7156. BELOW THE WATERLINE (pt. 1)

BELOW THE WATERLINE
(pt. 1)

'I would too, if I had a car.' Sleeping in

some gilt-wagon, on  a bed of burlap, in

this shiny swamp past Homestead Ave., where

once all the black folk lived, and a few  -  one 

or two anyway  -  strange old Injuns lived in

their ramshackle running houses. Just up the

road, out towards Carteret, was Ira Rhodes'

auto-wrecker place, the grand, uncatalogued

junkyard of '56 Fords and ' Chevies. The old

man in the barn-red house, he used to come out

in the early morning light, every day nearly, and

walk the perimeter of some piece of property he 

claimed was his  -  just to check. Kids would drive

there at night, to park, and neck, and the rest. And

some mornings there'd be things left around. He'd find.

He said. Girl's purses or a shoe or some piece of dainty

clothing, or an unfinished pack of cigarettes, or even

sometimes money on the ground, where'd they leave a

sheet or a stained blanket behind. He never minded; thought

it was fun. 'Back in my day, if I had the chance, hell I'd 

have gone ballin' too. Ain't nothing wrong with that, and

I don't begrudge. Just hope sometimes they leave me

something behind.' And the rest he'd just laugh off

in a trail of no words....

-

In this town I live now, it's funny. It's basically still pretty

piss-poor; nobody's really got anything, and if they did they'd

not still be here  -  dumb kids and loud cars and motorcycles;

some still running rear-wheel drive things, with loud pipes.

in the morning outside the bar called Margee's, sometimes

there's tire tracks and skid marks  -  where kids spun their 

cars or raced off, like it was 1964 and nobody learned ever

a lick of brains since then. When the highlight of the place is

a biker-bash at the nearby American Legion, you gotta' know

something's off. Karaoke nights. Rib contests. All you can 

eat spaghetti memorials. The girls all squander their 

wonderful sensations on absolutely nothing at all.

-

A couple of my friends, back in the 60's again, out there they

learned to drive : their father would bring 'em down in that

Dodge or Chevy, and they'd take the wheel and drive through

the woods and lots  -  some were open, some had little roads

to run through. And in all it was a great place to learn those

needed fundamentals of basic driving. The older guys would

scream their hot rods  -  some serious, out-loud business  -

to Blair Road and back, screeching a turn and spinning

a corner. Up to speed in no time flat.

-

Quieter times, yeah, but now it's more a mess. People are

pawns, and even more than they used to be  -  they walk these

backed-up streets wearing clothes from I know not where  -

nor what they're even thinking  -  and jamble on their phones

about some high-hat deadly something. No one talks a simple

line  -  there's no brains here or connection; just a fiery time.

Pizza, sandwiches, a junk-shop of consignment nightmares,

and way too many side-board buildings where the 'volunteers'

come and go: red-pitch firetruck wagons, and box-car EMT's.

Everything, somehow in one place, but nothing much to show.