7867. BELOW THE WATER LINE (pt. 177)

BELOW THE WATER LINE

(pt. 177)

I've had a great deal of fun reliving things,

and it seems as though the little library I

draw from keeps replenishing itself. The

world I lived in  -  back then, 1956 and

up through 1964, mainly, and then back

again, and the again, it was all a very

different world. One which, by late '67

had me somewhere else completely and,

frankly, inhabiting a different universe

entirely, one which I'll eventually get to

here. But the initial point I make, which

is most important, is that I am beholden,

for better or worse, for the formation of

my character and for the initiation of 

much of my thought, to Avenel. Flat-out, 

straight praise on that count. It was a 

devilish disguise, this place was, and I 

walked through whatever symbolic fire 

it presented. Probably, were I to win a 

lottery today in some big-time fashion, 

I'd remain right here in place. Unlike so 

many, many others, I've got no hardness 

towards Avenel. It is what it is and was,

and that's me too. I had a friend once

-  Bill Turkus  -  who rode to Alaska 

on his motorcycle. The night he left 

we'd thrown him a backyard-barbecue 

send-off party. After getting to Alaska, he 

wanted to continue, towards the Arctic Circle, 

which he did. When he got there, he came 

across a spot where many, many people have 

left mementos of their own visit there  -

streetsigns and sign-posts from the towns 

of their origin. He took a photo of a sign, 

right there, which read  -  'Avenel, NJ'. 

Go figure.

-

The world is so vastly different today that it

sometimes makes me laugh; Avenel or not. It's

almost 70 years down the line for me, and I get

around it all very well. Yesterday, I passed a

storefront in Rahway all lit with candles and

wreaths and all sorts of memorial things out

front for the guy who'd had just been killed,

the day before, in his sneaker store. Right

next to the Masonic Temple  -  the white

guy's one, not the old, now gone, the black

lodge that I wrote of earlier and which I had

gone into a few times. That was the other side

of Rahway (the Avenel side), on the riverbank.

Long, long gone, near 30 years now, as are

all those black families who lived along the

river.  When I was a kid, just the thought

of any of this, along Irving Street in Rahway,

would have never crossed my mind. A culture,

with black people, thugs and their music, 

where a black guy gets killed in his own 

store, in open view, for some insider 

infraction? Sneakers? Drugs? Clubs? 

Hip Hop alliances? There was a televised 

story, an interview, about this killing, on the 

local news. It was so bad, and weird, to see. 

All these people, friends of the dead guy, 

barely articulate, taking their stances and 

spouting their words in the usual fashion 

of the crowd they were involved with  -  

gaudy clothes, gold and silver, metallic

teeth, aggressively folded arms, and, most

tellingly, as in some stupid video of a rap

music format, guys behind guys, nodding

and assenting with their mumbled 'yeahs' 

to what the big guy (rotund) was saying 

in the foreground. It was as if all staged 

and readied. I could tell, right off, that all

these guys were doing was mimicking the

dumb-jive thug image they'd been exposed 

to. To live by. Nothing more. It was pathetic.

No way I  -  or any of my friends  -  would 

have understood long ago. And, the funniest 

thing, just today, and something which really 

made me think  -  right here in Avenel  -  

seemed to exemplify the danger we created 

when the spreading awareness of everything 

for everybody took hold of the body politic.

There used to be merit, and there used to

be 'achievement', stuff you got through

your own work, intelligence, and gumption.

Reasoned wisdom. Not the school stuff,

again, more just what comes from being

genuinely interested in the life you live

and lead. Now it's all just drivel.

-

In Avenel today, at the local 'Quick-Chek',

I was waiting. As I waited, I heard someone

from around the corner, approaching, 

speaking loudly and without thought, into 

his cell-phone, going on with someone about 

something. Black guy. These sorts of phone 

people are quite annoying to me, but this 

guy was hilarious, as I overheard him. He'd 

stopped nearby, and was still going on. 

There are, apparently, people who do not 

readily have the mental capacity to get the

idea that, with a telephone, your amplified

voice comes through quite clearly, by 

electronics and amplification, to the other 

party, whether it's down the street or 

California. They somehow think they 

must shout, or talk quite loud anyway.

He was one of those  -  the command of 

his lock and loud verbal posture was 

frightening. And then it happened! He 

actually said this! Speaking of himself, 

and his inability to do something, whatever

it was, he actually (I swear) said 'I can't 

do that, my equiliberty is still off by 50 

percent.' Equiliberty! The phrase of a genius. 

A genius I swear!

-

I always loved things like that  -  the people 

who mangle the language, get it half right, 

get their idea across but sound so bizarre 

doing it. Like 'let me be pacific, when I 

need my yard done I'll be certain to call a

landscraper.' That's another one I'd heard

long ago  -  the guy's name was Jim; no 

longer with us. He'd say 'pacific' for 'specific', 

always. And he always said 'landscraper' 

instead of 'landscaper'. But I always got 

his drift. It was like that. He'd tell me how 

many beers he had that night. He drank a 

lot, but it never showed, until the end. 

One day, home alone, he just died 

in his armchair. The whole thing was, 

at that point, as sad as it was funny. He 

used to have a guy, John, a kid actually, 

maybe 25 tops, who would stop over, most 

early evenings, just to use his toilet. He

claimed he didn't like to poop at home, 

his mother was always bothering him 

about something. Jim would let him in, have 

a go, while he stayed on the porch having 

his beer. Summertime stuff, I'm meaning. 

Then John would come out and have a 

beer with him too. That was a real Avenel

camaraderie thing, I always thought. Where 

else does that kind of thing happen? 

I never heard.

-

There used to be a travel agency on St. George

Avenue. Right there, in a house next to where

Frystock Jeep was for years. It's gone now, all

of it. Walgreen's. Condos, a bunch of junk, was 

long ago put into its place. Ghostly idea now.

This travel agency was in an old white house,

and it the windows and display areas, at street

level, it always had travel posters, and photos 

of faraway places. It was pretty exotic to think

about. I think that side of the street was actually

'Colonia', but that hardly mattered. The beaches

of Rio, and the old cathedrals of London and Paris

and Rome were always startling for me to see

in the windows of a small-house travel agency,

right there for Avenel, NJ. Amazing stuff. And

across the street was a bar  - the Blue Bird; just

more very mysterious intent. Topping it all off,

from California no less, in 1978, right next to it,

they built a 'Denny's'. That was really amazing to

me and it felt as if the world was enclosing in on

Avenel. All the proverbial 'doors and windows'

were opening up. I had been in California in 1976,

and we utilized Denny's for lunches and coffee's.

I had thought then it was pure California  -  light,

meaningless, quick, cosmopolitan in flavor, and

very west-coast. And then, there it was, in Avenel.

It was amazing. I know it threw my equiliberty off.