorists might make use of the sewers, say, to rough up Fidel Castro while he was speaking at the United Nations. Moloney figured that, yes, it was possible, but the terrorists would have to bring their own air and pray for clear weather. Rain, Moloney told the agents, would surely wash out an attack.

When Moloney and his colleagues at Vollmer are hired to plan a new installation underground, the first thing they do is sift through the archives: Con Ed maps, phone-company maps, and utility maps drawn during the New Deal. Next, they dig a couple of test pits — espe­cially in the tighter areas — to see if what’s supposed to be there is actually there. “Now you know what should be under there,” Moloney says. “But you ask, How does this gas main run from this valve to that valve? Does it go straight or up and down? From our experience we have a good intuition of how they’re laid.” At some points in the city, pipes and wires and ducts are packed 30 and 40 feet thick. That’s when Moloney and his crew really start to worry about hitting something and break out the spoons.


“Here, men from Wall Street and famous producers live,” says Raj Patel, pointing from the base of the Central Park Reservoir toward Fifth Avenue’s apartment buildings, “and over there lives Jackie Ken­nedy. But no, they don’t know how it works. If you don’t go downstairs, you don’t know.”

That said, Patel lifts a carpet in the middle of the Cen­tral Park Reservoir’s pumping station, pulls open a heavy steel grate, and climbs down the century-and-a­quarter-old steel spiral staircase. Patel seems a small man to be controlling the two huge water mains that run down Madison and Fifth Avenues, but his is the perfect size for crawling between the pipes that inject chlorine in the water and the regulators that measure the quality of the 70 million gallons that rush through these 48-inch pipes every day. He weaves his tour around the pipes and through the old brick-lined tunnels while talking about the city’s flow.

“It is very heavy in the morning between 6 and 8 o’clock,” he says, pointing to the small electric meters. At 12:15 in the afternoon, the Madison Avenue line reg­isters a jump of a few thousand gallons. Maybe a few hundred people just flushed somewhere on the Lower East Side. Maybe a lot of people are home fixing lunch.

“New York is very lucky,” Patel says, in an accent half British, half Indian. “Ninety percent of its water is supplied by gravity.” For a long time, New York wasn’t so lucky. Until the 1700s, water was drawn mainly from one spring-fed pond. Population and industrial growth ruined a good clean thing (the dead cats and dogs people threw into the pond didn’t help either), so Aaron Burr built a reservoir near what is now Chambers Street and laid about 5 miles of hollowed-out tree trunks (many of which are still in place) to carry the water underground.

But Burr’s water wasn’t very tasty, and the city set out to import its supply. In the summer of 1842, a thou­sand thirsty citizens cheered as water from the upstate Croton Reservoir rolled down a 33-mile tunnel to the holding reservoir built at 42nd and Fifth, on the site of today’s public library. One hundred years later the city finished two more 15-foot-wide water tunnels from the Delaware and Catskill watersheds.

Doug Greeley is the Department of Environmental Protection’s man in charge of plugging up leaks in the roughly 6,000 miles of water mains that run under the city today. Once, city workers created leaks on pur­pose. “In the old days, when there was a fire the firemen would dig down till they hit an old wooden water main, chop a hole in it, use the water, and then plug it up when they were finished,” says Greeley.

Since tree-trunk watet pipes have been abandoned, the city relies primarily on cast-iron mains to carry its water. Most of the time, things go relatively well, con­sidering the number of joints that could possibly leak. “We like to think of ourselves — and I’m not trying to rip off the Navy, but they call us the silent service,” he says. “No one thinks about water mains as long as they work.”

Water mains leak about 5,000 times a year and break about 500 times. The latter are the ones that tend to make the headlines, and their causes mostly have to do with the very unmysterious trends of age and wear. “They take a beating in New York,” says Vollmer’s Ed Moloney. “There’s lots of traffic, and trucks are pound­ing the pavement from up top. And then below, you have the continuous vibrations of the subways.”

“When those mains were installed, you had horse-and-buggies out there,” says Thomas Cowan, who manages Con Ed’s gas-engineering division. “Now you’ve got tractor trailors.”

As for the leaks, some of the water gets into basements, but most goes into the sewers. So when Doug Greeley’s team’s not busy with a break, they look for leaks, either with electrical current sent through fire hydrants or with micro­phones that listen for the hiss of stray water. There are distractions (“You get affected by buses honking their horns, by subways, and in some cases you get af­fected by high heels walking down the street,” Greeley says), but they only need to get within a few feet. With the microphones, they’ve been known to come within a few eighths of an inch.

When all else fails, and when the water just keeps on coming, Greeley’s team turns to the single map that probably decorates the office walls of more underground technicians than any other — Eg­bert L. Viele’s 1874 Topographical At­las. The Water Map, as it is better known in underground circles, shows all the streams, ponds, and rivers that in many cases still flow underneath the streets of the city.

Water-main leaks sometimes follow old stream beds and show up a few blocks away, or the old streams themselves sometimes show up. Minetta Brook is an example. It used to run from Sixth Ave­nue at 16th Street through Washington Square and into the Village. A couple of years ago it made a brief comeback in a basement in the West Village.


“Watch the ladder,” say Joseph Iacono, the superintendent of emergency operations for Con Edison’s Manhattan division, from underneath First Avenue. At the bottom of the vault he’s standing in is an oil-filled, fireproof transformer bringing power for the neighborhood down to a manageable 13,500 volts. “You talk about Toledo, Ohio, and a cou­ple of poles and some wires,” Iacono says, “But it doesn’t work that way here.”

The electricity humming peacefully along in front of him has traveled a long way from the waters of Canada, from the atoms split at Indian Point, or from vari­ous other generators in northern New England. It zips at the speed of light over high-tension lines and dives under­ground just north of Manhattan. There, the electrons are bumped up to a cool 138,000 volts before moving on to trans­formers (like the one Iacono’s standing in) in one of Manhattan’s 31 networks. Power comes down again to 120 volts by the time it gets to the average home or office, but not before passing through a manhole somewhere.

Manholes can leak, rats can chew, and the splicers who climb down to han­dle 1,500-degree soldering irons may have to work in temperatures as sweaty as 100 degrees. But one wrong nibble by some hungry rat, one splicer screwup, one small fluctuation in the flow of pow­er, and Manhattan gets mad.

“It may be as little as 5 cycles,” says Richard Peck, Con Ed’s chief electrical distribution engineer, explaining that there are 60 cycles in a second’s worth of electrical travel. “But that’s enough for these computer outfits on Wall Street. Sometimes they know about it as fast as we do.”


Robert Greis, the man who ma­ages Con Ed’s gas-operations division, uses a flattened web of copper wiring as a paperweight on his desk. The copper was melted, he says, by a couple of thou­sand volts of electricity, and it burned right through a cast-iron gas main, ne­cessitating one of the 6,500 annual gas­pipe repairs Con Ed sees to annually — ­between 30,400 emergency calls and 30,000 inspections — in Manhattan.

On his way to one of those repairs, Greis mentions that five years ago, 14 percent of the gas Manhattan imported via pipeline from Texas and Louisiana just sort of disappeared, vanished into the air. Flame ionization units are to­day’s best defense against leaking gas: backpack-size gas detectors that test air samples by burning them. They are so successful, in fact, that in 1989 losses have dropped to 5 percent.

Today’s leak was caused by a tired old pipe joint. It was discovered by a con­cerned citizen named J.R. Thomas. Three years ago, Thomas drove Greis and his mechanics crazy by calling in reports of gas leaks just about every day. And he wouldn’t just say he smelled gas in his kitchen: he’d phone about entire city blocks. When a citizen calls, Con Ed has to dig, so mechanics would spend days drilling test borings around each and every one of the blocks Thomas suspected. Just as water leaks are tricky, a bad gas leak can be hard to find. “We’ll have gas in a manhole and find out that the leak is two blocks away,” Greis says.

So after a few months of daily tele­phone calls and the corresponding required inspections, Con Ed finally asked Thomas about his methodology. Turned out he doesn’t even use his nose; he pinpoints gas leaks by studying varia­tions in the color of a building’s facade. Despite his unorthodox methods and the sarcastic mumbles from the guys forced to dig near every poorly painted building on the Upper East Side, Con Ed pays at­tention to his calls. “We can’t ignore him,” Greis says. “He has a 14 percent hit ratio.”

Back in the middle of the 19th century, there were about 15 different gas com­panies in New York, and they each had their own gas mains. Since 1970, Con Ed has retired 50,000 feet of old mains. But what does it do with them? Mostly leave them where they are — although the old­est working ones date from 1874. “A lot of other services will run lines through abandoned mains ’cause they’re the only thing left in town,” Greis says.

The lines that Greis’ crew first run into are definitely not their own and definite­ly not on their maps. Because they are buried in a shallow main and seem relatively new, the crew’s best guess is that they’re cable-TV lines. Next, they paint Con Ed’s signature blue on the street (“If the road depresses, they’ll know who to come after,” Greis says), then jackham­mer a little, and afterward vacuum the dirt from around their tired, leaky joint.

With a trench so small and tools so sur­gically efficient, the whole operation looks more like a visit to the dentist than pipe repair. In a matter of minutes, the joint is sealed with a hard rubber cover and a bucket of sealant. A cast-iron pipe old enough to be a grandfather becomes as good as new, at least for these few feet. “Technology, in the area of natural gas, anyway, has improved a lot in the last few years,” Greis says, driving off down Fifth Avenue in his blue-and-white van.


“There are a whole lot of geologi­cal provinces that come together in New York City,” says John Sanders, geologist at Columbia University, speaking of the rocky world underneath Manhattan’s pipes and wires. “There are at least three major different kinds of geological stuff that focus here.” We’re talking real un­derground now. We’re talking farther than humans have ever dug. We’re talk­ing about the rocks that hold up Manhat­tan, about the faults that run under Dyckman Street, the Harlem River, 125th Street, and the East River. We’re talking about Manhattan schist.

Schist is what they call the bedrock in which the World Trade Center and all of midtown’s skyscrapers are rooted. No­tice, Sanders says, that skyscrapers don’t live in Chelsea: there the schist bur­rows deep underground. Basically it rises up in Central Park, stays there through midtown, then runs down to about 100 feet below the surface about halfway between the Battery and Canal Street. It’s just high enough again for the World Trade Center to stand, but there are no skyscrapers at the bottom of the Bowery. What works better there are sewers. In fact, the sewer once billed as the New World’s largest was built in the swampy area between the mouth of the Holland Tunnel and the foot of the Man­hattan Bridge. For a long while, it con­nected the city’s two rivers until it was paved over and became known as Canal Street.

Archaeologists in Manhattan still bump into remnants of the old canals when they’re digging underground. They bump into the old locks and ship slips too, especially near the southern tip of Broad Street, which used to be all wa­ter. One archaeologist even bumped into a boat from the late 17th century. “It didn’t surprise me that we hit wood,” re­members Joan Geismar, an archaeolo­gist who was excavating the site. “It sur­prised me that the wood turned out to be a 25-foot-wide and 92-foot-long ship.”

The bow of the ship is now sitting in a Newport News museum, but the stern still lies buried under Front Street’s utili­ty cables. Toward the end of the 17th century, Geismar says, developers leased unused boat slips from the city, docked their worn-out boats and loaded them with junk, then sunk them. A good per­centage of lower Manhattan is landfill, and a good percentage of the landfill is boats.

“You can stand there and tell people about it, but when you have an actual ship and you pull it out of the muck, it really blows their minds,” says Ed Rutsch.

Rutsch, an urban and industrial ar­chaeologist, has all but nailed down the whereabouts of the wall they named the financial district for. He caught a glimpse of it while digging near 60 Wall St. Of course, the middles of city streets are generally out of bounds to archaeolo­gists, who work mainly at the mercy of history-minded developers and the zon­ing board’s variance requirements.

But Rutsch has been able to put to­gether a picture of the palisade that stood some 300 years ago — a long row of tall sticks designed to keep out at­tackers. He has found 200-year-old coins and once came pretty close to Alexander Hamilton’s latrine. Latrines and privies, by the way, are generally considered archaeological gold mines in Manhattan. “When you lose something in one,” Rutsch points out, “you do a minimum of feeling around.”


Talk long enough to the engineers, the archaeologists, the repair crews, and invariably they start to tell stories: weird incidents, bizarre findings. There’s the story about the engineers who, near the intersection of Bowery and Canal, accidentally discovered a small hidden room decorated with mirrors on its walls and ceilings. There’s the story about the tunnel diggers who ran into a 10,000-year-old standing forest buried 200 feet beneath the Upper West Side. A mud slide or glacier probably buried it, and the workers who discovered it had to use chain saws to cut it down.

There’s the story about how many dump-truck runs it took to haul off the dirt dug to make room for Grand Central: 400 runs a day for a little less than five years. There’s the one about a horse that fell into a sewer and a few minutes later appeared on the shore of the harbor, and the one about the four boys who almost fell in a sewer themselves when, on Feb­ruary 10, 1935, they pulled out a 125-pound alligator.

There are the structures that were closed, or never built, or built and never opened: dozens of public rest rooms be­low the theater district haven’t relieved a customer in years; a City Hall subway station has been retired, too short to host a modern train; a downtown trolley ter­minal has been closed, though it’s still visible under Essex Street on the J Line. In a cabinet somewhere there are plans for a triple-decker subway-and-car tun­nel, complete with a glass ceiling de­signed to double as a Broadway side­walk. And Mrs. Henry J. Hibshman still remembers her late husband’s unreal­ized energy-crisis scheme to pump water deep into the city’s cold ground and draw it back up to cool buildings in the sum­mer. A PATH-train tunnel ends only a few dozen feet from where it starts in Greenwich Village, still distant from its once-intended destination, Astor Place. A private entrance several stories below the Waldorf once allowed President Franklin D. Roosevelt secret passage to trains carrying him to Hyde Park. And escalators in buildings along Water Street still wait patiently for the Second Avenue subway line to be finished.

In 1912, the workers digging the BMT accidentally discovered the city’s first subway line, 42 years after it was closed and forgotten. A 312-foot-long, 9-foot­wide pneumatic tube, it was built by Al­fred Ely Beach, inventor and an editor of Scientific American, who furnished its frescoed waifing room with a chandelier and a grand piano. For a few weeks in 1870, a 100-horsepower fan blew Beach’s primitive subway cars through a tube 21 feet below Broadway between Warren and Murray Streets until Boss Tweed shut it down.

Then there are the people — the long­time engineers, the eccentric citizens, the Italians who dig for Con Edison, and the Irish who build the tunnels. Teddy May was a subway official who liked to walk the tracks for pleasure on Sunday afternoons, often with a potato in his pocket to ward off back pains. Smelly Kelly, the famous Transit Authority leak finder, made his reputation sniffing out eels from a pipe in the bathroom of one subway station and elephant dung in the tunnel near another. Six hundred volts from the third rail, goes his story, just barely knocked him down.


Surrounded by picks and shovels, tired old iron rails, and thousands of volts of electricity, Clarence Cook is worried about only one thing. “I’m not afraid of walking on the track,” he says, “and I’m not afraid of the third rail. I’m just afraid of meeting some stranger in here. That’s the scariest part, especially when you’re alone. I think some of these criminals know the system better than you do, and so there are certain areas that I just don’t like to walk by myself. Like between 28th and Canal on the Lex. That’s where you meet ’em. They don’t usually trouble you, but it’s just a bad thing.”

Commuters ride the subways, crimi­nals stash loot in them, and the homeless live in them. Between May of 1988 and May of 1989, 43 homeless people died in the subway system. A month ago, on a balmy November day, there were 750 homeless people in the system, according to the Transit Authority, which attempts an occasional census of subway resi­dents. At times, the number has gone as high as 2,000. Track workers run into them all the time — on platforms, in the tunnels, and in abandoned stations like the ones  at 18th, 91st, and Worth Streets. “At Chambers Street one night,” says J.J. Wilson, “they were cleaning an unused platform and they opened the door and this guy came run­ning out balls-ass naked and ran down the track. When they looked in, this guy had bottles of urine and whatnot in there. This guy was living in there.”

I’m not worried about being surprised while taking my first trip into a subway tunnel with J.J., a stocky, 17-year veter­an who has walked, inspected, and fixed a good portion of the system’s 720 miles. I feel safe, that is, until a train comes along. It is pitch-black, and the first thing we hear is the sound, a windy rum­ble coming up behind us. We wear reflec­tor vests and carry electric lanterns, but the train only gets closer and our fashion accessories just don’t compare. It passes peacefully, nevertheless, and as we turn a bend in the tunnel, light leaks toward us. In a few feet we are on the edge of a 27-man work crew — a “gang” loud with the clang of iron and bright with sheets of light bulbs revealing the tunnel’s roof and floor. The third rail has been shut off, but the crew treats it as if it were still alive. They lift 1,300 pound, 39-foot rail lengths into position; they replace ties, soaked rotten by the system’s poor drainage; and they see a few rats.

“That’s like everyday stuff,” Cook says. “There’s some huge sizes down here. We don’t call them rats. We call them track rabbits.”

“I was down near 14th Street once and they was running all around me in cir­cles,” says J.J., who claims they stay out of the tunnels and close to the platform garbage. “They didn’t bother me, but there was some big suckers.”

It’s almost 2 in the morning, and we head uptown on the Broadway line. Sub­way gangs get all their work done at night while the commuters sleep, so work is just picking up when we stop near 137th Street. A gang pours molten metal in between two track rails to smooth the trains’ rides. The heat of the metal warms the tunnel. The gang takes cover a few feet down the track as the fiery steel explodes on cue in a small black crucible. “Fire in the hole,” some­body shouts, and everyone looks away.


It’s hard work maintaining the subways, and even harder work building them. The tunnels are usually dug straight through solid bedrock. When they’re not, they go through wet silt, and men work in muddy rooms of pressurized air, under metal shields that keep water from filling in the tunnel. One of the most famous subway-construction accidents happened during a rush hour in 1915 on Seventh Avenue. Great holes were regu­larly blasted with explosives, but on that day, the boss blaster, a Tyrolian named August Mezzanotte, a.k.a. August Mid­night, made a mistake. His uncontrolled explosion ripped a hole in the avenue two blocks long, killed seven people — two of whom tumbled 30 feet under in a trolley car — and sent him running to his neph­ew’s house 30 blocks away. When he fi­nally came back to the site, one newspa­per reported that “he seemed highly nervous.”

In July 1880, in another historic acci­dent, 19 men, mostly Swedish and Irish, were buried alive in what was to have been the country’s first subaqueous tun­nel. The workers were digging just below the muddy bottom of the Hudson and had made it almost 100 yards toward Man­hattan from Jersey when the tunnel col­lapsed with little more warning than.the hiss of leaking air. The eight men who es­caped did so in a small iron air lock and only because one of the others stayed be­hind to hold back the water and see the door close on himself and the others. Af­ter the accident, a crowd stood for ten days on the “dumping-grounds and mud covered flats” of the Jersey shore, as one newspaper described it, watching as the shaft was drained and the men dug out.

Alfonse Panepinto drives his Port Authority van across the same flats until we reach the site of the collapse. We climb through an emergency exit down toward the abandoned tunnel. A PATH train passes on our left, in the more modern branch built after the accident; only 7,240 feet to go until its Christopher Street stop. To the right lies the shaft that marks the underwater tomb of the workers.

“We could start a natural steam bath down here,” Panepinto remarks as we enter, not really exaggerating. The air is as thick as a sauna, and the lens on my watch fogs. We hear absolute quiet save for the faithful clank of a water pump. We crawl through the small iron air lock and push the rectangular doors that seem more suited to submarines. It is completely black, but with a flashlight we see the bricks that line the ceiling, a puddle of river water, stalactites, and a rusted, green-and-white beach chair. We stop at the concreted end of the dead tunnel.

Daniel Gallagher worked with the Gaelic descendants of the PATH-tunnel victims on tunnels all over the city: the 63rd Street East River subway tunnel and the 138th sewerage interceptor, to name two. “You don’t think about work­ing underground,” he says. “You get used to it. Most people don’t even care. Everybody knew what a skyscraper looked like, but most of them didn’t know what a tunnel looked like. We were down a thousand feet in some cases.”

Gallagher’s retired now, his lungs worn out from the job, but his son Brian still works in the hole. He’s a strong, rud­dy-looking kid with red hair and a mem­bership card from Local 147 of the Com­pressed Air and Free Air Tunnel Workers. He makes roughly $1,000 a week. “I want to make my money and get out,” 26-year-old Brian says. “This is too dangerous.”

Brian is standing on the edge of the DEP’s latest and most extensive water project — City Water Tunnel No. 3, 24 feet wide and 800 feet down at its deep­est point. Dug through solid rock, it will connect all of Manhattan with its next century’s supply of water.

The tunnel’s working shaft has been closed now for almost six months since it was finished, and the sandhogs, as they’ve called themselves for decades, are deciding who’s going to go down first. They trade swears in brogues thicker than bedrock, but the head sand­hog, Tom, who speaks mostly Gaelic, fi­nally picks two men from the crew. They are placed into a bucket the size of a small oil barrel and lowered 80 stories into the ground on a wire dangling from a crane. The wind, they say, is pretty cold at the bottom.

A few hundred yards away from the hole stands a trailer. Inside, the site’s chief engineer, Jack Ledger, sits among oddly shaped rocks, photos of the tunnel captioned “The Doors of Hell,” and a few old copies of The Standard Handbook of Engineering. Ledger talks about how things are winding down now after 19 years. Engineers and geologists have come from all over the world, he says, to see the hole dug so incredibly deep, a tun­nel designed to survive the winnable atomic war imagined in the ’50s. He even brought his kids.

“I wanted to bring the whole family down, you know?” he says. “To me this is the acorn of the world. Where else are you going to see these rocks?” But he shakes his head: “They were completely bored. A tunnel’s nothing when you’re in a city with the Twin Towers and the Em­pire State. But we look at it after having watched it carved out stone by stone.”


It wasn’t until 1975 that Con Ed stopped covering each and every steam pipe that it laid in the ground with asbestos, a fiber once considered to be on the leading edge of insulating technol­ogy. Of the 103 miles of steam line that crisscross the avenues below 96th Street, roughly 90 percent are still cov­ered with the cancer-causing fiber. Con Ed says it has considered replacing the insulation on the pipes all at once, but it worries that such an elaborate and dis­ruptive maneuver might release more as­bestos into the air than if drivers in every car in the city hit their brakes all at once. (Brake pads are, in case you were un­sure, another source of the deadly fiber.)

The cost of such an extensive opera­tion is another concern, especially since the company spent several million re­moving the asbestos from 1,000 of its 1,700 manholes in Manhattan in the last year. So for the time being, asbestos-in­sulated steam pipes will be replaced as routine maintenance or an accident cleanup allows.

As is the case with most of the utilities underground, age is pushing for speedy repair. The great-grandfather of the modern-day steam system, the New York Steam Company, began back in 1882, and some not-too-distant relatives of those lines are still lying around. Steam lines have been inspected more or less annually since Con Ed took over in 1936, but there is still no real way to tell which pipe will burst next, or when.

They named the Gramercy Park’s pipe burst a “water hammer.” Four-hundred ­degree steam ran into relatively cool con­densed water. Air bubbles formed, the water beat down the bubbles, the bub­bles got bigger, and the water hit harder. “It basically hammered itself out of the pipe,” says a Con Ed spokesman. Some­thing could have been done: someone could have relieved the steam pressure. But somebody forgot, and the under­ground exploded. In no time at all Con Ed was talking about retraining its steam workers, reportedly regretting the re­tirement of one old-timer who had taught new employees the ways of the pipes.

Old airline pilots crash-land airplanes better than anybody, and it’s the same with underground engineers. “It still takes an expert engineer to know what’s underground,” says Con Ed’s Thomas Cowan (gas). “I’ve been around for 35 years and I still haven’t seen it all,” says Con Ed’s Joseph Iacono (electric).

Like the Williamsburg Bridge, the city’s subterranean iron works may one day crumble, but all the engineers can talk about is progress. They’re talking about fiber-optic cables; about those new hard-rubber joint protectors; about plas­tic pipes; and about cast-iron pipes with just a pinch of silicon. They’re even start­ing to send electronic eyes under­ground — video cameras snaking through the mazes to inspect old and un­reachable tunnels.

Which is progress, sure enough, though it probably won’t add any order to the city’s most cluttered landscape. It just means another man-made device down there. It just means another toy at the bottom of a tunnel. And then, in a thousand years, an archaeologist will wonder what the hell a video camera is doing 80 stories below Manhattan.