280. AVENEL, pt. 2
In addition to what I've
already mentioned, let
me point out that - in
Avenel - probably the
most vital bunch of
regular strong-hearted
guys, always following
process and decorum,
were the local firemen.
I'd get all those guys
in too for their
installation dinners,
new Chief programs,
fire-dept. explanatory
stuff, and flyers for
kids and fire safety
and all that. Program
books for the various
installation dinners
were a big deal. I
see all those guys,
from back then,
who were being
installed for chief
and all that, all
beginning to die
off now - their names
posted for a week
on the light board
outside the firehouse.
Maybe 35 years old
then, maybe 70 now.
Same boat I'm on,
but, whatever. The
firemen came in
a lot; I got to know
them. Chief Dwyer
was my closest
acquaintance of them,
and then he moved
to Tampa/St. Pete,
somewhere like that,
in Florida. I had
known his two boys
as we were growing
up together. Sometimes
these fire guys would
hang around and talk
some - engines,
whatever was going
on, elections and all.
We also did the voting
machine strips and
public question strips
and all that. A lot of
that was firehouse
stuff - public questions
about money for a
new fire truck, or a
new building or
whatever; those
guys mostly always
got their way. In the
same way as a Board
of Education election
or something, they
could pretty much
control the vote by
dragging their own
people out to be sure
to cast yes votes. No
one else seemed ever
to give a damn,On
Saturday mornings,
that first Fall,
sometimes I'd be
so bored, reading a
book or something -
I always had a
notebook with me
for writing as well -
and some line of
people would pass
by, noisily enough
to be hard - back
then there were a
lot of Saturday
morning organized
walks for this or that
- fundraising,
people'd pledge
so much per mile
walked or something
like that - breast
cancer, muscular
dystrophy, cystic
fibrosis, you name
it. If there was a
cause, they'd walk
it. Light at the end
of the tunnel stuff,
except there was
no light and there
was no tunnel either.
It was all just 'activity'
and the blind good
wishes of wanting to
be seen doing something
positive. Good for
them; they needed
it. After my New
York years, all this often
felt, for me, as if I'd
been living on the
dark side of the
moon (yeah, Pink
Floyd was big back
then) and had somehow
just come back over
the horizon to this
cheap, tacky, noisy,
junkheap of a place
wanting help and
direction. The place,
Avenel; not me. I'd
never been subjected
to a place of this sort,
as an adult anyway.
It was nothing like
Elmira. Certainly
nothing like Ithaca.
Absolutely nothing
like deep-country
Pennsylvania, except
maybe for Bruce Kelber,
who acted like he was
already there. Bruce
had been a childhood
friend too, then he
turned into a
wild-man fireman
hero in town and
was praised and
feted for saving
some kid trapped
in a fire or something.
Then he moved
away somewhere.
I never did catch
up to him. I liked
Bruce, he was like
the Ted Nugent of
the firehouse, and
early on. Usually
all those guys were
strait-laced and
stern. Bruce was
cut, most certainly,
from a different cloth.
And most certainly
too, in Avenel it was
the entire other side
of the diaper from
New York City. This
was all just a noise
and a clamor without
any reason or logic
behind it. It was
oftentimes just a
poor, sick 'Being.'
The only thing
that saved any
of this for me was
that, right after
those Saturday hours,
I'd get out of there
and make a beeline
for the train - I'd
close up that place
so quick you could
hear a pin drop (?).
You know what I
mean. Fast, man,
Get on the nearest
train outta' town
again. I had to dip
that blood foot
back into the city
to get resuscitated.
One more mother
and daughter wedding
patsy go-'round
anyway I'd have
probably become
a mass murderer,
starting with them.
waiting for him.
-
There was this other
guy who always came
in. Elderly, a little
feeble, from Rahway,
first block in off Rt.
One, right by the old
Deal In Wheels
motorcycle shop.
I forget his name
too, but, another
Spanish guy, with
a constant attendant
- a big black dude
who drove him
around, waited,
helped him walk
up stairs and things.
'Mr. Martinez', he
was. But it wasn't
pronounced 'Mar-teen-ez.'
It had to be said fast, as
Mr. MartinEZ.' with
a rolling 'R' too. He
made sure of that. He
was ailing, walked
slow and with some
pain and some
needed support.
Talked funny too.
There was a lot of
that. No matter how
bad things looked,
if I, or anyone else,
asked how he was
doing, the answer
was always the same
- he'd always say,
'oh, oh, almost all right.'
It was cool, and it was
all he ever said. With
a strange, elfish-like
Spanish lilt. I walked
him out to his car once,
and that driver guy
was sitting in it. I
glimpsed the odometer
once as I asked, 'how
many miles on this
baby?' It was an ancient
Toyota. He said some
high figure, like say
230,000 miles - a real
lot for those days. I
asked him how he
managed that, what
did he do special. He
said that, as my reply,
whenever he got where
he was going, he never
just quickly 'turned the
car off.' He let it sit,
run down a bit, 30-50
seconds or so. And
then he'd turn it off
- he claimed that
procedure was the
secret of the high
mileage, nothing more.
Letting the car-engine
slow down, letting
the oil settle back in.
Mr. Martinez, by the
way, ran some sort
of mail-order
catalogue thing,
out of his home,
in Rahway (a few
times I'd go there,
to him, when he
was in too-bad
shape to get out),
and we'd print
the little order
sheets and things
that he'd send out.
He sold trinkets,
little knick-knacks,
small dolls and
things like that.
Tchotchke stuff,
I guess it's called.
He soon did eventually
grow really ill,
home-bound, with
a nurse, and died.
It's always so funny,
all these nurse/retainer
people, as were his,
were large, fulsomely
huge, black people.
I guess they were
from some local
agency or something,
but it all had the
weirdest appearance,
like some wild form
of twisted slavery
or royalty or somesuch,
but for really nothing
at all. I never figured
out who was paying
for any of this, these
services and all.
Probably we were,
as taxpayers.
Whatever.
-
Another guy, crazy
as shit, used to drive
over from Staten Island.
He had an enormous
Plymouth station wagon,
like a 1974 or 76 Fury
wagon. He basically
lived in it, was about
350 pounds, stunk to
high heaven, and was
an avid CB ham radio
guy, back in the day
when that was a big
deal - they, (these
radio guys), would
all get these ham
radio call cards
printed up, about
4x6 inches, with
their call letters
and 'handle' (radio
name and number,
like 'Big Muddy78Y4'
or 'Wise Cat914L' or
'Tex281P' or whatever
they called themselves).
Then as they talked by
radio, or communicated
on the road, driving
around, as a contact
they'd send each other,
in the mail, these cards.
He'd start telling me
how he talked to some
guy from Ghana, or
Formosa, or other
places. Why they
used the mail is
beyond me. This
guy 's car was all
hooked up with
speakers and an
amplifier, a microphone
even a siren. He'd come
in maybe once or twice
a month for a supply
of call cards or route
maps, or whatever, I
don't know how that
all worked - just
know that eventually
the CB radio craze
was over, out in a
flash. I don't know
what these guys
then did for kicks,
without that. Anyway,
the deal was, this
moron would pull
up and start beeping
his horn. Five times
or fifty times, until
I came out. His horn
was supposed to be
my signal to know
he was there and
drop everything
to go meet him.
The car stunk. It
was g-r-o-s-s.
Every time. This
porker never got
out from behind
the wheel, probably
because he couldn't,
without the jaws of
life or something.
I probably should
have just spoken
up, but I never did
('What? You want
me to enter this
den of reek? Are
you at last gonna'
tip me?' Ever hear
of air freshener,
my friend. How's
about a case of
Febreeze? I can
get you a good
deal.')...I'd still
almost barf, but I'd
get the deal done,
take my notes and
his money, hand
over the goods, and
head for the shower-room,
which St. George Press,
alas, just did NOT have.
The thing about these
guys too, the CB system
was an open microphone,
nothing private about it.
So, even as we talked
there'd be these blaring
voices of truck drivers
and others bleating
along about where
they were and traffic
and where could
they stop for good
eats and all that
usual crud. It was
nutso, and this guy
was already out
to pasture. I could
see it if you were
in, say, Indiana
somewhere out on
the open road.
But St. George
Avenue and Route
One and all,
in Avenel?
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