8223. THINGS ARE DIFFERENT NOW, #70

70. THANKFULNESS

Behind the curve, ahead of

the curve, whatever it was,

I didn't even know if there

was a curve. To me it was

more like a time-warp. I was

flinging myself, voraciously

if not also vicariously, between

eras and locations. Time was

bent. An interim of six years

had me transformed. From

night owl in the city to just

an owl in the country. Who

knew what? Most people

get a friend or a crowd to

go through those years with.

I had no one, outside of a

new wife and a new kid.

Chump change or not, I

was on my way to the teller.

It was mid-January, 1971,

I think was the year, when I

first hit my new house  -

frozen solid, up and down,

I stayed there alone for the

first bit of time, until things

got settled and the rest of my

little family would be brought

in. I was unsure what even

worked or didn't work in that

house. But I learned right off

that, as far as heat went, I was

working on a blank page. It was

so cold it was too cold for the

cold to get cold. You get my

gist. In a week or two the

weather broke at least. It

went from 12 below at night

and maybe a steady 17 in

the day, to a much balmier

week or two of 35 degree

days, maybe even 40. I

quickly caught on; the locals

called it a 'January thaw.' They

said to enjoy it while it lasted,

because February and March

were even worse. So at least

this 'thaw' allowed me to see

things thawed out, to see what

leaked and what was sound.

To get outside some and see

what was around. I had to work

on, and quickly, a furnace

situation, yes, I knew that.

Plus, imperative and needed

quickly, was a real stove, a

new stove. Cooking only then

could be in order, and this new

arrival, wife-master of that

stove, would be needing that.

But, first, before the stove, I'd

need a kitchen floor to put it

rightly on. The one there at

that point was, basically some

old plywood, set into place

with big nails and quickly

warping and even peeling,

over the holes in the floor

it was covering up. Yes, (you

may ask), people thought I was

crazy. I went into town (Troy,

PA, about 7 miles off), and

priced and contracted for what

was needed. I had barely enough

money left for those major items,

and then I needed to beg for the

urgency and quick installation

and set-up time needed. The

stove-sale guy, looking askance

at me, raised his eyebrows a bit

and sort of hummed  -  wondering

right then, I'm sure to whom and

what he'd just been contracted to

deliver a stove. Though he did

claim to 'know' the house, and

the Parmenter guy I'd mentioned

as the house's previous owner.

The floor guys took some more

doing. It was not a 'regular' sales

point at all. I first had to convince

these guys I was serious about the

need and the deal to be made. They

kept a truck or two, and a shabby,

lewd, office, in some work-shed

area attached to an old barn. In

the middle of a place called

'Milan,' PA. But be careful, I was

told, they do NOT pronounce it out

there like the place in Italy, 'Mi-laaan.'

Not at all, and don't do it. 'Hereabouts

they're serious and they call it 'Mylan.'

And you best too, just to keep it right.'

These guys  'Scatter' Jensen, Alfred

TenBrock, and the 'boss, Ed Haye,

proceeded, without ringing my neck,

to explain to me how you can't just

'put down a floor' (you idiot). There

first needed to be an underfloor, an

inspection of joists and things beneath

all that, and what they called an

'underlayment'. One very odd and

weird word I'd certainly never seen

or heard before. Essentially what it

meant was extortion. I was to be

buying two floors, plus paying for

some creepy, foul-smelling,

black-toothed tobacco-chewing

guy to go underneath all this and

tell me if the 'joists' would hold it

all without themselves too needing

to be replaced. Oh glory be, praise

and hallelujah! I'd somehow won the

Pennsylvania lottery! The floor one

anyway, the one in which YOU pay

them to take your loot away.

-

I also had never considered

mud. The hard-pack of a dirt

road, the one that led to my

house, had been a solid-frozen

easy to traverse by car roadway.

Which quickly turned, in 40 degree

weather, to a mucky, thick and

sticky mud, one that ate cars. In

a few days, all that the road ended

up being was two tires tracks,

deeper and deeper down, some

12-15 inches in no time, so

deep that the rest of the car

dragged and bogged down

while the tires just spun. It

might as well have been ice,

but ice, once you get out of the

car, you can walk on. This ate

you, along with the car, up.

It would pull the shoes right

off your feet if you weren't

careful. It was a might rough

and surprising few weeks.

Often dark, which made it all

worse. I learned quickly, and

I learned good. A few times it

took a chain hook-up and a tractor

to pull me out, my car anyway.

I learned where to best park,

and how to walk the higher

ridgelines, over to the house.

Ridgelines that didn't so carry

the mud and stayed dryer.

People were generally morose

and settled, I found, about all

this. No one much talked of it

as hardship, just a part of the

climate. As in Hell, where, I'd

suppose, no one talks of the

flames and the heat because

they're all just there no matter.

Cows got stuck too. And

sometimes, I saw, just like

a car they too had to be hauled

out. Pretty much the same

process. It was 'dad-blurned

crazy'.

-

What made it all so different was

how it really WAS so different.

Who would have ever imagined

that any and all factors of urban

living would become completely

meaningless, after I'd so nicely

learned then. I had to start from

zero.

-

Well, I got my junk done. After

the floor and stove, which all

actually turned out OK as far as

house jobs go, I was forced to turn

to the furnace. Which, of course

proceeded to just price me right

 out of range. At which point, I

guess, some form of luck checked 

in. First off, out of a maddening 

concern about what exactly I had

gotten their daughter and new

grandkid involved in, the in-laws

began to insist on paying for the 

stove and the floor, or paying me 

back, in reality  - which is what it 

was. Gratefully accepted. And the

skeptical furnace company, and

installers, realizing I had just 

been 'credit' approved' by the 

Troy National Bank, approved 

anew for me to pay them through

installments of thirty-eight dollars

and three cents a month, for five 

years, the remaining balance on the

new furnace-system. Which was all

put in, installed and running fine 

within three days. More good fortune.

Please get cold out once again.

-

The oil company  -  from whom 

I bought fuel oil for this new 

furnace, in addition operated on 

account. No one really had tons 

of cash around, I guess, and a lot 

of this farmer business stuff just

ran on credit accounts, good faith,

and faithful attention to terms and

conditions. The bank had set me 

up, as I mentioned long back here, 

with an open series of 30 and 60 

day notes, as needed, to keep 

afloat. Sounds fairly hideous, 

but in fact it all worked out

well. I never broke a contract, 

and continually managed to pay 

all these people back. I managed. 

I worked.

-

A little testimony here is in order.

Most all of these people are dead 

now  -  parents, in-laws, bankers,

installers, representatives, and all 

that. I never really took any one of

them by the hand, head, or ankle,

for that matter, to thank them for

these good-faith maneuvers, on their

parts, to show faith and confidence 

in me. To keep me afloat, to keep

us going. I was from nowhere, 

really, and I was speaking and 

representing, I admit, things to

them that most probably made 

little sense, whatever they'd heard.

It never seemed to matter. They

processed me as any other. For

all of that, I send appreciation.

Thank the lord I didn't also need

a roof  - that would have been

a problem. And thank God, as

well, for making 'hiding out'

sometimes go so well.

8222. JERRY GARCIA TIGER

JERRY GARCIA TIGER

Down by the waterwheel : standing

alone, the guy with a yellow dog, and

a springstream hammock of some other

form. We haven't yet fully developed 

the colors we yet do not know. But I 

can tell you this, for sure : When they

finally land, when they come back for

us again this time, it will be with new

and different colors we've not yet seen

nor devised, nor dreamed of either.

John of Patmos or whoever you are.

You can wait for all the trumpets in

the world, but the colors are what 

will make it real. You'll all at once 

both sense and feel. (You'll all at

once both sense and feel)...

8221. HAD I BEEN SUCH

HAD I BEEN SUCH

Wherever it came from I was

looking at this book : Mountain Charles.

something about another horse, the Alps,

who knows. I know I know nothing.

8220. FALSETTO (eden)

FALSETTO
(eden)

This path somehow meanders,

through the garden wherein

I've carried your things a million

years on. Tarry no more. This 

bell is ringing again, but there is

no matter between us more 

pressing then heart. So I relax,

knowing full well that things 

will always be okay. Here

on this mountaintop, all

streams can only run 

downward, to finer

glens, and deeper

greens.

8219. THINGS ARE DIFFERENT NOW, #69

69. 'Hello, It's Me'

The Troy Hotel was a bestial

hell-hole, probably on par with

the bank right next door to it.

(But no one ever made the

comparison 'cept me. Next to the 

Troy Hotel, over one street at 

the curb, was the Ben Franklin

store. You have to think of,

perhaps Woolworth's, on a

smaller  scale by far, and

cheesier yet, too. A big deal

at Ben Franklin would be

like a row of toy cars,

hard rubber collectibles,

small rows of trinkets,

and a goldfish aisle.

Around these parts of

Pennsylvania, there were

plenty of Ben Franklin stores.

The men inside the Troy

Hotel were like dark, deep

vagrants who never leave.

A big draw there was the bar

-  where men sort of sat, and

just never left, or so it seemed.

If guns had been allowed, you

could be sure there'd be a pistol

on each guy's hip. It was, close

to certain, the welfare hotel

for Pride. Mostly kept dark,

or dim, there was a central

sitting room, like from an

old, or a 1930's movie.

Heavy fabrics on big chairs,

lots of things dark red or deep

shades of maroon and purple.

All things a little too large,

and dark. Much wood, big,

old walls with things hanging

-  pictures, pasted photos on

glass, a mirror or two,  but

really too high up to show

anything but room-views.

Good for avoiding surprise

and ambush perhaps. You

never knew.  Over to one

side was a reception desk

area, with a long shiny

wooden counter, a ticking

grandfather clock with some

moon-phase thing going on,

the slow, dull move of the

steady pendulum behind glass

keeping some sort of time to

a musical score of its own.

At the rear of the reception

and sign-in spot were maybe

30 mail cubicles, arrayed. It

could have been, once, there

really was a need for such and

so many. I think if there were

ever more than 7 long-termers

in there  -  who would actually

'need' a mail-service, that was

a lot. The big sign-in book.

The old tattered wooden sign

above everything, 'Men Only -

No Women Allowed'. Yes, that.

Anachronistic as all get out, it

must have meant something.

A large bathroom off to the side,

and a creepy, old elevator with a

gold arrow that swung past the

floor-numbers as it went along.

Pedestal ash-trays. A unused

shoe-shine stand. Just aside all

this, through a slight doorway,

was a bar. a few tables, coffee

urns, and the rudiments of a

serving kitchen area in only

the modest ways -  maybe

once the 'food' idea was a

going concern here, but

now, not much of anything,

really. No extra lights, no

televised anything, actually

no noise. The was probably

a sign somewhere reading

'Quiet!' with that exclamation

point in bold. Here all time

was lazy, as if non-existent

and gone. There was a big,

old wooden stairway going

up one side. The entire place

was, in my fact anyway,

almost comforting  - no one

chased you, out or in, and

no one bothered you, just

sitting there. A nice hideaway,

'Honey, I'll be at the Troy

Hotel.' I'd even seen a few

of those 'women' who were

not allowed, creeping down

that stairway, after they were

done, I guess. I always thought

there was, just as well, most

probably a back entrance and

exit too. Unseen. Alongside

the place, and shared with

the bank, was a parking lot,

usually with some 15 or so

cars in it. That's all I ever

saw, anyway -   never a 'big'

crowd, and always room for

more. The cars in that lot

were always funny. Here it

was, something like 1971-72,

and cars in that lot seemed

always to hark back still to

about 1958. It was pretty cool;

fuselages and fins, swoopy and

crazy two-toned cars in weirded

out color combinations you'd

never anymore see  -  reds and

blacks, light blues and creams.

I guess a 12 or 14 year old car,

is nothing to really go on about,

but in that era, those particular

12 or 14 years meant a real break

in style and taste. Things has

changed so greatly that the

leftover-old really, really

stood out. That's funny about

things, and it works for people

too, and language, styles of

talk, clothing, even ideas.

We all know a few people,

as it were, 'living out of their

time.' That was the Troy Hotel.

-

Wasn't really much drama

ever. Or none I ever saw.

People just sat around. The

hunters were the biggest deal  -

come about Oct/Nov, they'd

start the hunt seasons going,

filtering in, three, four, five or

more days at a time, and often

in clumps of five or six guys.

These weren't the organized

'hunt club' guys  -  they all had

club-buildings and places to

stay. These were loner guys,

banded together for a week

of no shaving, lots of booze,

and feeling-up, the usual

tall-tales of the hunt, and

then feeling up some more

whatever they'd get in there

with them to feel up. It was

all a ritual scene, a rite of

passage akin to an old native

American Indian sweat lodge.

You enter as a boy, and you

come out later as a warrior,

a man. Just add booze. I do

think, however, just as many 

upright and strong men came 

out of all this, actually, as did

the sleazes, scaliwags and bums.

I'd see them, sometimes staggering

along about something, other

times as they seemed to just sit,

transfixed and grizzled. To me,

never knowing what to say, I'd

have no intentions of going past

the visual - just seeing them was

enough for me : It was as if,

back home and young once

more, I was on Avenel Street,

east of the underpass, walking

out, an evening, past Mike's 

Subs on my way down to 

Rahway Ave.  to reach the 

library, and I'd pass the 

Roxbury, that quiet old

men's bar, and see one or

more regular neighborhood

guys, fathers of my friends

here and there, walking in

or out, and just wave hi.

8218. MAGADAN

MAGADAN

They were always telling me it was

a little place I'd really like. Siberia.

Where they send dogs to die. Men

too, but now the ones who were sent

there are all dead and there's been

little re-supply. It little matters, really,

where they go. They never return,

and I knew neither would I.
-

I shook off the sense of hurt and anger,

and downed my vodka like a man. Or at

least a Russian man. Who says this shit's

made from potatoes? Same people who

say Stalin was grand? This crap belongs

in a cancer-ward piss-yard. Call

Solzhenitsyn on that one, or

find out for yourself.

8217. THINGS ARE DIFFERENT NOW, #68

68. WATCH THE STOMACH

How is it said: 'Out of the frying

pan, into the fire,' or 'as different

as black and white'? Either one,

and probably a hundred others,

could work. That's how I felt.

Sainted and secure, yet foul and

insecure too. A regular 'damned

if you do, damned if you don't'

scenario. I'm sleeping like a pig

in this sweaty park, and around

me these elders are riding out

their sorrows in a plague of

memory and grief. Too much

for this lumpen proletariat type

to take. I was unprepared. I

walked about in my own little

daze, at first. There was a

bandshell, on the south side

of the park., most always with

a group of polymorphous

Spanish musicians in it,

playing  -  to no one but

themselves, but playing. It

was pretty good, and I really

liked the percussion stuff :

a guy on conga drums, bongos,

and a regular drum set too.

Guitars and things, no vocals.

Santana-like sounds, on and on.

I often just sat there to listen. I

had my own bongo drums,

brought from home. I had no

nerve about it, and anyway

they were down in the bottom

of this stupid carry bag I had

with me. Always something.

-

The landscape, I realized, was

all in my mind. In reality, I had

no clue where I was. The thing

about New York City is, it's a

place. All things are 'situated'

in a place-specific geography.

Natives know that. Those

who grew up and/or lived

know that. Outsiders either

just do not know that, or have

never had it explained to them.

I had to structure and piecemeal

things as I went along, essentially

working blind. The only place

history I'd ever gleaned was the

one I'd found myself, through

reading or cheap research. I had

to learn this reality from a start

point I'd never faced before. It

was composed of need, hunger,

anxiety, hygiene, and need again.

Little did I ever realize that, in

about a month, I'd have an

apartment of my own only a

block away.  In that respect, I

was quite fortunate. It wasn't

much of anything, but it was a

place, something to land in. Sixty

bucks a month. Five years later,

and a millions tales and stories

too, I'd be looking back at all

this from the perfect, pristine

open acreage of deep Pennsylvania.

It was all so crazy  -  had anyone

even tried to tell me then that

this was to occur, I'd have

laughed and called them out.

-

Pennsylvania and all its perfection

was a far cry from any of this. I

doubt that I could have explained

Tompkins Square Park and the people

who utilized it, to any of them. It

was a faraway, other world. Only

once or twice did anyone ever come

even close to asking me about my

previous life, before the farmland

days. It was never direct, and I

never had to face it. Not even

knowing what I would have said

or how it would have gone across.

The days when my father was around,

those were the times it all came closest

to blowing up, because my father

had this tendency to be loose-lipped,

about others, in this case, loose-lipped

about me. He'd start babbling about,

like, 'Well, when I saw Gary's apartment

in New York City I just about flipped...'

and then just think nothing of launching

into some cockamamie tale, usually

at least half wrong, of what he'd thought

he'd seen. I'd squirm, as if I saw a missile

coming in, but nothing ever really hit.

And then, a week later, when he was

gone, I'd get something like, 'Your Dad

was telling me you was once a hippie...'

Close call, but no contact.

-

All these cow people were funny  -  it's

amazing to think how lives can be lived

in complete dedication to a pack of sullen,

hard-headed animals needing tending to

twice a day seriously and the rest of the

day in stages. It was as if, once gotten into,

there wasn't any escape. They used to tell

me how, with all those constant demands of

animal and crop things, as farmers, every

day, they'd never gotten away, never gone

anywhere  -  travel, vacation, cruises,

whatever. If they did anything, now and

then a farmer would go around, collect

what others needed, motor vehicle and

taxes and fees and licenses stuff, mostly,

and make a trip down to Harrisburg (I

was never there), and hundred or so

miles south and west, to do the business

for everyone, right at the clerk's offices or

whatever documents department was

needed. I always thought that was a

pretty neat idea; and it was only very

occasionally, and without much trust

in the future, that someone would leave

the farm in the hands of their sons or kids

for some time  -  whether it was medical

need or business. I used to sit around and

try to figure, with advertising and all,

what kind of money could be made by

maybe running a 'farm-sitting' or a

'chore-sitting' agency, so farmers

could get away. I'd learned all the

stuff needed, and knew I could handle

it, but things like insurance (what if

something really did go wrong?),

and money for ads and things, stopped

me. But most importantly, the 'trust'

factor, I knew, would kill the idea.

Nowadays, city people do dog-sitting,

and walking 10 dogs at a time on

multi-leashes, doggie day-care, and

all that, but the one thing I'd never

achieve with these country folk was

the trust and confidence for them to

put all their stuff in the hands of an

outsider. Probably just as well.

They'd always see me as someone

new, just 'in' from somewhere, and

not worthy of any real trust. It's just

a certain odd clannishness and the

aspect of a closed society.

-

Anyway, I never mentioned any of 

that to any one; it was all just a 

passing idea. There was one funny,

New Jersey, sort of time I went 

through. I had always been told  -  

never knowing if it was true or not,

that at Rutgers Agriculture, now

known as Cook College, there was

a live cow whose right side had a

small, plexi window put in place,

implanted, as it were, successfully,

to allow a viewer to see the stomach

innards at work. Whatever. Students

and visitors, supposedly, could watch

the mastication/digestion process.

I guess it all does sound crazy, but

what did I know. You've heard of

'urban' legend. Well, I guess this

was 'cow' legend. But like a fool

I had enough stupidity to bring this

up once, in a barnful of farmer 

types. It took about two hours for 

the laughter, at my expense, to 

subside. Yeah, sure, these people 

would  be the first to put their farms 

and livestock in my hands for a week.