9028. THINGS ARE DIFFERENT NOW, Pt. 283

283. AVENEL, Pt. 5

'nice fit'

Combinations of hundreds 

of things made this place 

what it was  -  from a

bicycle kingdom for boys

to a swaddling collection 

of religions and buildings. 

Down across Route One

was the old B'nai Israel

synagogue, and on Avenel

Street the two mainline 

churches, sort of always

vying with each other. 

Clubs and activities for 

kids, dances, competing 

Boy Scout troops and 

the rest. The Presbyterian

Boy Scout troop, they were

the real guys. Troop 42, I

think it was  -  intrepid

cold-weather campers, 

brawlers, adept fire-starters

and merit badge elite. By

contrast, the later, Catholic,

Troop 73, were a bunch of

pasty wimps, challenged

even by knot-tying. In

the Boy Scout handbook 

there were 30 different

types of knots, maritime

knots, wilderness knots,

and the rest, you were

supposed to know, and

master. I got maybe 

three of them straight, 

ever  -  and every other

one that failed I'd gleefully

call a 'slip-knot'. Successfully

done. What did I care? You

know how it's said, about 

school, 'what do I need to

know all that Math for?'

That's how I viewed knots.

No future utility except,

perhaps, for bondage, but

I had no intention of going

there. The (we) catholic 

kids were flagrant violators  

- goofing off, hanging 

about, doing little or 

nothing at all. Catholic 

kids were brought

up to worry about all 

the other stuff, the 

things that, somehow, 

Boy Scouts never taught 

or even worried about: 

Salvation, guilt, darkness, 

sin, regret. It was crazy. 

They had no business 

at all even starting

a Boy Scout troop. 

-

At St. George Press I 

got a good little perch 

from which to view 

the town around me. 

It was a decent job, 

with some prestige. 

I got to meet a lot of 

Woodbridge people, 

deal with some of the 

big guys, the newspapers, 

the political doers, and 

hacks. I was still nobody,

just me, working for 

wages, and trying to 

remain one step off of 

center stage  -  which

was easy. Against my 

will, I got to learn 

about business, bills,

accounts payables, 

profit margins, 

collectibles, loans

and pay-backs, the

wholesale paper-buying

of the printing-trades, 

inks and colors, grades 

of paper and printing

stocks, bindings, 

mark-ups, discounting,

shipping... It was all

crazy, There was

one time  -  I remember 

it well  -  I'd just bought

a new car, a 1985, and

the purchase price was

18,600 dollars  - a 

massive sum for me 

then, for a car anyway.

I had these 5-rooms of

losers at some office

on Mayfield Drive in

Raritan Center  -  they

churned through 

printing like water, 

sold to others as 

brokers, and were 

always nagging me 

for 'cheap, cheap, 

and cheaper'. 

That was their motto.

It was the October 

end of our fiscal 

year and I was owed 

something like $39,000 

by these Heeb jackals. 

(I hated dealing with 

this crew). They were

living way high off 

my money. We'd do 

the work, the printing,

and sell it to them for, 

say, $100, and  -  true

to form  -  by doing

absolutely nothing 

at all except some 

bullshit and phone 

calls, they'd charge 

their customer, 

in turn, say $210. 

Seriously. Rapacious 

profit-mongering 

on their their part, 

by using us as a 

bank. Never paying 

up. This one time the

strategy was for me 

to just go there, make 

a scene, rattle their 

stupid asses, and get 

some money, if not 

all (which we knew

they didn't have). They

were slowly going

insolvent. I did my

part, and this head 

honcho there  -  a big,

bloviating heap, named

Joel Greene, he finally

forked over a check for

$18,600. Exactly the 

price of the car I'd

just bought. It was

weird. I raced back 

to the office and we 

banked that money in

about five seconds.

Thank God it didn't

bounce. 

-

That was a big 

lesson  -  these jackals 

drove around in Jaguars 

and new Audis and 

things  -  fancy suits,

pinky rings, Yankee 

Stadium season box 

tickets to entertain

clients, for a couple 

of years they even 

extended out some 

Super Bowl tickets, 

New Orleans one year,

and Atlanta, I think, 

the next. Lodgings, 

dining, the whole bit, 

for a few of their 

premier accounts. 

It was all based on 

nothing but talk, 

and we knew that.

We'd all make fun 

of them behind 

their backs  -  their 

ways and means 

were so patently 

ridiculous, you 

had to. Loud, frothy

egomaniacs, these 

guys. It all worked 

out, over 8 years 

maybe, then they 

all splintered up, 

went broke, and 

made their own 

separate, smaller 

companies. A real 

racket. I handled 

so much money  

- the billings, the 

money-owed, and 

all that, through 

them, that if I 

had run with it 

I could have 

bought a small 

African country. 

Once again, I saw 

the beast of what

'Business' really is, 

from their dirty 

underside. It was 

good  -  it made 

me always glad, 

always, to be a 

faraway outsider 

to all that crud. I

realized I'd rather

dig ditches than 

have to deal with 

such slime.

-

From inside St. 

George Press, 

everything looked

different. I look 

out at St. George 

Avenue  -  all that 

crazy, thrumming

traffic rolling by. 

Everything from 

mail trucks to ice 

cream trucks and 

all in-between.

Eskimo pies, over 

next door, at the 

7-11. Along the

street, nearly every

day, I'd see a couple

of the same people :

a man and a woman,

always walking 

together, close and

tight, and determined.

No one ever knew 

their situation, 

whether homeless 

or indigent or 

what; but in 

every weather, 

with some bags 

and a suitcase, 

they be walking 

around, to or 

from somewhere, 

but never getting  

anywhere  -  they 

were neither 

friendly nor 

congenial, and 

just sought to 

be left alone. 

I had an old 

grade school 

chum who was 

'around the bend' 

now, as they say. 

Peter Marschak;

he'd just be, also, 

fast walking around, 

straight-backed, 

staring only straight 

ahead, eyes blazing. 

Never knew where 

he was headed 

either, but he was 

always on the 

fast-walk somewhere. 

Another grade-school 

pal, Ken Lackowitz, 

sort of crazed and 

shell-shocked out 

of Vietnam, was 

just always trouncing 

around, in his own 

little world, on a 

bicycle. Every day, 

it seemed, I always 

wished to connect, 

or re-connect, with 

these folks, see if 

I could help, whatever,

but I never did  -  

except for Ken, whom 

I did meet years later 

on the wharf in 

Perth Amboy. He 

was much improved, 

counseled and 

brought back, 

looked good, had 

a new truck, 

fishing trips, etc. 

We had a beer 

or two, and saw 

each other off.

Nice fit.

-
Remember those guys I
mentioned, the Raritan 
Center bunch? For a while
one of the connections I 
had, through printing with
 them, was the office of Air 
France, the carrier, in NYCity. 
It was like the French National 
Airline or somesuch. Every so
often, to 'service' the account, etc.
and because of the volume, I'd 
hop in our company car and
deliver to NYC, their offices
along the Avenue. I'd get to
meet faces that had just 
been phone voices, deliver 
the goods, and all that. They 
weren't, per se, 'my' client, but 
it made no difference to them 
and they just thought we 
were all the same bunch.
New York City deliveries were
always a logistical nightmare.
This time I parked on
the street, in the 40's, where
I'd found a decent spot, and 
planned, with a hand cart,
on making two or three trips
to the elevators, some five blocks 
away. Coming back from the
first trip, I saw envelopes and 
letterheads blowing all over the
street. Hmmm, they sure look
familiar. Oh no! They're mine.
While I was away, some peering 
eyes had seen the boxes in the 
rear, figured perhaps they were 
something valuable, popped out 
the vent window on the Oldsmobile 
wagon (it was lying on the front 
seat) and, seeing the valuelessness 
to them of mere printed paper, just 
thrown the stuff all around. What a 
mess, and a quirky problem too. 
Crafty thieves. I gathered up 
whatever I could, popped the vent 
window back into place, found a
dumpster to dump it all, drove 
out of there, called Air France later, 
saying there'd been an interruption 
and I'd be returning with the rest
in a few days. I got to the office 
later that afternoon, and real 
nonchalantly said (when asked)  that 
they'd liked everything, in fact 
liked it so much they'd re-ordered 
already! (Scam alert). I thereby did 
eventually fulfill the order, arrange
the UPS delivery (as I should 
have done before), and simply 
'buried' the new order, paperwork, 
and billling, with no one the wiser.  
Tough life, that business world  
-  one has to learn how to pivot, and 
think on one's feet.  Hey! I was 
getting to be just like them!