7465. BELOW THE WATER LINE (pt. 78)

BELOW THE WATER LINE

(pt. 78)

My friend who lived on Chase Avenue  - an Avenel street

oddly enough named after Salmon P. Chase, the sixth

Chief Justice of the Supreme Court (who said old Avenel

had no pretensions?)  -  was living amidst a small clump

of older homes, streets in Avenel that, suddenly, did not

have the dumber names of developers' children or stuff

like that  -  there was 'Clinton Street', after DeWitt Clinton,

Chase, as I said, Park Avenue, Manhattan Avenue, Fifth 

Avenue  -  any one of these streets could have meant, 

by name, different things, but I always went for the 

most heightened. For fun. I didn't much care about the

'truth' of the matter, because in such a place as there, 

there was none anyway. It could all be swept away in a

month. Everything was standardized by money, and really,

that's all it took. Some years later, I'd work for one of those

interlopers, a guy from Linden. He started out, pretty much

a know-nothing, working up in Elizabeth at a notebook

printing plant called 'Boorum & Pease'  - they'd print 

thousands and thousands of the same, boring pages of 

lined paper  -  made into tablets, legal pads, notebooks

and the rest  -  the stuff you used to see sold in every

school-book and school-supply merchandise place. 

Like 'Boring as Peas', I always thought. He started 

'moonlighting' with a print-shop of his very own, on 

St. George Avenue, in a little shack over where now

there's an 'Advance Auto', and stuff by the corners

of Avenel Street and St. George Avenue. It was just

a rundown shack, with some windows, running

sideways with the road. Maybe it once was a vegetable

stand, or even a chicken coop. I never knew -  it's so

long gone it could have been a Roman ruin for all I'd

know. Nothing lasts around there, and everyone always

clamors for more and for new. This guy, Bob - the factor

of boredom and rote exercise never entered his life.

Everything could and would be done for money, to

realize some profit, of whatever sort. It all later grew

into St. George Press, he garnered millions, went into

other side businesses  -  stucco re-facing for a while, then

real estate and construction, and then re-construction 

and land, and then, up in New York State finally, 

buying foreclosures, putting in roads, and building 

strings of way-expensive and exclusive estate-type

homes on bluffs with great views and vantage points.

I worked, for some 20 years, with him, just as he was 

beginning in another building, just down the street,

after he'd outgrown that shack, and also had quit his

Boring as Peas job. From then on, somehow, for him

the money just rolled in -  everything always turned 

to gold. One time, with this Dr. Feiler guy  -  a dentist

from a dentist practice in Woodbridge  -  he bought

and flipped a property. With Dr. Feiler, who  wanted

it desperately so as to build a medical-procedure and

dental building. They made their deal one afternoon  -  

Bob owned the nicely tree'd parcel for about three

hours all told, and flipped it immediately with this

Feiler guy. He'd just bought it, but this Feiler guy

really wanted it. In two hours he walked away gaining 

like $750,000. It was crazy. The woods came down, the 

building went up, and there it sits today. Bob is also

the guy who bought that old Avenel Shop-Rite building 

on Avenel Street, and in the course of about six months

managed to transform it into about the ugliest, bunker-like

and uninviting fortress I'd ever seen. The inside is worse -

all horrid, institutional-style walls and doorways, a

catacomb and a warren of nearly windowless offices.

I don't think he ever lost a cent. Maybe some people just 

have the knack for turning coin like that  -  don't get me

wrong, he worked his ass off too -  total dedication and 

complete energy towards nothing but the task at hand.

Extreme  -  to the extent of the destruction of all else -

wife and family too. needless to say, without going into

detail, from the rubble he built an empire; all the time I

was there I got to meet very many of the Woodbridge,

and other, personalities who'd traipse through and

transform the area  -  all those mayors and councilmen

and Kiwanis Club bosses, Fire Chiefs and Inspectors 

and election officials, Middlesex County bigwigs,

elected and appointed, judges, clerks, publishers, etc. 

You pretty much name it, I could fill you in on it. Lots

of information  -  how the 'money' came to be, where

it went and how distributed. Who was in on the take,

the whole nine-yards, as they say. That's why I am, 

now, NEVER, ever sacrosanct about local politics  - 

it's all rigged, crooked, and dirty. Let no one tell you

differently, especially none of the self-serving 

maniacal types who go at it. Even the winners are 

losers. The funny thing I always said about that, 

knowing a real lot through Larry Campion over at

old Independent Leader, was that - in Woodbridge

corruption runs from A-t0 Z, that being Adams to

Zirpolo, and everything in between. (They were both

Mayors, through the 50's and 60's, cashing way big

time in on the transformation of Woodbridge).

-

My Chase Avenue friend Alex and I would spent lots of

darkened evening time, before St. George Press took 

over the building, at the house where there was, thru

1975 anyway, a travel agency  -  name I forget. There

were travel pictures and vacation posters and things

displayed. In the night and half-lights of the roadway

and interior building light, they'd always look so odd

and fascinating, engaging and absorbing. We'd be 

captivated, or at least I was. Probably  - so different 

was he from me  -  Alex was thinking of deals and big

money to get to these places, the practical matters of

business and success and deals  -  not so unlike the big,

frothy excesses of Bob Wiegers in his own way. For me,

it was just the romance of play, and other places, other

realms  -  things not Avenel. I have no business head in

any fashion, and just wind up folding, giving things away,

extending best wishes and asking nothing in return. I'd

probably get laughed out of any Chamber of Commerce

meeting, or business group. Some people have that 

resource, some don't. I guess I always had an 

artistic-dreamer-writerly sense that didn't ever do me

any good. And I hated doing 'the deal' -  with friends,

and bosses. I just know I always detested 'business' and

all the acts of the buying and the selling that went with

it. That house, later purchased by Bob Wiegers in 1977, was

completely absorbed by and transformed into, the modern

business building he built there. Him and Martin D'Aigle.

Martin was an older guy who pretty much was Bob's sidekick;

did everything for him, all the arranging, went crazy like a

plow-ox when work was there to be done. They tore that old

house apart, left standing what they could, and just 

surrounded it with the new stuff. When we used it as a 

print shop  -  inside  -  you could tell all the weird little

twists and stairways of the old house -  where the living

room and bedrooms had been, the sinks and plumbings, 

but you'd never be bothered by it. It was just in the middle

of the big vast area they built  - and then later expanded 

again. It's all gone now, beleaguered as a business as the

printing industry died, and as Bob transported himself 

more to New York State and real estate and construction

interests, and it finally burned or (was burned). 

Alas, Babylon. Long gone.

-

There used to be a bar across the road from it, the Blue Bird,

I think it was  - really cool, old structure. Gone too. That entire 

stretch of commercial roadway was lost long ago  -  whatever 

few actual houses were left on it disappeared into commercial

oblivion long ago. No one cared. People fight. They think

they're fighting the good fight but they don't know. In truth,

they really only want self-interest.

-

I remember one snow storm of the past, about 1958, when 

the entire world seemed white and windblown for days, and

just nothing else. I trekked all the way across Route One

that day  -  in white-out conditions with nary a car to be

seen, and down to St, George Avenue. To see. Nothing.

Not a thing was moving. The world was in a frozen 

lock-down, and it seemed perfect to me. It was as if

a form of perfection had been reached and all creation

had just decided to stop. Curlicues of snow, like icing,

were flipped over and a round the sign for 'Sentry TV'.

Funny to think now, but there was a time that the small

business named 'Sentry TV' was like Mecca for the people

I knew, not just my own family. On call, TV repairs, all

the stuff was big business back then. Large, big TV sets, 

tubes and wires. It was almost as big a deal, those TV 

house-calls, as having a doctor come to your house. I

can remember the sentry TV guy rolling in a tube cart, 

all these different connectors and working deeply into 

the huge back of the TV. The tubes used to have to warm 

up, glow red. all that. In his store itself, there was even a

tube-tester  -  hardware stores had them too  -  so that

if you were unsure what was ailing your TV, but thought 

it was this or that particular tube, you could plug it in

and get a reading. Pretty weird. Big-deal purchases,

back then, TV's and cars. I can also remember, and it

really freaked me out, about 8 or 9 years old : down on

Rahway Avenue there was a place called Avenel Hardware.

It always smelled really cool  -  fertilizers and stuff, real

pungent. A unique, red-haired, man and wife ran it. My 

father was friendly with him  -  I think his name was Jack,

not sure. I can recall hearing lots of 'Jack's Hardware' talk

from my father. They were real nice, and pleasant. They 

had a red-haired son too, about 6 or 7 years older than 

me. One day we went down there for something  -  my 

father and me  - and there was a sign taped to the front 

doorway glass. It really, really unsettled me. My father 

laughed it off and just said it must be the work of 'the kid.'

The nicely-hand-written sign read : 'Attention: Due to

Circumstances Beyond Our Control, There Will Be No

Tomorrow.' Whew, was I spooked by that!

-

A lot of the Catholic stuff, locally at St. Andrew's 

and not, was also cloaked in a spectral gayness. 

We had local priests, like Father Bill and Father

Tom, (these names are false. I'm just not here

going to be identifying anyone. If you know, you

know, and that's all)  who just plain 'enjoyed' their 

time with local boys, whether in small groups 

of two or three, or in a one-on-one situation. 

Little things, like spending evening times alone 

in the sacristy, or going out in their autos for 

ice-cream or a hamburger, a small fifteen-mile 

drive away to here or there. It always involved 

a lot of closeness, smug joking, occasional (yes, 

really) pinching or poking. I can speak here 

from personal experience, and can speak, as 

 well, for others. I was there. Father Bill 

drove a strange Nash (a car brand) of some 

sort, large and quirky. Once or twice he drove 

me all the way down to the Jersey shore, as a 

day-trip together. I can remember his odd 

habits. He'd like to talk about architecture and 

the shore homes we'd pass. He'd point out to 

me, in the plain and simple homes we'd pass, 

what to look for so as to determine 'quality'. 

Whether the roof-beams were straight across, 

or if, instead, the house sagged or rose at the 

middle (bad sign). How the exterior shakes 

or shingles were being kept up, whether moisture 

damage was visible, how the foundations 

deteriorated or needed bolstering; things 

like that. It was an odd interest, but at least 

something I found interesting. His brother 

owned a Summer house down there, (that was 

where Father Bill said he'd gained most of 

 his knowledge about house structures; in the 

rehabilitating of his brother's shore home) and 

that was to where we were going. Once arrived, 

I remember being told to go into 'that' room 

and change into my bathing suit, which I did. 

I don't know what any of that meant; when I 

emerged, he was already in his. I  recall we 

drove, a little further on, and arrived at a beach, 

into which we walked, waded, and swam. That 

was that. Father Tom mostly just liked the 

little, local, evening food and milkshake drives. 

I recall one time, with one or two other boys 

in the car, one of the more slovenly of the boys, 

fatter and more sloppy that us, spilled his 

milkshake all over the front seat, and how the 

 ridicule and debasement, in a teasing way, 

was foisted upon him for the remainder of 

the night, and it was Father Tom's almost 

womanly craziness over staining the seat 

(cloth) that stole the show. It was the 

odd things, like those, I recall the most.