7874. BELOW THE WATER LINE (pt. 179)

BELOW THE WATER LINE

(pt. 179)

Kennedy was killed, President John, I mean,

on Nov. 22, 1963. I was away at the time,

seminary years, and I've related the story

of that, here, already. Pious stuff, ridiculously

and immediately made church and religion

connected, for no real reason at all. Turned

out the guy was a scuz. He got killed in an

open car, in a dramatic fashion, and it was

all custom-made for that 'dawning of a new

age' crap they always force feed us. Stupid

people like dramatic things, and this proved

to be all of that. They watch movies with the

same esteem they give to historical narratives

where something 'cool' or exciting happened,

even if they're often most-entirely wrong or

bone-headed. What was it then, six or seven

years later his brother, Robert, was killed in

an equally dramatic fashion after the night of

the California Primary win, in the kitchen of

some hotel. Down for the count and dead. I

remember my mother being distraught about

that too, in about the same fashion as the

President. I snapped at her, when I heard of

it, 'maybe that'll teach him to keep his mouth

shut.' My mother was aghast, and sort of so was

I, immediately. What the hell was I thinking? I

sensed wrongness at once. My statement made

no sense at all, I didn't know what I was talking

about, and it was as if I blurted that out, at the

distance, just to hurt my mother, or push at her

vulnerabilities, But, boy, instantly was I sorry;

knowing I couldn't take it back. And it's been

there ever since, for me, just hanging around in

the air, some real stupidity on my part. She's so

long gone, and I can never explain to her now

what being an asshole is really about. Sorry Ma.

-

I remember they had a funeral train, later, carrying,

his dead body somewhere. I guess to Massachusetts

or Washington, or someplace. I remember pictures

of people, black and white, lining the rail corridors

along which the somewhat slower than usual train

was running : it was almost eerie, like something

from Lincoln's era or something. Old, wizened

black people, with their hats off, over their hearts,

tearing up or saluting as the train went by. Whites,

veterans, guys back in their uniforms, housewives,

kids, police people, clubs and groups. There was a

silence too. The train just rolled along. And then,

at the eulogy in DC or somewhere, his last brother,

Edward, saying some memorable quote about 'others

ask why, my brother asked, 'why not?' Something like

that. It was a moment, for sure  -  a little weird and

outlandish, but a sort of bundling together of all of

American in like one last group snapshot before the

shit began hitting the fan and all really just fell apart.

I guess you had to be there.

-

The country I grew up in was losing identity, fast.

The little no-place town I grew up in, Avenel itself,

was losing all tact, just becoming as rude and

unforgiving as the rest. I'd come back from New

York City for a day, and be met with nothing but

smirks. All the wise-ass old guys inside Tom's

Barber Shop, there next to Murray and Martha's,

everyday suckers, workshop losers each, sitting

there lined up for their haircuts on an otherwise

glorious Saturday, staring into their personal

nothingnesses, would straighten up as I passed.

The catcalls would begin  -  all the usual asshole

shit  -  'get him in here, Tom, we'll clean him up!',

'Lordy, look at that, I don't know whether to kiss

it or beat it'. It was like being in the deep-darkness

of distant Alabama or something, and being black

besides, in a white neighborhood. I couldn't believe

it. Besides, I think all those guys were horny and

perverted anyway  -  not getting anything at home

from the agitated wives, facing middle age with a

void, running a thin line of homo-eroticism with

each other, probably doubting their own manhood,

not mine, and taking it out on me, evidently  -

based on that last, quoted comment. I'd sometimes

quite consciously walk by there with my girlfriend,

her tight-ass jeans and all, just to freak those wankers

out. God, I loved life.

-

I always loved the long, dark roadways of my

childhood  -  they were, unlike now, always

under lit, not very much active, lined here and

there with odd, strange houses, and, basically

as I walked along, mine. Kids never get to

'own' much  -  or people think not anyway  - 

but I owned these streets. It was pure and

silent. I could do 10 year old kid, or whatever

age, walkabouts knowing no one was about to

touch me or mess with my meander. There were

train station walls dark and without movement.

These same walls today are lit up like Hollywood,

with stupid murals of war and past crusades, the

Woodbridge High School muttered curse of civic

art-school students given free reign to do...nothing.

Walls in praise of war, with toady's crybaby warriors

close in tow. Man-up, my friends, your modern world

sucks. Everywhere was unkempt leftovers, here and

there a sad and jagged car, broken down cars left at

curbside; turned over wheelbarrows with holes where

the rain had turned into rust. The world used to be just

left alone, given over to its own processes. People

knew and accepted what they were  -  things tire,

they wear out, they age, they die. Not any more,

this dead-eye-dick-world of modernity demands

its newness and light everywhere. Too bad.

-

Darkness has been taken away from us, all. One

by one, any of the senses of religious liberty or of

the inquisitiveness of the natural mind, has been

taken from us. People have dulled themselves into

insensitivity, under the guise of being everywhere

with everything. The zombie ethos has taken over :

a slow, settled drool that covers possibility or wonder.

No one cares much, willing instead to take the dictates

and conclusions forced upon them by others. Even

 the jokes now are lame  -  not wishing to offend a

fellow moron, well past offending. it's too bad. The

old smirk of real living, the fuck-you, can-do attitude

that once kept things moving on, is gone. In order

to get some inkling of it now, anyway, I can only say

go visit the metal-recycling scrapyards over by Leesville.

Riverside, and Fortune, or whatever it is. Those guys can

show you a few things  -  even though they're tough and

mean and surly. Let alone not allowing photos. Those

Slavs can bang you around before dawn. They do things

the way I remember. Throwing instead of placing. Nothing

actually matters except the task at hand, no other flutter

or fluff need apply. That's kind of Avenel-in-your-face,

memory stuff. Like a bum joke about the teacher's

attributes, let's say, or some guffaw about the

fluffer-nutter just seen walking by. But if I began

cracks about that I'd be no better than any of those guys

at Tom's Barber Shop, right? It seems everything today

is sacrosanct and can't be joked with. Like the teacher

with large breasts in school : she says to the kids, 'now

children, I want you each to use the word 'fascinate' in

a sentence when I call on you. First kid - 'I went to the

zoo with my parents, it was fascinating.' She says, 'good

but that's 'fascinating', - wrong word. Next kid - 'I went to

work in the GM plant with my father. I was fascinated.'

Same deal, she says 'Good, but that's 'fascinated', not

'fascinate.' Third kid - 'My teacher got big breasts. Her

sweater got 10 buttons, but she can only fasten eight.'

See; that's punch-'em-out Avenel humor at work.

-

It's sometimes a wonder what went on. I see now that

I really had little guidance, nor did any of my friends,

that I knew of. Fathers mostly talked to fathers, or, if they

talked to kids, it was in organized activities  -  Boy Scouts,

Little League, etc. Everything had to be within the rigors

of organizational input. Nothing free-spirited, wild or

'free-to-roam-and -grow' anarchic. That was one of the

things, in four or five years time, that became the ruling

factor of my introduction to New York City. By its

contrast, it was stunning. First off, it was urban  -  big time 

-  and, of course, it 'worked'  -  or at least it worked at
the time. One I got there, I was off and running.
I'll tell you about it more, in time.