A Sample of "Weird, NJ: A Review of Bayonne"

“Not only is the Universe stranger than we think, it is stranger than we can think.” - Werner Heisenberg

I must embarrassingly admit that my view of the world is through dirty water—I grew up in Staten Island. An anomaly amongst the five boroughs of New York City, it is filled with the most ignorantly coarse people you will ever get the opportunity to have yell at you. Formerly the site of one of the world’s largest landfills (of which is now being turned into a park), along with enough Italians to fill a Columbus Day Parade three times over, it was culturally isolated from the metropolis that is a 15-minute orange boat ride away. Despite being an only child, I was called “bro” through my teenage years enough to feel as if I had more siblings than I could have ever wanted. Even amongst the countless fitted Yankees caps, multitude of Lexus vehicles, and very angry old Italian men hoarding their parking spots—I escaped as a decently normal human male. I’m able to pronounce the letters “er” at the ends of words of which have them assigned and I’m not particularly fond of “galamad” or “gabagool”. Yet, despite growing up in one of the strangest places to ever sprout from the soil of New York State—I somehow moved to the Capital of Weird—zip code: 07002.

            Enter Gabby, my now fiancé, born and raised in the Garden State. A woman that introduced me to a world that I neglected to acknowledge existed beyond the 24-hour bodegas and hanging deli meat of my childhood. A place rumored to have bad pizza, worse bagels, and an ongoing civil war over the proper namesake of a ham produced by a company named Taylor. She was “bridge and tunnel”, and I was “big orange boat”. As my love for her grew, my love of the varying landscape of New Jersey followed (albeit slowly). Soon came the time to move in together, create a home for our cat to thrive in. After some research, we set our sights on Bayonne. After all, it met all of our requirements: low rent, quick commute to NYC, and safe as a Hudson County city could be—with bonus points being allotted due to its direct connection to my homeland via the rumored and frequently closed Bayonne Bridge. After a snowy moving day, our couch, cat, and many boxes of books safely made it to our new home—in a geographic location I can only hypothesize exists directly between the Bermuda Triangle’s ugly cousin and the Twilight Zone.  

            Bayonne was originally formed as a township on April 1st, 1861, and I can only assume it was an April Fools Day prank that went too far. Its first mayor, Henry Meigs, Jr., was President of the New York Stock Exchange. Up until 1914, Bayonne lacked a flag, until the chairman of the Library Board requested one—and thus the current blue, white, and red ode to France was created with a sailing vessel placed directly in the center. Those colors also represent the Dutch that settled this land at its conception, and as is the case of most lands colonialized by European explorers, ignores any indication that there were natives that lived here prior to their settling. On its surface, Bayonne seems no different than any other east coast city, an economy originally build from businesses that intertwined with the Hudson River, and a decently diverse population of citizens.

            Those that we met in our first days here seemed that perfectly polite working class people, and our landlord is an extremely sweet Eastern European woman who lives above us. Similarly to the European settlers that originally set up camp here, we were without fear of any impending doom, and were excited to start our life here. Our first day here we decided to take a walk around our new neighborhood. We live on a side street that runs perpendicular to one of the most bustling streets of Bayonne, Broadway. I assume the naming of this street has less to do with the culturally rich and sign covered streets of Manhattan’s Broadway, and more to do with that fact that it is simply one of the broader roads in Bayonne, considering most streets here are narrow and thus both figuratively and literally run “one way”.

With our walk starting, we noticed that every side street in Bayonne had scattered signs that read “Resident Parking Only”. I learned from Gabby that this is perfectly normal for cities in New Jersey that reside close to New York City due to a fear of non-residents parking their cars in these cities and then utilizing their pubic transit systems to shorten and cheapen their commutes. What was strange about these signs is that they had a faded warning of “Violators will be towed” that looked like they were badly scrubbed from every sign, with the ghost of their lettering still remaining.

We progressed down Broadway and were greeted by rows of small businesses, from restaurants, to bars, to stores, and even some legal practices. All open for business, and thus, had to be a sign of a thriving local economy. Nothing about this place seemed strange, and we were honestly excited about eating and drinking our way down Broadway now that it was our new home. We then met the first oddity of Bayonne: on a multi-leveled brick building a couple blocks from our apartment was a massive building-side mural of Chuck Wepner. For those who are uneducated in boxing history, as Gabby and I were, Chuck was a professional boxer known as “The Bayonne Bleeder”. A local hero, it is rumored that Sylvester Stallone stole the premise and character of Rocky from that of “The Bayonne Bleeder” and is known in some circles as the “Real Rocky”. In any case, it would be understandable that there would be a mural of this local hero somewhere in the city—except that it is my un-biased opinion that this may be the least flattering mural in the United States. I’d like to apologize to the artist in my criticism of this piece, but it looks like Chuck had been through a couple too many rounds, and then was sent through a pasta-making machine. His face is warped and squiggled, his body’s proportions unlike anything that has been encountered in human biology, and his gloves look like they grew from his wrists due to bathing too long in the Hudson. Taken back by this artistic anomaly, we put our judgment aside, assumed that it is was artistic licensing, and went on our way.

Around this time is when the stranger things about Bayonne started leaking into our lives like demogorgons into Hawkins, Indiana. About a week later we decided to take a late night trip to Sonic, a fast food establishment of which we’ve frequented without a hitch in other New Jersey cities. We pulled up to the car side ordering device, pressed the big red button, and received the reply of “Welcome to Sonic, how may I help you?” Many years of frequenting fast food drive-thru restaurants had prepared me for this moment. I replied, “Hi there, can I get a number five, with a large Pepsi?” and the disembodied voice from the box replied “Ok, a number two, with a slushy?” Confused, I repeated myself, “No, I’m sorry, can I get a number five with a large Pepsi?” The box replied “Oh ok, a number seven, with hash browns” This continued for about two to three more attempts. I then looked to my passenger side at Gabby, wondering if I was possibly slurring my speech, possibly having a stroke and being unaware. I stuck my giraffe sized neck out of my car window, got as close as possible to what I assumed was the microphone to our fast food overlords, and clearly annunciated “No, a num-ber five, with a large Pep-si” and finally our prayers were granted “Oh, a number five, with a large Pepsi” I confirmed, brushed it off on what was probably faulty audio equipment, and then riding high off of success, ordered the last part of our order. “And then can I get a cheeseburger with mustard?” “Ok, just mustard” replied our audio Sonic representative. I replied, “Yes, just mustard” She asked if we wanted anything else, we replied that we didn’t, then she told us the total price and clicked off the speaker. We sat laughing at what had just occurred until eventually another Sonic employee brought us our order. We opened the bag, I pulled out what should have been a cheeseburger with mustard—and found myself mystified at what I held in my hand. After the struggled communication that just occurred, all that sat between the two golden buns was exactly what was audibly confirmed “just mustard.” Now I don’t mean a patty of meat and mustard, I don’t mean cheese and mustard, I don’t even mean all the contents of a burger with some ingredients missing and some mustard—what I’m describing to you is literally just a bun and mustard. Thinking possibly something had just been forgotten along the assembly line, I pressed the big red button one more time in an attempt to remedy my growling stomach. The disembodied voice re-appeared “Hello, welcome to Sonic, we’re closed, bye” and our Sonic employee of the month disappeared into the ether of the universe. I sat there, confused, thinking I had possibly just hit some bad luck that night—but that luck would continue.

If you look at our refrigerator, stuck to the cold metal front with the help of a Garbage Pail Kids magnet is a beige piece of paper, handwritten with the title “Places to never order from again:” and then an assortment of restaurants of varyingly different food types from pizzerias to Chinese. The existence of this dining doctrine is due to, in a similar vain to the aforementioned Sonic situation, the fact that we’re so often met with mystifying miserable food experiences in Bayonne. From Sicilian pizzas that were just tomato soup on a square piece of flatbread as if they’ve never seen what a pizza even looks like, to ordering a plain bagel with butter and receiving a poppy bagel with butter and cream cheese together—it is a risk whenever we’ve decided to push our luck and get food in Bayonne. With some loose math, I’ve determined that we’re met with wrong order or disturbingly bad food about 90% of the time. What at first felt like it was just some bad luck reoccurring, has now started to feel like a curse left on the city by an angry wizard.

We’ve pondered the mystery of what made food service so disappointing in Bayonne. We wondered if there was possibly a lack of training, or maybe extremely high turnover that led to every encounter having us dealing with a new employee. As we became more observant of our fellow “Bayon-ians”, we started to notice that it was a trend that seemed spread across all industries. From going into stores and having the cashiers not acknowledge our presence, even after trying to get their attention, to doctors at urgent cares that seemed annoyed that you made the decision to be sick—there is on oddity deep inside all Bayonne residents. As if it was something in the air (of which about once a week at night tends to smell like rotten fish and has us keeping our windows closed tight) or something in the water (of which we use a filter for, incase that is the case), I’ve found myself considerably confused with their behavior. Further, it’s not that they are rude, or unwelcoming to outsider, or even particularly bad in any variable way—the best possible description is just “strange” with a touch of “what the hell is happening?”

I’d be remiss to not begin my encounters with Bayon-ians talking about “Captain Bayonne.” For the uninformed, of which Gabby and I started as, Captain Bayonne is the Bayonne superhero. Sometimes when driving through Bayonne you’ll catch a glimpse of this enigma—wearing a Luchador mask, colorful spandex running pants, a graphic t-shirt, sometimes a cape, and on very special occasions, what can only be described as a bright orange velour “pimp” suit. Not a crime fighter, Captain Bayonne is instead (as reported by WeirdNJ.com) a marathon runner who simply enjoys the joy he brings Bayonne and the anonymity that the costume provides. To me, Captain Bayonne is the perfect representation of the bizarre nature of Bayonne’s residents. Never have I encounter someone with bad intentions, instead I often just find myself confused.

An example being a recent trip I took to QuickChek. Now this QuickChek is an anomaly just in its existence alone. It is a variation of the franchise that doesn’t have a gas station, and thus is only a convenience store. Unfortunately, the convenience aspect of the store tends to fall off in that they stock their shelves with the most random assortment of items, and further, do so in an inconsistent pattern that leaves you wondering when the next time you’ll be able to purchase sour cream at their location will be. In a recent early evening walk to go get milk there, a normal-looking middle-aged woman stopped me at the door of the establishment. In trying to excuse myself past her to enter, she stopped me and asked me the question “Are you one of the directors?” Struck with what felt like half an entry-riddle, and half a genuine question, I answered, “No, I’m sorry” and tried to pass her to enter. She simply shrugged her shoulder and replied, “Oh, no problem; you just looked like one of the directors!” and she physically granted me access to the building. That question stuck in my head as I perused the aisles of plungers and off-brand Twinkies. Who were these directors? Why were there multiple? What made her believe I was one of them? I decided I’d ask her at least one of these questions on the way out, except as I was leaving I realized—she disappeared without a trace. In less than the five minutes I spent grabbing milk, she had returned to the calm chaos of Bayonne. My questions unanswered, and the continued mental perpetuation that I was an outsider amongst a city I didn’t understand.

That story is one of many that have intertwined to create the mythos of a city of which leaves me surprised everyday. If others weren’t experiencing the strangeness alongside me, I’d believe I was going crazy. There was the time that Gabby went to that same QuickChek late at night and it was bustling with way too many people for 11pm on a weekday and they were blasting the Twilight Zone theme on the overhead speakers. There are the multiple Lyft drivers of which reported that they recently moved to Bayonne and have experienced the same levels of strangeness. In a recent comedy performance by Chris Gethard of all New Jersey related material, he even had a whole bit about how while working for Weird NJ, he’d experienced every variation of strange across the many miles of New Jersey, and yet the answer he still can’t cope with is, “What the fuck is going on in Bayonne?”

I thought in writing this piece I’d find some reasoning or pattern along the way. I’ve seen the data that suggests that Bayonne’s school system isn’t the greatest. I’ve seen the city in the short time that I’ve been here developing and gentrifying at an exceedingly fast pace with a frequency of suspicious fires occurring at a nearly monthly basis. I’ve talked to its residents, become friendly with neighbors, and even researched its history and conception—and yet, I’m still left with so many questions. I can’t say that Bayonne is even a bad place. It has it clear faults: Its parking situation is growing crowded, and leaves me angrily circling the blocks of my neighborhood on most nights. Other than my favorite Spanish restaurant “El Aguila Dorada”, it’s difficult to find decent food, and to receive it correctly. The Light Rail is the most dysfunctional public transportation I’ve ever encountered (and I grew up using the MTA and privately contracted express buses to get to the city). Yet despite all of that, I’m not angry at Bayonne—I’m just confused.

As this city gets more crowded and develops into the next Jersey City or Hoboken, Gabby and I will move away to a different part of Jersey eventually—leaving Hudson County behind for a less congested area. Despite that, I’ll always have my endless stories of this place, so many stories that I had to leave them out of this piece to keep it (relatively) short. What I’ll take away most from this city when I finally depart it though, are my questions: What is happening in Bayonne? Why is it such an anomaly amongst the rest of New Jersey? And lastly, why was I believed to be one of the directors?