289. AVENEL, Pt. 11
It wasn't a hammerlock.
It wasn't a half-Nelson.
Nor was it quite a
full-body slam, but
life had me, and good.
All along the way -
the few hulking guys
living in the trailer
court on the highway
end of my block -
they were 'professional'
wrestlers, circuit guys
mainly, who'd run the
fairs and expos along
the seasonal routes,
and were, as well,
often featured on one
or another dreary, black
and white, TV wrestling
showcase. It wasn't
anything like now,
with the high-breasted
babes and the skin-tight
clothing, showing off
for everyone while
voracious Neanderthals
behind them have to
be held back from
setting off to kill one
another. It was much
different, almost a
task, slowly running
down, a black and
white ho-hum.
These trailer-court
guys had kids,
boys anyway, (I
never saw a
wrestler-daughter
in my day) and
usually not a wife
around either. They
were tough hombres,
and had funny names
- I can't remember,
but stuff like Haystack
Calhoun and such.
Killer Kowalski.
They grunted. They
drank beer. Their
kids were okay,
rough-hewn and
always ready for
something. But
all a bit slow in
the head too.Then
I went away, to
the seminary,
and when I did
return, those
years later, all
that stuff was
gone. The trailer
court was still
there, and is
now, but it was
all changed
over, as was
its 'quality'
factor. I used
to know a
seminary kid,
actually, who
was a rabid
follower of all
this wrestling
stuff, all those fake
holds and silly
story-lines and
personas, and he
even used to talk
of being at home
and actually going
to these things -
wrestling matches,
and cheering and
screaming at it
all. I always
figured it was
just staged and
fake stuff, a good
show. What was
even funnier, and
I'm not going to
delve here or go
all religious on
you, was how I
was so easily
able, in the
seminary, to
equate his love
of this wrestling
pomp and gimmick
with so much of
the Catholic doctrine
we were getting
pumped with - if
he fell for one I
figured he'd be
the kind of person
who'd easily fall
for the other as
well. Same kind
of mat-game,
just maybe a
different referee.
-
I'd been around
the block, more
than around the
block already
by the time I
had these other
places - the
printing gigs,
as it were.
Schooling,
educating,
library, digging
facts and ideas
out for myself,
and then, of
course, my own
entry into the
world of ideas
by way of my
own peculiar track
- William Blake,
Albert Pinkham
Ryder, Odilon
Redon, Joseph
Cornell, and all
those crazy writers
and playwrights
and poets of the
past (real and
imagined; whatever)
- a real raft load
of cranks and
eccentrics. Maybe
how you live is
how you learn.
-
At one point, as cool
as the old granary
was at the bottom
of Main Street (next
to the theater, next to
the old Town Hall),
Appellate Printing
upped and moved to
the center of Main
Street - this was
major and really neat
- into the old, granite,
heavy and ponderous
1910 era Woodbridge
National Bank building.
Which had been just
that; a bank. Back when
banks were huge,
church-like, serious,
respectful and almost
religious. I guess I
wasn't much around
for the actual 'moving'
because I just don't
recall it. One day it
was just there, in the
new location, and I
never did get back
to that granary. The
entire operation
moved to the old
bank. Crazy, spacious,
massive layout, with
a second level, overlook,
balcony, for the offices
and stuff. Like a choir
loft in some old church.
It was amazing - big
slabs of granite and
marble around, here
and there a column.
A few new plywood
partitions went up,
but not much at all,
and the whole place
worked great as a
print-shop, from
a bank. Pretty cool.
There was a
Woolworth's across
the street, an A&P,
small-town version,
hardware stores, a
diner, clothing stores,
jewelers. The whole
mix of Americana,
hurting big-time
already, but still
there. There'd
actually be people
along the sidewalk,
strolling and shopping,
delivery trucks,
'sections' of the
business quarter
that each felt different.
A gas station at each
end. The real estate
mogul for all these
holdings, and more,
was some guy named
Harry Halpern. I
learned later he was
anxious to get this old
bank place inhabited,
before it began
crumbling, so he'd
made us some good
deal to get us out of
the granary, which
he wanted to fix up
and change over
(except that it
stayed vacant for
years after), and
into the bank
building. Harry
Halpern somehow
owned a Woodbridge
real estate empire
like you wouldn't
believe. It always
seems to me that
very often people
get to great success
and riches in spite
of themselves -
the most dull, the
most insensitive,
the least reflective
persons among us
often get there
nonetheless.
Scrambling over,
as it were the
bodies and places
and feelings of
what they've
destroyed along
the way, without
even thinking of
it, I know, through
my St. George Press
connections later
on, one guy of this
sort, to whom one
day, after he'd bought
his perhaps 10th parcel
of pristine land to
ruin and build upon
or refurbish the old
building upon, I just
asked 'why?' In asking
him to tell me what
drove him to do these
things - he already
had tons of money,
rents rolling in,
product everywhere,
a veritable kingdom
of work and riches
all in his favor,
he looked at me
and replied, in all
earnestness evidently,
'Well you can't build
pyramids any more
- I guess these are
my pyramids.' Very
weird response, in
fact completely
bizarre, preoccupied
as it seemed to be
with self and
attainment and
nothing more. In
addition to which
this was the kind
of guy who, I don't
think, had ever
cracked open a
book nor had any
interest in learning
about stuff, most
especially about
Pharoahs, ancient
Egypt, ancient
religions and
traditions, or
anything. You
know why?
Because, he
would say, it
doesn't make
you any money.
Harry Halpern, much
less self-conscious,
was otherwise the
same way. I don't
think there was a
self-reflective bone
in his body. I don't
think he ever reflected
on things or thought
about any of it - it
was all figures,
profit and loss,
numbers, and
opportunity. He
had construction
projects all over
town, rows of new
1960's split levels
going up, 'garden'
apartments, and
all this was before
the days of 'condos'.
These were just
rental units and
houses for sale.
He had dump
trucks running
in every direction
- loads of dirt,
stone and rubble,
coming and going.
One of the guys
I worked with,
Bill Konowalow
again, drove for
him as a side-job
now and then -
just loads of dirt
and stone, back
and forth, filled
and them emptied,
all day long. He
(Halpern) used to
have a big mansion,
for himself, alone,
on upper main
street - now it's
been torn down,
and is just used
as a truck lot for
his remaining
company's junk.
Harry's long dead.
Anyway, Harry
was a small guy,
always in work
khakis; you'd think
he was a bum or
a loafer. Honestly.
No pretension,
and he just didn't
care - the real
opposite of that
Emil guy. But, he
was OK to talk to,
distant, a wee
unfocused, but
you could talk
back and forth
and feel good. He'd
hang around sometimes,
just wasting a bit of
time (actually, he was
probably, at the same
time, sizing up the
building, checking
out our uses of it
and possibilities
for whatever future
use he could give it).
These sorts never
do anything for
nothing. No slouch,
there. He's dead
now, and he's
without his
pyramid too,
far as I can tell.
'Least I ain't
never seen it.'
-
You learn things
after a while -
places where NOT
to leave your traces,
chalk-lines and
evidences you
should not leave
as markers, what
to avoid and all that.
That's the kind of
stuff boozers and
crooks start forgetting,
and it catches up
to them somewhere
- some smart-ass
cop or detective,
still hounding
around two years
later, will find
something, and
it'll snag them.
One damn little
piece of something
you didn't do
correctly or
thoroughly. Got
careless. It's the
sort of thing that
these guys never
seemed to do -
developers, builders,
and all that. They
always have
everything covered,
all plans to fruition,
and the rest. For
a while, a long
while, I never
knew why or
how that occurred.
Then, after exposure,
in my printing years,
to these guys, I
realized it's all
about complete
control over each
deal - who you
buy, who you
pay off, and
who's in your pocket.
Variances get
switched, zoning
gets changed,
parcels get bought
today at 70 grand,
because at present
what appears cheap
and worthless only
you know will
tomorrow be a
strip mall or a row
of homes, and you
sell five months later
for 580 grand. (I
just plugged in random
numbers here), but
believe me I know
of it. I was witness
once of two Woodbridge
bright and proper
professional types
who bought and
sold and turned
back over to one
another a parcel
of property (now
a huge dental clinic)
from which the
secondary owner,
in about two hours,
walked away from
the deal 800 thousand
dollars richer. From
nothing but the stroke
of a pen and the transfer
of some plans.The
entire snaky deal went
through like a knife
through butter, in
fact a warmed knife
through a bar of butter.
It was as if one of
those Inman Avenue
wrestling guys had
gotten involved,
decided what to
do and how, which
moves and holds
to use, and they
threw the entire
deal, flat-out
down to the mat,
in about 10 minutes.
A perfect headlock.
Fight over. You win.
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