288. AVENEL, pt. 10
Angel never talked
much. He listened
and all, but the only
real communication
he made was with
Emil, in the presence
of Emil. They got
on fine, but nothing
in Spanish - more
just areal preliminary
version of English.
Even in the car rides
with me, Angel just
listened, while I went.
on. Occasionally, I'd get
a grunt or response of
a few words, or a smile.
I would just go on in
a speed-rattle, about
the things passing us
by. Observations, my
snide comments, my
humor. Angel always
was wearing what
were then called white
chinos; before jeans,
kind of, just a basic
white pants. A lot of
Spanish guys liked that.
The fact that they were
white kind of sucked for
him, because the work
of a print shop gets
messy. Never stopped him
though. On the other
hand, Emil, the old guy,
he continually came to
work in a tie and jacket,
and then took it off when
he began work. He'd
throw on this really
cool, full-coverage
leather apron, and a
printer's visor cap
kid of thing, like a
card dealer or maybe
a telegraph guy or
something. Emil was,
as I said, from Nutley -
a kind of ritzy community
adjacent to Newark; it
was from where the
Newark money people
came, or went to, went
they made it. Business
and all. Emil used to take
his own great pride in
only being 'seen' in the
successful clothes and
bearing of a 'gentleman'.
He would never be seen
around with work clothes,
saying things about how
a man's pride is in his
bearing and appearance
(thank God he never
saw me now), the way
way he appears to
others, no matter what
he 'did' or what the
reality was. It seemed
a tad disingenuous
to me, as if he was
maybe faking
something, or afraid
of being seen for
himself, or something.
Like, why was he
going through all
this travail for a
little job like this,
if he was so much
better than it? It
made no difference
to me; I hated being
'dressed'. Anyway,
the thing I could
never figure was
why these two -
from the same
neck of the
woods, both
pretty near to
the Newark train
station (to which
Emil got himself,
for each trip. He'd
arrive, and he'd
leave on a Newark
train, at the train
station, right nearby
to us), why couldn't
they just do all this
stuff together,
and why did they
need me, Angel
anyway, for the ride
and transportation?
It dawned on
me that perhaps
- just perhaps -
this Emil guy's
selective vision
of his own self
did not include the
space to be seen
with the 'likes' of
this Spanish guy
being with him.
Suit and tie, yeah.
Class, or racism.,
maybe too?
-
No matter, Emil
was cool. His big
thing was in counting
down the days to
what he called
'Tax Freedom
Day.' I never
much knew,
back then, what
he was talking
about, but it went,
for me, as follows:
A regular guy had
to work until about
mid-May, each
year, before the
money he made
started being his
own. In other
words, the
government's
take on an
individual's
yearly work-pay
took until the
middle of May
to be paid,
if you looked
at it in that way.
Of course, they
take small
increments on
a weekly basis
so you don't
'notice'. But
Emil's point
was if they did
it this way instead,
everyone would
see and go nuts
over it. Emil's
also the guy
who gave me
the idea of why
Election Day
is in November
and Tax Day is
in April, and
diametrically
opposed to it by
six months on
the calendar. He
said if they were,
as they should be,
right next to each
other, a person
would vote their
anger at having
just paid taxes,
and turn the bums
out. For a 17 year
old or whatever
I was then, that
was eye-opening
news; never heard
about that in school.
had a good head,
spoke well, talked
a lot - not too
much about the
old days, of which
I wished I'd asked
more, but mostly
about his own
disgruntlement
with the way things
were. A bit of a
crank. Curmudgeon,
I think it's called.
The other (this is
a bit odd) thing I
noticed, seeing
other older guys
come and go
through the shop,
was that Emil
wasn't one of
those always
making cracks
about sex, and
women, and
stuff. He simply
never went there,
while - for all
these other guys
- everything was
snide and sniveling
all the time. Sex this
and sex that, girls
and their shapes
and parts and habits,
dirty jokes, picture
cards, the whole bit.
I always just thought
it went with the
territory. Not for
Emil though.
-
Emil would come
in, hunker down,
and go right to
work, solid,
steady, eight
hours on a
letterpress machine.
He also always
brought the most
tidy little bag
lunch, and would
sit, stop, and eat
a sandwich in
silence. Not a
peep - and for
all his other chatter,
that was something.
-
Angel, on the
other hand, along
with Bill Konowalow,
from Milltown, by
East Brunswick,
would go to one
of the small offset
presses we had,
Multilith 1250's,
as I remember -
and just turn it
on and begin
printing the day's
work, which had
been all laid out
and sequenced
for him. Still just
never said much.
Me and some
other guy (I
forget his name,
Doug or Dennis,
or something; a
Rutgers guy),
who we called
'Weirdo Beardo'
because he had
one, and was
one, would do
the other work
- it involved
collating, folding,
arranging booklets
for stapling and
binding, trimming
and cutting,
packing and
the rest. There
was a ton of
inside the shop
printing stuff to
do, always. And
then I'd get the
deliveries too.
The deliveries
were another
matter, because
most of this all
was legal printing
- appeals, briefs,
transcripts, texts
of opinions and
trial-testimonies
and studies. Mostly
it was just the
most simple
reproduction
work - unlike,
later, for me,
St. George Press,
which was a real
print shop, with
a graphics and
art department,
typesetting
equipment,
state of the art
junk, Appellate
was just a repro-house,
a mess of paper and
small presses. The
briefs and things
had to be docketed
in different courts
for appeals (thus
'Appellate Printing') -
Trenton, Philadelphia,
Newark, even NYC
sometimes - so I'd
often be flying
around like a
hundred miles
an hour to get to
a clerk's office
or a courthouse
somewhere,
Hackensack to
Haledon, anywhere.
By three PM,
before which
time they had to
be time-stamped
and entered with
that day's date.
Speeding tickets,
parking violations,
I'd get them all;
but they all got
squashed from
some inside
connections the
owner had, at
Appellate. I've
written about
some of these
adventures before,
in another collection
of these tales, so I
won't recount here.
We also did a lot
of printing with
and for Rutgers
Newark, Law School;
so a lot of my stories
relating to that came
out of there. Memorable
occasions. I was still
young, had a lot of
crap ahead of me,
but it all worked
out.
No comments:
Post a Comment