279. AVENEL, pt.1
When you have to
be told to 'tolerate'
something, you pretty
much already know
that whatever it is
inhabits some gray
area of objectionable
stuff. One of the first
times I got a real job,
in the early 80's
anyway, I got hired
on the premise that,
as part of my entry
in, I'd kind of
(hopefully) have
to 'earn' my way
into the company
(printing) by beginning
a Saturday hours kind
of thing. It had not
been done before.
The four or five hours
on Saturday represented
a giveaway by me, a
sixth day of work, on
no extra pay, complete
with inactivity and
boredom and the
few straggling
customers I'd get
were basic blow-bys
of the regular work
week who I could
see anytime but
who, almost
immediately, latched
onto me as their
favorite contact.
Being there on Saturday,
outside of the normal
'work-week' made
little sense. The
kind of people
who shopped
printing on
Saturday were
nut-cases anyway;
Elks and Legion
guys wanting raffle
ticket books, party
flyers; mother and
daughter wedding
teams shopping
the kid's endless
wedding invitation
bullshit sets - they'd
spend two hours
looking at stupid
matches and napkins.
Disagreeing over
design and color.
I'd have to, literally
sit there, or nearby
anyway, while these
fools waltzed their
way through 6 or 7
different wedding-printing
catalogues and assumed
I cared. Then they'd
phone Aunt Loola to
come over and give
her opinion, so I'd
be stuck waiting
for another female
fool to arrive.
Meanwhile, the
noon hour had
come and gone,
and it would
sometimes be
nearing two pm.
I'd really get steamed.
I hated that shit -
mothers, weddings,
fussy daughters and
the rest. I developed
a theory, and it pretty
much worked out -
these mothers and
daughters, the more
guilt they had about
Sex, about the
daughter getting
banged, etc., the
larger and more
flamboyant and
exaggerated the
wedding preparations
were. It never failed.
I wanted to say, 'Like,
Jesus, ladies, get it
over with; it ain't no
big deal and it's
probably popped
already.' Boy, was
I blessed.
-
It was Avenel, NJ
and there I was at St.
George Press, a
dump I'd been seeing
for years up and down
the street - I ended
up back there on a
triple-bypass roundabout
basketball-court
maneuver that still
has me baffled. The
town hadn't changed
a darn bit, although I
had - my old character
was dead and buried,
probably three times,
and I was reporting
for duty in, now, some
other guise. I didn't
know why, but I did
it - well, why I did
it was because I had
found it doable. No
one would recognize
me. I had found a
way of maintaining
all of my interior life
and work and struggle
and reading and
learning, with no
one else being the
wiser for it. I'd
channeled the
most normal, stupidly
up-front, regular
person face you could
imagine. Acting all
the way. Oscar-worthy
bullshit. I no longer
cared. As long as I
was able to work
and write and paint
and be, within, what
I was (still) working
on being, I didn't much
care what the outsider,
buffoon-me, came
across like. The first
weekend there, that
first Saturday night,
I was taken in - perfect
'Avenel' style, I guess
- to a waterside restaurant
in Morgan Beach or
somewhere there, on
the Raritan Bay. A big
joint called the 'Robert
E. Lee' restaurant.
It's gone now, long
time. What's in its
place is a big void,
a sandy platform
on the water, a sandy/dirt
road, leading to nothing,
marsh grass and reeds.
If I didn't tell you, you
would never know
there was ever
anything there. We
arrived, and inside,
immediately, there
were two other
couples from the
same workplace.
A guy name Jim Rief,
and his wife, Michelle,
as I recall. She was
pretty fascinating.
They moved away
a long time back, to
to Florida. Jim was
like the shop foreman,
then; in charge of work
and schedule processing,
pretty much over-riding
the rest of the show,
making sure things
got done. He was
cool - a few quick
words, comparing
some notes, me as
newcomer, he as
the veteran. There
was another couple
along there too,
but for the life of
me I can't recall
who; it was like
small-town royalty,
collecting in one
place. to dine. It's
funny how the weird,
small towns and
enclaves soon
establish for
themselves the
'places' to be seen,
eating, etc., the
correct idea of pecking
order unspoken, all
those water company
guys, school principals
and their wives or
husbands, department
heads in the local
civic structure. Pretty
funny. Every little
podunk town, no
matter how tiny,
is the same, they
all develop their
own pecking order
royalty, and 'in the
know' people. It
worked the same
way, at St. George
Press, (the workplace
I'm talking about), with
the Kiwanis Club - all
these overweight local
guys, business owners
and clerks and bureaucrats,
detectives and chiefs,
bankers and loan officers;
bad ties, crummy suits,
really bad hair, all full
of themselves, all
hanging together
for a once or twice
a week luncheon
to talk about
expansions of
business with
the bank guys,
or the local sports
coach about the next
weekend's game.
Crazy dumb stuff -
that trip to Bermuda
or Aruba, a vacation
to New Orleans.
Whatever. People
with big worlds in
their smaller-sized
brains, going on.
-
The Kiwanis Club
was the pits. Those
guys were so full
of themselves it
was funny - a little
fiefdom of Woodbridge
(in their own heads)
moguls; business types
worried about appearances
and propriety, while
they glommed whatever
they could in property
deals and rake-offs
along the way in
selling out the town
they prospered by.
Then, once they've
ruined the town, they
start complaining
about how it isn't like
it used to be, and they
probably even start a
historical society or
something to mull
over the horrid loss.
All of a sudden
right where they
put the latest 7-11
is where George
Washington had an
encampment and
used to water his
horse on the old
trail; and they'll
put up a plaque,
with your money,
to tell you this.
It's all nose-on-
the-face stuff.
I wasn't supposed
to notice this,
certainly not
speak about it.
I could hardly
keep from gagging.
-
In addition, then,
to those Saturday
hours by which
I was hired, the
other part of the
deal was that all
the crummy,
undesirable,
pain-in-the-butt
customers would
be handed over to
me. To deal with
- not to alienate,
rather to keep them
going; expand the
'crummy' customer
franchise, bring
them around. I
did pretty well -
since I'm usually
fairly decent at
sympathizing with
people everyone
else dislikes anyway,
going that extra mile,
bringing my own
happiness quotient
out and finding real
likable things. I liked
schmoozing with
these folks, learning
a bit about them and
their peculiar
predicaments. It
worked. I bent some
rules, shaved some
Saturday prices, but
it all came around.
There was (I'll tell
about a few) this
Mr. Hernandez guy,
from just up along
Route One, a place
called 'Esquire Fence
Company.' It's still
there, now as 'National
Fence Company' -
(you gotta' love those
grandiose names).
Acres of fencing
samples, chain-link,
kennel, and other
installations, barricade
fencing, metal sheathing,
wood-slat storm fences,
gates, gazebos, the
whole gamut. It's
huge. This Mr.
Hernandez guy
was a bit hard to
understand, a
little pushy, in
your face wordy,
hung around too
much, etc., BUT
he placed nice
orders for things
such as envelopes
and contracts
and letterheads,
like 10,000 at
a time. I just
kept coaxing
the orders out
of him. Then, also
orders for his
sub-companies,
and specialty
spin-offs. All you
had to do was listen
up and cater to
the guy. Show you
cared. Not faking
it, because I kind
of really did care.
He was fancy -
flashy suits, gold
pens, expensive
shoes - all this
from some Puerto
Rican or Spanish
fence merchant.
It was amazing.
The night of that
Robert E. Lee thing
I had just gotten
an order from him
for 10,000 each
of a few items.
There were
huzzahs and
congratulations
all around - but
I couldn't figure
a damn thing out
as to why. Were
these people nuts?
I hadn't done a
thing, not even
lifted a pen; these
orders, the way he
and his company
ordered things, were
nearly automatic.
They just churned
through this stuff
and re-ordered. The
key was to keep
the ball rolling,
that was all. No
ordering magic
or special skill.
All my schmoozing,
for him and for
the others too,
was just a way
of pushing the
show along, keeping
it all right, so these
re-orders would
just roll in. It was
too crazy, almost
too crazy to even
take the credit.
Whatever. There
was another guy
too, even crazier -
again Hispanic, but
I forget his name.
He came out of
Perth Amboy, was
a big. beefy guy
with massive,
deep-voiced accent,
real Spain, I think.
Around the shop
he was referred
to Xavier Cougat
- nobody I knew,
but some of 1970's
singing star or
something -
because of his
bearing and manner
and voice. I got along
fine with this guy,
but he wasn't my
at all. He was
about or 60; big,
flashy, with fancy
bearing. He had 2
warehouses around
there somewhere -
Raritan Center or
Perth Amboy -
from which he
wholesaled LLadro
ceramic statuary.
LLadro was the
company name,
pronounced Yadro,
and they were big
enough sellers. Fancy,
glazed and hand
painted statues and
scenes, about 2
feet high -
shepherdesses
and shepherds, lambs,
geese, all that bucolic,
fantasy-land sort of
stuff. Collectible,
sometimes numbered
and documented.
Imported. Back then,
1984 maybe, they
retailed at about
1800 bucks. He
would have
catalogue-insert-sheets
printed, illustrating
the product and
explaining new
ones, upcoming,
etc. I imagined it
was all legit. This
Cougat guy kept
me busy, talked a
lot, engaged, showed
me stuff. I really
don't know how
much he sold, by
what means, and
how the things got
where they were going.
But, he always paid
up, and kept returning
for more. Then there
was this Italian opera
singer guy, Robert
DeGaetano or something
- his printing agent, a
lady named Marian Vance,
from South Plainfield,
kept a large supply of
his big posters ready,
and whenever he had
a recital or concert
coming up, we'd
imprint onto that
stock the appropriate
dates and venue,
times and prices,
and all that. Pretty
much nation-wide
- the guy sang
everywhere, San
Francisco to St Louis.
Posters of all sorts.
Her other big account,
out of NYC, was the
Cutty Sark wine
company; some fancy,
expensive enough, wine.
Marian was a nice
lady, fussy as hell,
and she ind of
annoyed everyone
else. But we latched
on real good; she
thought I was gold.
She used to take
me aside to say,
in a low voice,
'get out of here,
why are you
working like this,
you're wasting your
talents, there's nothing
here for you.' Etc. I
guess it's supposed
to make a person
'feel good' to be
told that, and over
and over, but -
really - how good
can it be. It was a
bummer actually.
Like, gee thanks.
Her husband died,
in a few years (they
were in their 60's),
and she brought me
over to her house
once, sort of in
sadness, and just
gave me a ton of
things that had
belonged to her
husband. Weird stuff :
briefcases, a camera,
binoculars, cuff links,
even playing cards.
Bizarre. Her kids,
both about my age,
one older, one
younger, were
adopted, and fairly
estranged from her
anyway. The son was
a loser; he made like
12 cents a week
carving scrimshaw
for some scrimshaw
stand in Seaside
Heights, on the
boardwalk, and her
daughter, who I always
thought was stunningly
beautiful the two or
three times I met her,
had a kid with someone,
unknown, off somewhere
in Pennsylvania.
Marian was a trip,
a nice lady.
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