8653. THINGS ARE DIFFERENT NOW, #180

180. ALL WAS GOOD

Rutgers, back then, had an

adjunct campus (still does,

much larger now) of its own

in Newark  -  Rutgers Law

School. I used to do some of

their printing at NJ Appellate,

and oftentimes had to run

it up to Raymond Boulevard,

as a delivery. That was when

I'd run into all the sorts of

second-tier crazy characters

who haunted Newark's streets,

mostly around Broad and

Market, and Raymond

Boulevard, which is

where my deliveries

were. I say 'second-tier',

because any real,

committed crazies

were New York City

based. This here was

a farm-team only. There

were Black Muslims,

serious drunks, space-cadets

on some drug-enforced

mission to Mars, and

even Rosicrucians and

stuff like that : the religiously

chosen, the crazies, the

addicted. And it was always 
men. I never saw any crazed 
Newark ladies. Some of these 
guys wanted money, while others,
it seemed, wanted your life; or 
could take it. I got approached

for things often, but just

fended everyone off. The

coolest, actually, and

most stupid time (fool

I was; I could'a made a

dirty mint) was one day

when I was delivering a

car-load of maybe five

boxes of really important

law-school exams for the

upcoming end of term, and

some answer sheets, I guess

for the faculty guides or

whatever. I got to the rear

entry spot for this particular

Raymond Boulevard location

and in a nearby room there

were like 30 or 40 dweeby

law school types who noticed

me loading up the hand cart

and heading in  -  in a minute

there were offers  -  ten, twenty

bucks each, for copies and/or

answer sheets. I couldn't do

anything, it was already all

counted and subscribed for,

but none of these criminal

minded law-school types

cared. It was just very weird,

like a dirty cop wanting

one of the keys to a pimp's

whores' rooms or something.

I guess the 'family' urge to

become a lawyer runs really

deep in some blood.

-

Getting back to the

Rosicrucians, sometime

around this era there was a

Leonard Cohen song called

'Dress Rehearsal Rag.' It was

a great song, and in it mention

is made of the 'Rosicrucians'.

Because of my Newark days'

street experience, I was all ready

for that one ('Why don't you try

the Rosicrucians, they will give

you back your hope, you can

write down your lists of sorrows

on the back of a plain, brown

envelope...' Something like that.

It's about a miserable guy, down,

almost suicidal, shaving in front

of a bathroom mirror. As he puts

on the shaving cream he realizes

he looks like Santa Claus with a

big white beard. Then he decides,

with the razor in hand, he could

add some Christmas red to it by

simply slitting his neck right

then. Real drama to this song,

in a crescendo-type tune that

kept running on. The whole

thing, which he does NOT

undertake, becomes a 'dress

rehearsal' for suicide. Thus

the title. It was brutal. I swore

I'd never shave again. I knew

too exactly what this cat

was talking about. Had it

not been for the streets

of Newark, I'd have been

in the dreary dark. Some

15th century Germanic

knight named Christian

Rosenkreuz is said to have

launched the movement,

which took off about 1614,

as a secret 'society' dedicated

to a form of brand-spiritualism

that mixed alchemy, metaphysics,

mystical and secret wisdoms.

I don't know if he ever visited

Newark  -  this German guy  -

though, as I said, there were a

lots of Germans, and a lot of

breweries. I at first just always

thought it meant something like

the 'Red Cross', which it tuned

out, after I studied it, that it

both did and didn't. Strange

-

There was this oddball guy

in Newark, on a back street,

behind Broad Street, over

by the big, main, flagship

store called 'Bamberger's',

before they became absorbed

into Macy's and all, about

1985. Bamberger's used to

be Newark's claim to retail

merchandising fame; fine

goods, interesting garments.

Small, crinkly and curly

Jewish guy, quite religious,

 prayer shawls and all, 'tallis'

or whatever that is. He had

a small but crowded fabric

and cloth-cutting store. He

never seemed to have much

business, or customers, but 

he was always there. I guess

he made out OK. I'd stop in

there sometimes, just to say

hi. I can't remember how we 

first met  -  I think it was over

some parking issue, as I'd

gone in to ask if I could leave

my car (delivery) for fifteen

minutes or so and if he didn't 

mind to just keep an eye out.

I'd been broken into once 

before and lost a bunch of 

stuff printed for Air France, 

in NYC. He was OK with 

it, as I recall, (I remember

the bobbing yarmulke too),

and that's how this nodding 

acquaintance began.

He never got really

animated about anything.

There was a book that 

came out about that time,

by Saul Bellow, titled 'Mr.

Sammler's Planet'. It was

about an old-line white 

guy, something like this, 

who gets accosted and 

robbed by some angry 

black dude in a hallway or

on a street or something, 

and to really tick this guy 

off, or something, the robber 

whips his 'member' out and 

shows it to this robbery victim, 

Mr. Sammler, which sets him 

off, of course, on a racial

tirade that never ends,

about cultural change, trash 

thinking, societal breakdown, 

and the blatant nerve and 

effrontery of this black guy

whipping out his gigantic 

schlong as if it were a 

hex to curse the white 

race. Well, not much

nice to say there, but 

that's the great divide 

this guy always represented 

to me in Newark  -  which 

had  rapidly lost its old 

ways, and was so quickly 

descending into ghetto

violence and negativity.

Also, there was an earlier

movie of this nature as well,

also very good and quite 

apropos for this same scene : 

'The Pawnbroker', staring

Rid Steiger, maybe 1965, 

or '66, guessing.

-

The first time I ever walked 

into a bar or a tavern, whichever

they're called, was on Broad

Street, Newark too. My NJ

Appellate car had broken down

on McCarter highway, I had

call roadside assistance and all

that, and report in to the work

office too. I had slowly gotten

the crippled car off McCarter,

so as to get out of traffic there, 

and stopped at the first corner 

on Broad, which happened to

be a bar. I used the phone. I

was scared shitless, having

never experienced anything

of NJ working class bars or 

drinking or taverns. It went

OK, I was directed to a phone,

etc., and then I lingered,

just waiting for the repair guy

to arrive. I didn't drink or

anything, but they didn't

care, and they just let me

hang around watching 

out the door and window

for the truck to come. It 

was pretty cool. The place 

was half-dark, like with a 

dark, deep-blue lighting, 

all men, seemingly lanky, 

tired working guys from 

the mills and factories 

near there  -  Frelinghuysen

Avenue, and such streets 

nearby. I don't know what I

really expected  -  certainly

no deep New York type 

studious conversation, but

it went easy. These guys

just seemed tired and cranky,

immersed in their own stuff

and not too much of a care, 

certainly no care at all, for

any 'intellectual' or arty stuff.

I kind of immediately sensed

the ground rules, and just kept

to myself. All was good.

-
There was always a real 
difference, and probably 
always will be, between these 
two places  -  NY and Newark. When 
I rode the meadows, and even now, 
on the trains to and from, I'd look 
out over the landscape and realize 
the factors of geography, water, and 
meadows that separate the two. Yet 
there are times that I figure they 
should have long ago been combined, 
like a Paris or maybe Venice 
or Budapest type place, one that 
uses its waterways as part of the 
charm, instead of  - as was
done here, abusing and
ignoring them. The situation 
of the two cities  -  near but 
so distant  -  is reflected in the 
totally different qualitative 
distances between them.
Like grade school versus 
grad school. Or was once. I think, 
in many ways, that's soon enough 
all to be shrinking up  -  as Newark 
begins 'gentrfying' and thus opens 
up new opportunities and spaces,
and New York City continues to
slide to a sort of free-for-all, 
least-common-denominator, 
anything-goes people dump. 
The really rich holding down 
one end, while the poor and 
indigent, and therefore angry, 
folk all continue falling off the 
other end. Kind of like the 
convergence' between Russia 
and the USA, wherein both 
systems just kind of petered 
out, evened out, met each 
other's match, and pretty 
much became the same.