285. AVENEL, Pt. 7
Many wonders
abounded,
and a lot of
those wonders,
I found, were
often based on
erroneous claims.
I never made a
stink about any
of that, figuring
I saw my 'truth'
and others saw,
I guessed, their
own 'truth.' But,
there were limits.
One time, in the
course of doing
my work, I blurted
out stuff that was,
I guess, out of line.
But it had to be.
The people,
whoever they
were, who were
putting together
what came to be
known to us as
'Woodbridge Center,'
were our customers.
During the course
of construction,
and then completion
and opening, we
did a lot of printing
- everything from
planners and blueprint
stuff, to layouts and
maps, space-rental
contracts and internal
communications, etc.
I forget if it was a
'Simon and Company'
(mall builders) operation,
or not. Anyway, they
were all young, smug
corporate guys in suits
who thought they
were God's gift to
civilization, building
malls and bringing
treasures to the rabble.
It always got on my
nerves, no matter
that we were making
business, and money,
the company was
anyway, St. George
Press. I got tired of
hearing their high-handed
rubbish and supposed
commercial ideals. It
was enough bullshit
to drive a cow out of
a barn. One time,
one of these yokels
started explaining
to me and someone
else who was in the
room, I don't remember,
all the things they had
to do, to take care of,
how they were, (here's
how he put it): 'Essentially,
we're building a city
where one had not
been before.' At that,
I finally had had
enough, and snapped.
By protocol, I was
out of line, but by
reality, so was he.
He's lucky I didn't
cover him with
ink, or something.
When I was young,
those were the
Woodbridge Claypits
- orange, mucky soil,
when the least bit wet,
and hard as stone,
when dry. A large
open area, we'd race
trail bikes, do
motorcycle speed
trials, and all sorts
of things. In fact,
into the 1970's,
when no one much
really cared about
anything, people
(and me, I'm included,
when present), would
drive their cars onto
there and change
the oil - right
where it drained
and soaked into
the porous and
thirsty ground.
Just draining the
old oil right there,
onto the ground,
and putting in new,
etc. The only thing
there was a public
works garage, and
some other building
and, nearby, a local
business named
Centric Clutch, (I did
their printing too)
across the way by
Rt. 9. This Woodbridge
Center jerk was now
telling me they were
'building a city'
right there, and
throwing in, no less,
that God-damned
word 'essentially',
like it meant something.
Like he was talking
down to a dog, in fact.
'Essentially, pal, you're
an asshole. You don't
'build' cities, they grow
in place organically,
and they involve
people and situations,
and problems and
troubles, and levels
of economic situations
that need tending and
require care and
grooming and
development.
They sometimes
smell, they have
problems and conflicts.
People die and
have to be dealt
with. And besides,
you're not 'building'
a city; one already
exists right down
the road, called
Main Street, Woodbridge.
You're killing a city,
Wonder Boy; thanks
to you it's already
dwindling and dying
off.' That the essence,
pretty much exact,
just shorter, of what
I told him. He was
the future. I was
speaking up for
the past, His
slack-jawed face
froze, as if I'd
told him I knew
about his mother,
or something.
-
I just moved off,
not even waiting
for a response,
and I don't know
what they all
said about me
once I'd left the
room. I didn't
care - in any
case, I never heard
a word more about
it, nor about my
outburst. I'd already
been perceived as
a wild card, even
a danger. I think
the owner, and
his brother too,
would just laugh
me off, as long
as I didn't cost
them the account
or lose them a
bunch of money.
To them, this was
also progress,
growth and
potential. To
me, it represented
something I couldn't
even begin to explain
- a birthright or at
least an old 'feeling'
of things, getting
torn asunder,
especially as
it was made
worse by smarmy
people using words
as evil pinpricks
in to hearts and
souls of others,
all in their stupid,
myopic quest for
lucre. Their
'Corporation'
was in the business
of destroying America
- no more, no less
to be said about it.
And there I was,
doing their printing.
The expectation had
been that I'd shut up,
and stay shut up.
-
On one hand, I had
the Barron Arts Center,
a great old place, being
conserved and maintained,
its history, whether
half made up or not,
being propounded in
the name of grand
tradition and all
the owners of the
past of 'Woodbridge',
while on the other
hand a posse of smug,
out-of-town crooks
was allowed to sweep
in and plant their
devilish flag at the
other end of town,
so as to, essentially,
destroy, kill, get rid
of, it; in the name
of 'profit- and real
estate theft, and
graft and corruption
- all the millions
of dollars it took
and how long, to
go right down the
drain with this
stupid cut-out
shopping-planned-plaza.
110 acres of parking
lots, paved, non-absorbent,
sluice-pipe watered
and drained macadam.
I admit I'd never
done it any good by
dropping car oil
onto it, and I admit
that, in my day and
place, we just didn't
much know better,
but these guys bested
by 500 fold. Construction
contracts, dirty
deals, completely
un-ecological
moves, on an
approved, and
corporate, level;
all in a time when
all that crap was
ascendant, people
were beginning to
care, to be educated
about this stuff. But,
no. Instead there'd
here be discipline
and order imposed,
a controlled scheme
of things, mall cops,
parking-lot assaults
and thefts, all the
cars and roadways,
the mis-use of
waterways and the
compoundings
of car exhaust
and gasolines, so
people could have
corn-dogs while
they bought shirts.
-
Being in business,
part of the deal was
you'd 'go along'
with this kind of
stuff. The old-world
was fast fading. Across
St. George Avenue,
one of the last vestiges
of that 'old' way of
things was still in
business, just hanging
on. Napoli's Pizza. It
wasn't even really a
pizzeria, by the
standards of the day.
I did their printing
too but they didn't
do much of it. I think
most things they did
were all hand-written,
and store-bought
receipt books sort
of things Not even
with a real
cash-register. It
was, basically,
the front area of
their living quarters,
right behind the
curtain there you
could see their TV,
a living room and
stuff; you could
hear the family, the
rest of the family,
whatever, in their
household arrangements.
Built into the front
was this really plain
dining area, pizza
oven and stove, or
stoves, I forget.
The menu was
plain and simple;
a few basic tables
and chairs, a few
oddball wall-hangings,
a map of Italy, some
shiny placement
things, also with a
map of Italy and a
bunch of place names
and small pictures
- Venice, a gondola,
the Leaning Tower
of Pisa, the Coliseum,
and some other shots
of Rome. They were
plastic-coated and
washable, so they
got re-used after
clean-up. One of
the daughters or
someone brought
the food out to you,
you sat around and
ate. It was real; it
was so cool and
simple. The whole
thing would cost,
maybe eight dollars.
A real place like
this wouldn't be
let in the door
of some swank-ass
profit palace like
'Woodbridge Center.'
I wanted to wash
that creeps face
in Napoli Pizza
sauce, believe
you me.
-
But, that's how
all this went. I
had to make a
good time of it.
It was as if I was
'printing', an active
part of documenting,
the destruction of
a town. I'd grown
up here, knew all
the places, went
to the stores and
movies and shops.
All my Boy Scout
crap came out of
Christiansen's. It
was the clothing
supply-center, once,
for central Woodbridge,
right in the middle
of Main Street - an
old string of 1920's
stores, all dwindling
then and dying off.
Sandwich shops, a
diner, bars, candy
and news stores,
pharmacies - all
that stuff was
doomed. Within
five years, Woodbridge
Center would have
had its way with
old Main Street -
now just a leftover
assortment of
dollar stores,
vegetable marts,
and I don't know
what else. At
the other end,
below all this
decimation, the
new Town Hall
sits with swagger,
proud as a peacock.
For nothing at
all except attesting
to the fact that
this is a 'mobile'
community
and for all the
people moving
about, this is the
town hall for permits
and licenses and
violations. Thanks.
Nice shirt; where'd
you get it?
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