8645. THINGS ARE DIFFERENT NOW, #176

176. EASY BREAKS

Back about whenever, when I

hit NYC, it was Robert F. Wagner

as Mayor, and this crazy guy

Michael J. Quill  -  a punchy

little Irish guy  -  head of the

Transport Workers Union,

Adam Clayton Powell, Herman

Badillo, Malcolm X, and

others like that messing with

the heads of New Yorkers.

Then came John Lindsay, a

little later. On every midtown

street-corner there were surly

Black Muslims, Nation of

Islam, Elijah Muhammad guys

trying to hand out/sell their

little black-revolution/power

newspaper, 'Elijah Speaks'.

There was a major power-play

going on back then between

the followers of Elijah Muhammad

and the breakaway groups of

a different 'violence' level and

outlook, of Malcolm X. He

eventually did get assassinated

on stage, on Feb 21, 1965, at

the Audubon Ballroom, while

speaking. Someone yelled out

'Nigger' and the firing commenced.

It was a controversy for years,

if his own people had sacrificed

him, if plants were used, for

security, under pretense of

support but really there for

Elijah Muhammad, and

stepped aside at the moment

they were most needed.

Guns. Big issue for a long

time, festering. Later it was

the Black Panthers who

took up some of that cudgel,

with their 'Black Power'

routine and ideology, and

tried slamming it all shut.

That was all yet in the

future  -  to be. The streets

hadn't yet burned and

been overturned. Newark.

Harlem. Cleveland. Watts.

-

When I used to work Newark

streets, and New York, those

black guys were always coming

around pushing their newspaper.

They were militant, yes, but they'd

pretty much sell to anybody.

What got me the most was how

these tendentious 'revolutionaries'

always managed to dress like

insurance salesmen or bible

salesmen. Suits and ties and

all that. I guess they figure the

'look' was everything, or they

wanted to emulate in dress that

which they sought to destroy.

Beats me, always did. If you

go to the streets of Philadelphia,

it's still like that  -  they're much

more, and still militant and in

your face there  -  going car to

car at lights, and even selling

dollar bottles of cold water,

sweet potato pies and such,

seemingly homemade  -  little,

single-pie plastic wraps. But

they still dress like Mr. Ewratz

in Office 24.

-

In NYC, Micheal J. Quill soon

enough shut the whole place

down, I think it was like New

Year's Day, 1966, first day of

Lindsay's administration; not

real sure. No trains, buses,

subways; the whole place was

a mess for a long time too  -

he was a punch-drunk brawler,

leading a strong-arm union of

tactics and fighters too. I

think they gaveled their

meetings to order with a

beer bottle (my joke). The

city was in an uproar over

this, and Quill just kept

upping the ante. Then there

were newspaper strikes,

garbage strikes, all sorts

of things coming due.

Everybody had their

hands out to swipe

down this Lindsay guy.

He was the new Mayor,

upper east side, 'Silk Stocking

District' it as called, representing

the rich and powerful as

their Congressman, now

their Mayor. Yeah, he was

probably untested, not

used to this roughhouse,

street politics, and they just

all started to beat the crap out

of him. 'Fun City' (his slogan)

be damned. That was the

tempest, and the temperature,

of New York City at about the

time I arrived. Seething.

Problems, heat, hippies

soon to be. If the water had

been turned off one morning

for the entire island, I would

not have been surprised. New
York was a huge union town,
infested with vested interests,
people on the take, wanting their
double-dip salaries, vacation 
homes, huge pensions. The whole 
place was crooked, and you just
hung with that and went along, 
or you got nothing. If your father 
and your uncle were firemen, you 
damn well were too. If they were
cops, so were you. Like legacy
enrollment in those big, fancy, 
white universities: if your dad 
went to Yale, by jiminy you were
going to Yale too.

-

All my life before, Avenel

and Blackwood, I'd always

sensed a weird kind of

unsettled, internal, nervous

energy in people who

were unsatisfied. Like

the nervous energy of

people who like food,

have to try everything,

always want to eat. There's

no satisfying that. It was like

that everywhere here  -

pacing,  fast-moving, on

the run, people jamming

food and lunch on the run.

Insanity goes up on trial,

and even the judge is drunk.

I never saw any of that in

Avenel. Things were

different. It wasn't by

any means a small town,

more just a highway

way-station on route

to whatever road you

wished to take...to nowhere.

Trailer parks, turnpike and

parkway criss-crosses, all

nearby. Some straight-line

whacko roadway right to

NYC, your choice of

tunnels or bridges. Pretty

much Paradise for felons

on the run. People on the

move, bagmen for overnight

bank-robbers. It was, otherwise,

all easy breaks for me  -  I found

a certain harmony within my own

life. It might not ever have looked 

like much to anyone else, but to me 

it was like living in a vast, free,

research library of my very own.

-

I had to balance all of that

with my own innate goodness

-  which wasn't really given a

chance but didn't really wish

to die either. The cruel and the

foul seemed everywhere, and it

was a quick and sudden addition

to the factors of living I'd been

used to. Funny how there was

a church or three of most every

denomination on almost every

long street, but you''d find scant

evidence of its presence in every

day life unless you looked to

those haggard and lame still

left over; old folks around,

ethnics, hanging on. It was

hard getting used to  -  an 

absence of values almost.

Tough for a bleeding heart,

an emoter, like me, and it took

me a long time to get coarse.

I was never cruel or foul to

anyone. In New York City

that kind of thing can get you

in trouble. You need to have 

that option of punching back.

In some sense, it's just a huge 

slum, was then and still is, 

of people looking to take 

advantage, run with something

grip you hard and proverbially

rifle your pockets. Only the

strong survive : I guess

that's old saw is true.

-

A part of my brain stayed in

my 'hometown.' And I knew

that. As much as I tried expanding

my thinking, being some bigger

deal Mr. Cool, I was, inside, the

same old little me from that

chiggered wall in front of 4&5.

I didn't dwell on it though, but

like at night when you close

your eyes, and something starts

drifting you away : for some

it's the 'Swanee River' of dreams,

or he catacombs, or old Egypt,

pyramids, or gondolas or a

baseball stadium. For me it was

always, pretty much say, that

dumb little Woodbridge Theatre,

on Main Street, watching Invaders

From Mars, or Journey To the 

Center Of the Earth, or some 

really slipshod Hayley Mills

movie. I used to love her when

I was young, and she was too.

My friend Ken Kaisen, his

father would drive us there, 

on some Saturdays for endless

showings of whatever the movie

was that day, in his big gigantic

Oldsmobile Holiday, 1956. I

never really saw much in Kenny,

(he's dead now), but we were

fast friends for a long time. He

was rigid and precise with logical

thinking and ordinary stuff. I

was, at his side, the Wild Man

Of Borneo, by comparison.

But we were fast friends for 

like 5 solid years. I guess it was

my leaving town, going off to the

seminary, in '62, that changed it

all, everything, for everyone else

too. I lost touch with all my chums.