The Man Who Bombed the New York Public Library

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From 1940 to 1957, George Metesky planted 33 bombs, 22 of which exploded and injured sixteen people in and around New York City. Known as the "Mad Bomber," George felt he had been given a bad deal by Consolidated Edison (Con Edison or ConEd) and unfairly denied worker's compensation. Two of those bombs found their way into the New York Public Library.

George Metesky was born in Connecticut in 1903 where he grew up with two sisters. Following World War I he joined the Marines, serving in Shanghai. He moved back to Connecticut after service, living with his sisters. He got a job with ConEd as a mechanic and lived comfortably.

In 1931 at the Hell Gate power plant, a boiler George was working on backfired and fumes filled his lungs. According to him, this led to pneumonia and tuberculosis. He was on 26 days of sick pay before he lost his job. He tried to file for worker's compensation but was denied because he waited too long, appealing twice and losing both times.

At this point, he got mad. Again, according to him, he wrote many letters (900 by his count) to the mayor of New York City, the police commissioner, and newspapers and heard nothing. He even tried to put out an ad but the newspapers denied him. So he decided to get attention to his plight another way.

His first bomb was planted on the window sill of a ConEd building in 1940. It did not go off, the police thinking it a dud. It was found in a wool sock and with a note signed "F.P." which would both become signatures of his (F.P. standing for "fair play”). A second bomb was also found later, also a dud. George claimed that many bombs were planted during this time, but they never made the papers. Something more had to be done, but not while a war was on.

After Pearl Harbor, George wrote the papers saying that he would not send any bombs while the U.S. was at war. True to his patriotic and Marine Corps heart, he would not send another bomb until 1951.

The first bomb to explode went off on March 29, 1951 at Grand Central Station. As later found by psychiatrists, his bombs were not meant to kill. They were small pipes filled with gunpowder set with timers that used flashlight batteries and watches as timers. George often put them in places to contain the explosions, like a sand urn at Grand Central or inside the heavy cushions of theater seats. Not saying that's an excuse or anything, but it's worth noting the man tried.

The second bomb was in a telephone booth at the New York Public Library. This was followed by bombs in Radio City Music Hall and the Paramount Theater. Without recounting all the bombs, here are a few notable ones:

  • On November 7, 1954, during a screening of Bing Crosby's White Christmas to a packed house of 6,200 people at Radio City Music Hall, one exploded in the 15th row inside a seat. Four people were injured and 50 evacuated. The show continued to play and an investigation was held after.

  • In 1956, someone complained of a stuck toilet at Pennsylvania Station. While trying to clear the clog with a plunger, a 74-year-old man was injured when the bomb inside exploded.

  • Also in 1956, a man found a pipe at the RCA Building at Rockefeller Center and took it home because it would fit a project he had. It exploded in his kitchen the next morning.

  • The most people injured at once was six when a bomb exploded at the Paramount Theater in late 1956. The place had 1,600 people at the time. This started the large manhunt.

  • The last NYPL bomb was also in a telephone booth. A library clerk was going to make a call (not using library phones, interesting) and dropped a coin. They saw a sock with a pipe inside held in place under the phone with a magnet. They decided to throw the thing out the window to Bryant Park and call the police. At least 60 police officers, bomb squad, and detectives arrived.

All through his reign of terror, George sent letters to police and the newspapers. He often related his hatred for ConEd and his illness. This would be his undoing.

On January 18th, 1957, a ConEd clerk Alice Kelly searched through old records of people who might have claims against the company. Police later said that they had been told records before 1940 had been destroyed, but who is to say. Kelly found George's file, matching many claims from the letters, and handed it over to the police who promptly took credit for the discovery. Newspaper reports gave Kelly full credit and the police once again looked at their shoes and said "shucks."

Three days later on January 21st, George was arrested. All the bomb making accoutrement was found in his home, and he readily admitted to his crimes. During his trial, he was assessed at Bellevue Hospital and found insane. He was placed in Matteawan Hospital for the criminally insane, having to be carried because of his ill health.

We do not end there, however. George did well at Matteawan. While he did not respond to psychiatric treatment, his health improved. He was a model patient and was visited regularly by his sisters. In 1973, the US Supreme Court said New York could not throw patients who were not a danger to others in psychiatric prison, so he was moved to Creedmoor Psychiatric Center. Doctors there found him relatively okay and free of the need for violence, so he was released on December 13th that same year with the caveat that he have regular check-ins. In an interview after release he said he would not do violence again but that he still hated ConEd.

George went on to live a quiet life, dying at age 90 in 1994.

For no particular reason, it's interesting that in 2017 ConEd made $12 Billion in profit and controlled $62 Billion in assets.

Cost of a Book

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"Hey, I think your friend is here," the children's librarian said.

      I did not look up from the article I was reading on movies using artificial intelligence to replace the people who picked movies.

      Naomi said, "The friend with the hat."

     "You gotta be more specific than that," I said, 

     "Y'all know where I can find a pricing guide on a 1976 mint copy of Interview With a Vampire?"

     The guy at the desk indeed wore a hat. It was yellow and said "Taco Villa" on it. Kind of a small sombrero thing. This was Chester, a local junk peddler.

     "Hey Chester," I said. "Pricing guides are where they always are, over in the 680s."

     "You know how much an Interview With a Vampire copy is worth?"

     "Hardcover or paperback?"

     Chester puffed up his chest. "Hardcover, of course." 

     "Any damage?"

     "None."

     "Dust jacket?"

     "Yep, in that plastic stuff."

     "Probably a few hundred. But you know what I always tell you."

     "Chester, you're so pretty?"

     "No, although I like the hat," I said. "You only get what people will pay."

     Chester thought about that. "I guess."

     "Where'd you get it?" Naomi asked.

     I shot her a glance, warning her that she should not get him started, but what the hell. I went ahead and typed up Ebay and plugged in the details. 

     Chester said, "I got it on ebay for six hundred."

     "There's two in here for four hundred."

     "Those must be crap," Chester said. "Mine is genuine. It has a letter and everything."

     Now I had to ask. "What kind of letter?"

     "From Abigail Rice herself," Chester said. He had his backpack off, pulling out a small box. That went on the table, opened, and out came a copy of Interview with a Vampire, with the yellow cover and the pages faded and old. Thing smelled like mothballs and old dead lady.

     "Anne Rice," I said.

     Naomi nodded, a hand up by her nose.

     "No, Abigail. She was Anne's sister, she really wrote the thing. It's all here in the letter," Chester said, unfolding a small note.

     The torn page from a composition book looked to have been busily written in ball pout while the author was having their morning shit. A stain I hoped was coffee was on the right. The handwriting went every which way like an epileptic chicken had a fit all over it. I was skeptical of its authenticity and told him so.

     "Well how would you know?" Chester said. 

     I turned the monitor around. Had up Anne Rice's biography on her website. "Cause she's only got one sister and her name is Alice." 

     Chester's face fell. "This is, well shit." 

     "I'm sorry, Chester. Maybe you can sell it again? Or leave a review, maybe get your money back?" Naomi said.

     Chester said, "Or I can get revenge."

     "What?" I said, my stomach filling with acid. 

     Chester took off his hat, put it over his heart. "I swear, by the junk sellers code, to find and destroy the man, woman, or child that sold this erroneous fabrication of beloved author Anne Rice if it is the last thing I do." Then he left, taking the old book and letter.

     Naomi said, "Think we should tell someone?" 

     I shrugged and went back to my article.

No More Coffee

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"I can't smell my coffee," the technical services librarian said from the back of the workroom.

"What was that, Martha?" the children's librarian said.

"My coffee has gone flat," Martha said. She had her nose in the cup that said "Best Effin Motherfucker."

"Coffee tastes fine to me," the children's librarian said. Naomi had just poured herself a fresh cup. She had made the pot, in fact, less than an hour ago.

Martha slammed down her cup, saying, "Well, mine tastes weak as hell. And doesn't smell like anything. I'm going to make another pot."

"I just made that and mine tastes fine," Naomi said and watched Martha go to the coffee station over by the book binding table. She went over with her.

The pot was half full in Naomi's optimistic eyes. She said, "Let me smell it."

Martha dumped the pot into the small sink. "I'll just make it fresh." She sniffed and pulled a napkin from her sleeve and wiped at her nose.

Naomi stuck her face in the sink. Smelled like hot coffee to her and she said so.

"All this is off, too," Martha said, holding the can of grounds, stuffing her napkin back in her sleeve. She put her nose in the can taking a big whiff. "Nothing."

"Martha, those grounds smell fine. I can smell them from here," Naomi said. She watched Martha take her napkin back from her sleeve. "Are you sick?"

"Just a cold," Martha said.

"Martha, you can't smell. Do you have a fever?" She tried to put her hand on the woman's forehead, but Martha slapped her hand away.

"I ain't sick. Just a cold."" She shook the cup. "And shitty coffee."

Naomi stepped back. "Coffee's fine. You're not. Go home, Martha."

"You sound like James," Martha said.

Naomi gave her a chance to think. She went back to the small desk and gathered her things. Martha went on making the coffee until Naomi grabbed the library station wagon key.

"Where are you going?" she said.

"Store. You need medicine, and I need cleaning products to sterilize this room when you go home. Plus, more coffee. You can take that home. I'll drop things off at your place with James. I'll let ST know," Naomi said.

"I'm not going home," Martha said.

Naomi stopped. "Yes, you are."

"Young lady, do not treat me like a child."

Naomi held Martha's gaze. Her blue eyes kept tight hold on the older women.

"I am fine and will take my coffee back to my desk."

Naomi's stare became harder. Martha felt the strength of those eyes, the weight of them on her, strong as a hand holding her down.

"I can't go. Those new Graves books just came in."

Naomi did not move.

"Goddam children's librarians. Worse than moms," Martha said. She set her coffee cup in the sink. "Mom's have that hard look, but children's librarian eyes are all crazy. No love at all. Like being watched by a chihuahua with a knife."

"Martha." Naomi held out a trash can. Wiggled it a little. Martha had her coat on and struggled to get the napkin from within her sleeve. "I'll bring some medicine to your place soon. Some soup?"

Martha said, "Crazy eyes."

No Spitting in the Library

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"Hi, do you have a small meeting room?" She was small and wearing a long yellow scarf with little orange pumpkins on it. Her smile made me smile.

"We do. You're in luck, there's one free. Do you have a library card?" I said.

She frowned. "I don't."

"That's okay. We just need to hold a form of identification, then. They check out for an hour and that's rounded up for the quarter hour. So for now, you'd have it until 11:15."

She handed over her driver's license. It was from the next state over. Her name was Karen. I made a note on the sign-in sheet for the small study rooms. "How many people?"

"Three," Karen said.

"Okay. Let me unlock the room for you." I walked her over and she went inside, setting down a small purse and taking off the yellow scarf. She carefully laid it on the table and arranged it in a circle.

"Can I leave my things here?" she said.

"I can lock the room if you leave, but we recommend not leaving valuables anywhere in the library."

"I just need to wait in the parking lot for the others," she said.

"Sounds good," I said. The room had a window, and as I locked the door I swear I saw the scarf move.

A few minutes later, she returned with a couple holding hands. He had an Ichabod Crane look to him, all bent parts, while she had the matronly feel of someone who watched every episode of Murder She Wrote annually. They seemed excited. We all three walked back to the study rooms, me in the lead to unlock the door. As I put my key in the lock, I glanced in the room to see a cobra rise up on the table.

I stepped back. "Oh hell no," I said. The creature lay tangled in the yellow scarf, its tan and brown mixing with the pumpkins. Six inches of snake hung in the air looking at me with its skin open.

Karen put a hand to her mouth. "She woke up."

The couple crowded me at the window. Ichabod said, "Look at her. Three feet, seven inches?"

"Ten inches," Karen said. Turning to me, "Can you open the door?"

"No," I said.

"Sir, I need to get to her before she-" She was cut off by the sound of something hitting the glass. I turned to see a thick liquid oozing down the glass.

"Magnificent. Twelve hundred, you said?" said Angela Lansbury.

"I'm not opening that door," I said.

Karen raised her voice, "Please open the door or she'll get really mad."

"I don't even know how to clean that off the window," I said. "You brought a cobra in a library?"

Another splat.

"She's perfectly safe," Karen said.

"So that's Kool-Aid she's spitting?" I said.

Angela Lansbury said, "Actually they don't spit. It's a pressure-"

"I'm calling animal control," I said and walked away. Karen followed.

"Sir, you can't lock my property away from me like that," she said.

From behind me I heard Ichabod and Angela talking. They were also mad, but I was done with all of this. Experts needed to weigh in.

I dialed the emergency number and Gladys came on. "Hey, what's happening at the library today?"

"We got a spitting cobra in the study room," I said.

"I'll transfer you to Amy with animal control," Gladys said.

Karen said, "You can't call them. They'll take her away."

While the phone rang, glass broke. I turned to see the window to the study room was broken. The door opened. The couple had decided to get the snake themselves. Then the screaming started. Karen ran toward the front door.

The phone picked up. Amy said, "Y'all got another nest of bats for me? Llama?"

"Spitting cobra."

"You guys like to challenge me," she said.

"Can you call the police and ambulance, too? I need to evacuate."

Amy said sure and hung up. I pulled the alarm behind the desk and started making the rounds to get people out of the library, texting the all-staff channel about the snake probably loose in the building.

Library Year in Review: 2023

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Overall, this year kinda sucked. That's this librarian talking, of course, not an overview of the entire thread. It started with me being so stressed out by a relationship and my job that I got checked out by a hospital when my heart started racing out of control. It ended with my dad dying and all the things that came with that. The cream center of that dark cookie bullshit was a long stretch of depression cycles wherein I would feel great for two weeks and then crash.

At least there's bourbon and edibles and Playstation 5, amIright?

Anyway, here's the things I liked in 2023:

Movies

Hey, I like movies. Pretty good year all around. My highest rated was Spider-Man: Across the Spider-verse, just a pleasure and delight that pushed animation forward like no other movie has, although Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles: Mutant Mayhem was a close second. For the popular crowd, of course Barbie, Oppenheimer, Wonka, and Guardians of the Galaxy Vol. 3 were damn good. John Wick: Chapter Four might have been the best time I had in the cinema this year. For the movie that came out of nowhere, I have Bottoms because I have thought about this absurd sex comedy more than I thought I would.

Books

I only read three books that were released (at least in the format I read them, get off my ass) in 2023. The first was How to Sell a Haunted House by Grady Hendrix, a fun and wild little horror about things close to home and all the puppet murder you can get. Then there was The Spite House by Johnny Compton, another horror about a family barely hanging on in a house that is not theirs. The last was Don't Fear the Reaper by Stephen Graham Jones that twisted itself a little too much at times but I still enjoyed it.

Games

I broke down and bought a PS5 this year primarily to play Baldur's Gate 3 and Spider-Man 2 and I did and they are great fun if wildly different. Mostly the rest of my year was Stardew Valley on the Switch.

Biggest Accomplishment

Besides living in Mississippi for the last two months and not going crazy and platinuming Spider-Man 2? I started writing again. Sure, it's mostly dumb entries on this weird little website, but I take the time to get out of my head once in a while. That's a good thing.

On the Wishlist

Fuck, I don't know. It's like I'm making myself say where I think I'll be in five years. Five years ago I was moving to Seattle after a horrible break-up and putting my life together. Next year feels more like a hope than a dream, but I'll take what I can get.

And that's it. What's the best thing you did? What do you want to do?

I'm gonna go have some bourbon and an edible or five and sleep until the New Year. See you then.

Roadside Talk of Gardening

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"I just wanted to stop and ask if your daddy was okay," she said out the window of a late model Ford Explorer.

     The dog had just stopped to cop a squat. It whined a bit, also annoyed that our neighbor had taken this moment to pull over to the side of the road and ask about the family.

     "He died," I said. "Just after Thanksgiving."

     She pulled her robe tight against her chest with one hand. "I'm so sorry to hear that. Will you be doing anything?"

     "We had a small funeral over the weekend."

     "He was such a quiet guy. Always out in the yard. Busy busy busy. I'm sorry to hear that."

     The dog finished her business and pulled at the leash, eager to get on to smelling new and interesting things. A school bus passed by us, the neighbor in the car and me and the dog standing over a newly minted pile of shit.

     I said, "He'll be missed. Thank you for saying so."

     She let her hand free. I noticed she had on a blue bathrobe, yellow top underneath. No wedding ring as she waved her hand. "Of course. Y'all doing okay? We got a couple casseroles in the freezer I could bring over."

     "We're fine. Got a few from the church. But thank you."

     "He was always out there. We felt like we never did enough as him. He kept it all clean and nice. I’ll tell my husband. He’ll be sad about that. How long you in town for?"

     The sun was coming up now and a bit of dew on the grass and the pile of shit started to drift up into the humid air. More noise from the primary school down the street. The roar of buses. Laughter of children.

     "Til after Christmas. Get through the holidays."

     "My husband will be sad. He's offshore, gone a lot, and after I drop the kids off it's just me. I always saw your daddy out there raking or mowing or digging in the garden and thought 'I should do more.' He was inspiring. Are you gonna be out there?" She gave a broad smile, fingering the collar of the robe.

     I smiled and said, "I don't think I'll be out there as much as him. He was dedicated."

    "Well, I hope to see you. Tell your momma I'll stop by. Give y'all my number just in case. I'm in the house on the corner, the one with the yellow fence, you know."

    "I think that sounds good. We appreciate it."

     Another smile and she drove off. While I was picking up the crap in the gray bags I had for the occasion, I realized I had no idea the neighbor's name. Mom would know.