286. AVENEL, Pt. 8
I mostly stayed with
everything. I went
through thick and
thin with concepts
and situations, and
never abandoned ship
- whether it was
marriage, work, fun,
sport, travel. Where
I started, that's where
I stayed, whatever
the venture and
wherever the
destination. I
didn't much ever
like change,
although I sure
got myself
involved in
a lot of it over
time. From 509
east 11th, NYC,
to my parking
space on the
moon. Just nothing
ever real sudden.
All the change
happened slowly,
and steadily. In these
pages I try to relate
things, as I saw them
and as I mostly recall.
There are things I
never squared away
- like, 'davenport.'
What in the heck
is a davenport? That
one always bugged
me. There are multiple
levels here, of course.
I could very simply
look up the word
and see what it
means. I think it's
some sort of couch
or sofa (is there
a difference between
those two things as
well?), but that
would only tell me
the word's use and
meaning. Okay,
bully for that. It
does not, however,
or would not (I've
not looked it up)
tell me the real
import of the word,
why it hangs so
on me, why it's
always bothered
me, what other
level of some
meaningful aspect
of 'being' it impinges
on for me. Maybe
I'll never know -
but I think there
are such words or
things, for everyone.
Different for everyone.
Words of a strange
and deep, or festive,
meaning within
people's lives, the
'inside out' of the
outside world. I
figure it's a
spiritual thing,
and the world is
always way, way
deeper than we
give it credit for,
and that - in
each of our lives
- there are things
that are simply
fraught with meaning.
Unidentifiable, sometimes,
but there. The things
that bug us, entice us,
the kind of things
which we never,
ever really run
down, even to
our last, dying
days. Life's
mystery juice,
perhaps. 'The
world is too
much with us,
late and soon.'
As someone said.
-
Enough of that.
One time in St.
George Press this
absolutely crazy-gorgeous
girl started coming in,
ordering and picking
up stuff for her company,
or the company she
worked for, in Edison
- Pride Electric. I
knew right off
something was up
- she looked way
too perfect for
being an electrical
company's office
girl. She was way
more than that -
had to be an
album cover girl,
or a model, or
something, maybe
even a dancer.
Never a question
passed my lips;
just hello, hi,
how are you,
here's your order.
Then once or twice
she started coming
in with some
natty-looking,
really handsome,
suave dude. I found
out he was the son,
like maybe 25, of that
company's owner and
soon to be owner, etc.
Ok, no sweat, but
it still didn't add up.
Then one day she
mentions, 'You
know, I'm going
to be coming back
with Bob (whatever
his name was....).
We'll be needing
business cards for
our new company.'
I said sure, not a
problem. Lots of
these companies
were always
doing off-shoots
or other little
ventures; letterheads,
envelopes, bus. cards.
This girl was, shall
I say, 'fashionable'
enough to just give
me a constant
pounding headache.
Then she strolls in
one day with that
Bob guy, and they
introduce themselves
again as the owners
of a new company.
Fine, no problem.
They wanted a logo,
business cards, the
whole bit. I'm trying
to keep my mind
on my work, just
going about the
order, and they
tell me the name,
and then the gist
of their new company.
Yikes! What to do!
Their new venture
(oh so suddenly
how it all came
together) was
called 'Fourplay.'
Yep. that's right,
Fourplay. Not Fore
Play, like you'd
maybe think, and
not Fore! Play,
for golf stuff either.
This was Fourplay,
a simple play on
words, for sexual
evenings with
the two of them,
sharing their
'customers', as
it were. Intense,
loving moments,
OK? Trying to
keep my cool,
I listen. The
things they
wanted listed :
intimate surroundings,
private atmosphere,
champagne, muted
lighting, mirrors, etc.,
etc. Priced by the
hour, I forget,
something like
$140 per hour.
(I was thinking,
immediately, for
the cheapskates
out there, I could
only imagine what
that 59th minute
must have been
like if another
140 bucks were
looming). Oh well,
I did what they
wanted, figuring
an electric company
would certainly
know a lot about
getting the buzz
out of putting
something in
the socket.
Screwing the
bulb in, as it were?
It could have been
worse, I figured -
they could have
asked for
'scratch n' sniff'
ink.
-
I never even
knew if any of
that stuff was
legal, as a real
'business' venture,
but I never asked.
Just another of
the wonderful
attributes of
St. George Press.
-
For a while there
too we had working
for us (not using
names here) a guy
from Perth Amboy
whose sister had
somehow, out in
California, married
or been hooked up
with, Robbie Kreiger,
of the Doors. The
Rock Group Doors.
Without Jim Morrison,
dead already a number
of years, they would
re-group, re-master
a bunch of crap,
and go on these
mini-tours as
like a fake Doors.
All there, except
for those emotionally
intense grunts and
wails of Jim Morrison,
I guess. I never cared
much. He was, this
Perth Amboy guy,
pretty much a dolt,
and I just tolerated
him. And his stories.
One time the original
Doors guys were
having an album
party, I guess about
1984, can't remember,
for some re-mastered,
newly-found Doors
stuff. It was going
to be held at the Area
Club, 157 Hudson Street
- that was a cutting-edge,
really trendy and
breaking rock-club,
after-hours club, etc,
of 1980's NYC, just
outside (south) of
the Holland Tunnel,
on Hudson Street.
I passed it a million
times - there were
certain days, evenings,
nights, when there
were people, punks,
rockers, models, you
name it, stars, artists,
'rock' journalists, and
rich people too, lined
up for a full block,
just hanging out so
as to get in later.
I never went in,
though I was invited
to this big Doors
listening party. One
of the crazy guys
I worked with,
named Don S.,
who was going
out with this guy's
other sister, they
went, having gotten
invitations from
Krieger. This Don
guy was an itinerant,
pool-cue hitchhiker
who'd bounce around
the country, pretty
much with only
his pool cue-stick,
in a little suitcase
thing, and, going from
bar to bar and pool
room to pool room,
bet on games of pool,
until he won enough
for whatever he
then needed. Every
so often he'd just
be tapped out, broke
or busted, and he'd
call his uncle (the
owner of St. George
Press) for some
money and
transportation
to chill out awhile
in Colonia. He
was crazy as a
loon, in the most
admirable way -
boozing and
fornicating were
perhaps his two
best assets. I said
perhaps. There
was one period,
this period I'm
speaking of, when
he 'gave up the road'
for a while - too
hard a life, too
much danger. Also,
running from the cops,
and having warrants
out in about 4 states
probably helped.
His uncle, newly
single again at
the time too, took
him in, for about
a year, and gave
him work, a job.
With me. I learned
so much from Don
I could probably
write it on a gravestone
- I think it would fit.
I coached him through
things; some things
he did on his own,
a few customers
we shared. He
kept a light load,
and it was fun.
Mostly. There
would be times
where he'd suddenly
be incommunicado
for three or four
days, stuck down
in Keansburg
(Club Miami, a regular
haunt), hung up
'with a mother-daughter
deal' in some God-awful
duplex somewhere.
I picked him up a
few times. A mutual
friend, Louie, also
living in Keansburg
was his close buddy.
Until he drove his
white, used Cadillac
one time into the
Keansburg surf,
(a lot of stuff can
happen when you're
drunk big time), which
isn't hardly any surf
at all since it's a really
crummy bay, and
lost his teeth too,
in the bargain. Yes,
this is all true. We
waded around for an
hour, looking for
uppers and lowers
in the God-damned
salt water while Louie
was basking away,
comatose, in some
Keansburg jail cell,
plus losing his '77
Caddy in the bargain,
with a police tow and
impound to pay as
well. Louie had a
wife and about 14
kids. All 3 years
old, somehow.
Busy year, I guess.
Well anyway, there
was one Louie-wife,
of sorts, that I got
to know. We never
found the teeth.
That family all
ended up in Florida,
somewhere. And
Don, last I knew,
after a stint in Houston,
TX, sells used cars
in New Orleans,
actually with a
wife and child
too. No, wonders
don't ever cease.
-
Now, I could go on,
for days, with St.
George Press stories
alone, but I know
it's probably boring;
plus, I know you
probably want
the phone number
for Four Play,
which number I no
longer have. Remember
too, please, that girl
I mentioned - if she
was like 25 in 1984,
I'm sure by now
she's only 26 or
27, correct? So
be careful what
you wish for too,
all you young
roosters of the walk.
Leave her for me
then. I'll find that
number somewhere.
If you can't find her,
just ask Don.
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