“You have to be happy with nothing.”

Elizabeth Zelvin

The Mayor of Central Park, Alberto Arroyo, died on Thursday March 25 at the age of 94. The pioneer jogger and friend and inspiration to thousands of New York runners took a vow of poverty in his youth as a way of acknowledging human misery and lived a simple, even austere life. It came as a surprise to almost all of his many friends that he left, apparently, significant assets. I attended the convivial post-burial dinner at a local restaurant, his estate’s treat. But of course Alberto’s real legacy was the love he gave unstintingly to so many people and the positive, even joyous attitude he had toward life and the world around him.

All of us at the funeral service and the dinner remembered how he would lift his face and hands to the sky, open his mouth wide, and say, “It’s a beautiful day!” whether the sun was shining or a storm howling through Central Park. We all agreed that as we ran past the bench where he held court at the South Gatehouse of the reservoir, he would wave and nod and say, “Looking good!” whether you were flashing by at a champion sprinter's pace, or, like me, always chasing that elusive 15-minute mile.

“He was a babe magnet,” one of the guys at my table said to another, and then looked guiltily at me as if I might attack him for being non-PC. But it was true. On Alberto’s 93rd birthday, he paid me a compliment that I’m still smiling about more than a year later. “Did you ever get one of his foot massages?” one of the women asked. I hadn’t. “When he was younger,” she said, “some of the women were wary, but as he got older, they all realized they could trust him.”

I’ve written about Alberto before. What I really wanted to talk about today is the power of simplicity he embodied. It was mentioned at the funeral service that in a documentary film about him, The Mayor of Central Park, there’s a wonderful moment when Alberto says, “You have to be happy with nothing.” He certainly practiced what he preached. Until the last few years, he spent his days in Central Park from morning to night. His bench near the South Gatehouse was his court room (both regal and judicial), his living room, and his therapy office. His shared room at the residence where he spent his final years held the bare minimum of clothing, no chachkes or memorabilia, not even a framed photograph or greeting card. What made him happy was being outdoors and seeing his friends. Those of us who took turns wheeling him to the park that last year agreed that the second he was out the door he started nodding, waving, and greeting everyone who passed—long-time friends, acquaintances, and strangers, especially those in running clothes. That’s all he needed.

How many of us are happy with nothing? How much of our lives do we spend bargaining with destiny, totting up what it will take to make us happy? Some of it is material (the house, the car, the investments), sometimes it’s prestige or fame or power. For writers, it’s getting published—until that happens. Then it’s a better deal, a better agent, laudatory reviews, impressive sales, and the next contract. After that, movie options, bestseller lists, awards. Blaming stress or hard times or the general unfairness of life, we excuse ourselves from the joy of the journey. Alberto was happy with nothing because he lived steeped in the joy of the journey—running the Marathon in his prime, making his way around the reservoir with a cane, as he did when I first met him, then a walker, then in a wheelchair, dependent on others to reach his beloved park. But getting there—even to that bench by the South Gatehouse—was not the point. I hope I never forget Alberto and stay focused on the journey all my life.

The Mayor of Central Park’s Birthday Party

Elizabeth Zelvin

On February 15, the Mayor of Central Park turned 93. Alberto Arroyo is a beloved and legendary gentleman who is credited with being the first person to use the path around the Central Park reservoir as a running track and could be found there daily, rain or shine, from 1935 until a year or two ago, when age and ill health started to slow him down. I’ve blogged before about how I met him and fell for his charm and simple goodness before I realized that he was a famous New York character.

A few months ago, Alberto stopped appearing at the South Gate House where he usually held court. Runners who counted on his encouraging wave and smile and looked forward to hearing his stories were dismayed, fearing the worst until we learned that he had had a stroke. He was living in a nursing home and residence near Riverside Park and could no longer make his way across the Upper West Side to Central Park, even with a walker as he had most recently. His friends, some of whom had known him for decades, mobilized to visit him and push his wheelchair to the reservoir as often as possible.

New York Times reporter Charles Wilson (left) picked up the story and wrote a feature that appeared in the Sunday Times, on the back page of the sports section, on Alberto’s birthday. His friends gathered at the reservoir—on a day that was blessedly sunny and mild for February—to rejoice in his pleasure at being out in the fresh air among his many friends and watch him charming the socks off the tourists from all over the world whose guide books direct them to the reservoir and the track that Jackie Kennedy Onassis—one of Alberto’s friends—used to run.

The reservoir was beautiful as always, playing winter ice against early signs of spring. In mid-afternoon, we all adjourned to the residence for birthday cake and more partying. I brought my guitar and played the song I wrote about Alberto several years ago. Another friend played and sang his song about Alberto. A gorgeous lady who also lives at the residence, 102-year-old Amelia, played the piano. And everybody agreed that Alberto’s right when he says, as he once did to me, “In my simple way, I make a lot of people happy.” Here's the article from the Times, with more pictures of Alberto.
Friends Help Alberto Arroyo, Jogging Pioneer at Central Park, Keep Going

The Mayor of Central Park

Elizabeth Zelvin

One of my favorite real life characters is Alberto Arroyo, a 91-year-old Puerto Rican American known to New Yorkers as the Mayor of Central Park. I didn’t know he was legendary and beloved when I first encountered him. I had recently started running around the Central Park reservoir for daily exercise. I run very, very slowly. A power walker can leave me in the dust. I’ve never succeeded in passing another runner, not even the octogenarian lady in the purple track suit I tried to catch up with for over a mile one time. So it was heartening when I began meeting the elderly gentleman who always greeted me as he passed. Each time he had a smile for me and a few words of encouragement.

Rain or shine, I’d see him making his way slowly along the track toward his favorite bench on the south side of the reservoir, unmistakable with his white hair, bushy white mustache, and cane. “Looking good!” he would call to me. Sometimes he would raise his face and both arms to the sky and say, “Beautiful day!” The first time I described him to someone who ran in the park, they said, “Oh, everybody knows him. That’s the Mayor of Central Park.” After that, I saw that many people, men and women of all ages, stopped to talk with him. He knew hundreds by name. “In my simple way,” he told me once, “I make a lot of people happy.”

After I got to know him, I heard Alberto’s stories. One woman stops by his bench periodically to give him a haircut. He is especially proud of his friendship with Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis, whom he courteously pretended not to recognize for years until the day she invited him to run with her. The stone Parks Department building near Alberto’s bench displays pictures and articles about him. Alberto came from Puerto Rico at the age of 21. Before settling in New York, he traveled in Europe, where the misery he saw prompted him to take a vow of poverty. He was the first person to use the path around the reservoir as a running track. From 1935 on, he ran there every single day. Only in the past few years have health problems kept him home now and then. I first introduced myself after writing a song about Alberto. He was delighted when I brought my guitar to the park and sang it for him. The very next day, I ran past him as he chatted with a couple of tourists. “That’s the woman who wrote a song about me,” I heard him say. I had become one of his stories.

Alberto uses a walker now. He gets to the park in early afternoon, and it sometimes takes him till after dark to get home. But he still makes his way around the track to his bench, which now bears a plaque honoring him. You can still occasionally see him standing on his head, a feat he used to perform daily. It still puts a big smile on my face to hear him call my name as I jog by. And sunshine or downpour or blizzard, he still says, “Beautiful day!”

Who's your favorite real life character?