8059. THINGS ARE DIFFERENT NOW (#28)

28. THE TRACKS

There are, or always have been

for me, certain things that bespeak

home and place. Nothing to be

argued with, and no matter where

you go, they're always there, still

present, in the back of your mind.

Just today, as happens often, at

about 6:38, returning along Rahway

Avenue from the Sewaren Waterfront

dog run, I caught the freight that

passes. It's usually at least 85 or

so cars, and probably takes 8 to 10

minutes. These are the same tracks

I got creamed at, going the same

direction to, in 1958. It's a funny

feeling for me, but nothing bad. 

My mind enjoys it. By the way, I

don't mean I 'caught' it, as a hobo

used to catch trains, I mean at the

grade-crossing it stopped traffic.

I sat there, just watching and 

thinking  - the names on the 

boxcars and the names on some 

of the tanker cars, the mysterious 

unmarked black ones. The clackety-

clack of that old, slow, cliched

American country sound, the bell

clank and the flashing lights and

the barrier arms of the crossing. To

me it was, and is, mostly always,

the most relaxing and faraway

span of old time that I experience.

many others, in their cars, get all 

perturbed, make u-turns and just

get out of there, sometimes even

honking their horn. I never know

why  -   yeah, nice seeing you, too,

goodbye. This period of my life 

now is all leftovers. I can sit there, 

in a situation like that, and just 

cast aside everything. I don't

even know any more why 

anyone would even have a 

concern about time, or their

patience being tried. Or their

'wasting' it, by sitting in such 

a line of waiting. It's a pretty

lame crutch, if you ask me, 

needing to continually fall back

upon the 'useless-active', which

is the word-tense I give to the 

things that most people do. 

Living erratically to stay smooth  

-  getting that time and that 

breakfast, lunch or dinner, like 

it mattered. God forbid to lose

4 minutes in a timeless train-warp

of reality, where there's nothing to

suck on or chew. This train-crossing

is like old prairie-time, awaiting a

funnel cloud to come and mess 

things up again. I'm proud to sit

there with myself.

-

There used to be, right there, 

the old Avenel Coal and Oil 

yard  -  train siding, coal-car 

drop-offs, then, later, heating- 

oil tankers, and all the rest. It 

was a large, old, white house

with a big yard and then a

business yard all around that  

-  heaps of coal and supplies, 

tanks and trucks, and the road. 

Next to it, the big, old, golf 

driving range, with its 20 or

so golf-stalls and one or two 

of the ex-professionals on 

hand as 'golf-pros'  -  for

whatever reason critiquing

one's golf swing and approach, 

and judging your drive and

your over-swing and follow-

through. Funny stuff. These

driving ranges were where 

you were supposed to go, if 

you were a golfer, between 

tee-times and golf dates  - to

keep your game sweet and keep

things in order. They had this

little screen-protected open Jeep

riding around out there collecting

the gold balls and bringing them 

back in by the bucketful. I guess

if nothing else, if gave the guys

a target-distance to try and hit.

That stuff is all gone now, my

memory alone. Everything 

around, except the trailer court 

nearby, has been replaced by 

condos or apartments, or 

however they call or sell 

those things now. They're all

soullessly built and stretched out

all across these fields, even over

in the swamps about a mile off. It's

a mess - everything uniform, and

the same finish and roofings and 

things. No one really seems to care,

and anyway they all seem lost in 

space. The condo-people seem 

to come and go, into and out of

traffic, oblivious to cause and 

effect. They've all come from

somewhere else, with their fine, 

2-year old cars, attractive people,

or, at the other extreme, fat, sloppy

poverty types, probably living 

here on alimony or some sort 

of assistance. I'd bet probably

there's not a bookshelf in their

entire living quarters, one with 

books on it anyway. They have no

idea of the history here, the sense 

of Rahway Avenue, all that running 

down and echoing past patterns of 

living. And they don't care. Berkeley 

School or Kean College, for them 

either will do. They probably both

call themselves 'University' by now.

I love it the most when those kinds of

schools take over an old supermarket or

something, like Berkeley School right

down the street here to Woodbridge.

In the 'Frozen Smarts' section, aisle 9.

When I was a kid that was 'Finast'

Supermarket  -  small-scale, low-key, 

with a parking lot of its own! The name 
name from 'First National Stores'. High

school kids working there, the girls 

anyway  -  we called it 'Fine Ass'.

-

Well, anyway, that's the way it all

goes down here. Throw the shit onto

the tracks and forget about it. As I 

said when I started this chapter out, 

there's nothing more precious or 

homey to me than living amidst 

all this throwback: Time is fine, like

a silken fabric, drooped down, in a

silence and a beauty of a magic 

and timeless space. But that

doesn't 'exist'; you have

to make it.