293. THROW ME AT
SOMETHING, PLEASE
I was apart as
much as I was
whole. To me it
all sounded very
weirdly as if it
could be some
seminary lesson -
from the differences
comes the oneness,
and all that. In the
seminary, we never
did get much math
taught - the joke
was, or mine was
anyway, 'why would
they teach us math?
Here, in a place
where three always
equals one?'
-
However old I was,
a kid, an adolescent,
young adult, whatever
stupid category they
put down for me, (old
enough to kill, good
for Vietnam, or to
be killed, so sorry)
I was broken and
sundered too. A
part of me was
this, a part of me
was that, and each
part again wanting
to be something
else. How's a
young person
supposed to get
any direction from
that? What do you
take? Where do
you go? I felt
sundered, hell
I felt forty ways
to sundered - I
innately knew
what I wanted
to be, nay, what
I had to be doing,
so I did that. Two
things in my life
made 3-in-1 one
products : a household
lubricating oil company,
and the catholic doctrine
company I'd lost. It was
gone and I wasn't
getting it back. But
the world was not
responding to my
needs either, it was
not answering my
call. Down at the
bottom of Main
Street, Rahway
Avenue, about
this time there
was still an
Oldsmobile Dealership,
Woodbridge Olds in
fact, at that corner,
and a rounded,
corner, brick tavern
right connected to it.
I never got the name
of it, but often as
I passed, walking,
bicycle, or car,
I'd see people
coming and going
- not many, don't
get me wrong -
but I'd see them
- there were some
sleazeball project
apartments right
across the street -
it was only thirty
years later that I
learned they were
owned and managed
by this Metuchen
guy named Stanley
Lease (real name),
who had Lease
Realty. He owned
a ton of buildings
in Woodbridge
and Perth Amboy.
None of them kept
up very well, and
all rented out to
lower echelon
types. Stanley
lived in Metuchen,
a big house right
on what was called
Tommy's Pond,
and when I had
an office there
at 719 Main Street,
he was my landlord
too, for the office
- so I got to know
him. He and I
drove into Perth
Amboy once,
because one of
his duplex tenants
had left behind a
motorcycle in the
basement. He
wanted me to
see it, thinking
it was worth a
billion dollars
to him if he sold
it. It was a real
piece of junk
15 year old
Honda Goldwing,
probably worth
600 bucks, if it
even ran. Sorely
disappointed,
we rolled away.
Stanley's also
the guy who,
in 1998, decided
I would be great
as a candidate
for Mayor, in
Metuchen, where
I lived then. I
took the bait,
like a fool. What
a disaster. Maybe
I'll relate that
story again
sometime here.
Anyway, this bar
- I figured a lot
of the local corner
drinkers just rolled
out of bed and
some time by
afternoon got
their shady asses
across the street.
Cars and taverns
belong together
anyway, right?
In its waning
years, Woodbridge
Olds became a
printing client
of ours too, at
St. George Press,
after all those car
advertising guys
had been moved
in. Small, small
world. Always.
I wondered what
sort of wholeness
those people, who
drank there, fit
into; if they
found themselves
complacent,
complete. Or
was their drinking
a way of reaching
that missing
completion?
Was everyone like
me? There were
so many things
in the air right
then, my air, I
felt like a
water-balloon
filled to burst.
Just throw me
at something.
Please.
-
It was like that
Mark Twain book
called Huckleberry
Finn. It's really two
different books,
in one. At Chapter
Sixteen, it all of
a sudden takes a
different tone,
different action,
even the writing
style and point
of view are altered.
See, Mark Twain
had originally
written the book,
up to Chapter 16,
and then put it
aside, and it
stayed aside
for a number
of years. Later,
when he took
it up again to
complete it,
his earlier Mark
Twain voice was
gone - he'd changed,
been transformed
some, had money
and lots of other
problems, travels
and experiences.
So, of course, the
remainder of the
book takes on a
whole other
coloration. I
loved Huck Finn;
he was me all the
way - anarchic,
rude, opinionated,
onto his own way
about things, surly,
worried, reflecting
on things all the
time, feeling sorry
for old Nigger Jim
and Pap, and
everybody, and
their feelings,
dead and alive,
even those two
ridiculous English
fakers, and the
Grangerfords and
the Hendersons,
whoever those
feuding families
were. (That was
quite a battle of
slaughter, by the
way). At the same
time, to finish the
book, Twain drags
Tom Sawyer
back into the
action, running
things - boy I
hated Tom Sawyer,
he represented
everything else,
he was the
anti-Huck
for sure : logic,
control, reason,
poking fun at
people, insensitive,
hurtful, fake and
pushy. I tell you,
had I been there
I'd have stabbed
him. Stabbed him
dead, and put his
lifeless clump on
a big raft to float
down the river
some to be
consumed by
riverside dogs.
I just couldn't
take to anything
he did - like me,
Mark Twain was
suffering right
then from that
same two-halves
disease. What's
it gonna' be - this
way or that, Tom
is it, or Huck?
I never knew
if anybody saw
in this way, but
the split was
perfect and
clear too for
me. I never
actually knew
anyone anyway
who'd really read
the book, carefully.
I know a ton of
people always
say they have,
but I think that's
just for school
stuff, where you
can fake a lot
without really
doing what you're
supposed to have
been doing - like
reading Huckleberry
Finn, for real. Somehow,
Huck, and the whole
Huck world, lost out.
Tom Sawyer was the
business-man, the
rational world, the
profit and gain,
balance-sheet
guy, always
figuring, always
compounding
things with
his stupid,
plain-ass,
boring schemes.
In the Adventures
of Huckleberry
Finn, I wanted
him gone - I
mean Tom Sawyer
here, not Huck.
Gone in the worst
way imaginable.
Whatever it would
be - drowning
and then eaten by
dogs and dragons
and then spit back
up to be consumed
once more, by
riverside goats,
and dogs again
too. I was with
Huck. When he
lit out, escaping
everybody, for
points west, I
was with him.
The whole world
beckoned that
ragamuffin boy.
-
Funniest thing was,
right then, I actually
wasn't with him.
I was looking
down the maw of
something staring
back at me, raring
to get me and get
me good. The
treachery of
being normal.
It had me for a
while, but I knew
I'd breakaway,
and I did, soon
enough.
-
In Woodbridge,
about that time,
mid 60's, whatever,
there was a yearly
Miss Woodbridge
contest - four or
five girls from
the high school
were selected to
run for the crown,
garner votes and
popularity and
all, and whoever
got the most
votes by whatever
date it was, was
crowned Miss
Woodbridge -
trophy, sash,
tiara, probably
50 or a hundred
bucks. I forget.
There was this
sleazeball,
squeakily, eerie
local real estate
guy back then,
Richard Bassarab,
who looked
clean like Glen
Campbell looked
clean, back then,
and who was
somehow put
in charge of this
program/contest.
He'd gotten, for
the task, a new
Plymouth Fury,
convertible,
unlike the cops'
cars in town,
which were
also Furies,
new, but -
naturally- hardtops.
His was painted
maroon, and
there was some
insignia on the
side or something,
for Miss Woodbridge
and all that. He'd
drive the girls,
one or two at
a time, around
to various functions
and locations,
where they were
supposed to
campaign for
themselves,
drum up votes,
do that whole
'wholesome'
routine to make
people happy.
I never remembered
who was who,
nor who won,
or any of that.
This Richard
Bassarab guy,
in the meantime,
would often
enough be in
NJ Appellate,
hanging around,
talking, getting
printing, whatever.
We all got to know
him a bit, Bill and
me there anyway.
Neither of us
ever quite
knew what he
was up to with
these girls, nor
how much his
'driving them
around' entailed.
It was always our
mystery, what he
was up to, and we
envied him some
anyway - picking
up high school girls,
for free, doing his
job, and whatever
else he did, and
probably getting
paid nicely for it
while he waltzed
them around
everywhere.
Anyway, kind
of creepy, and
he seemed like he
might have been
gay anyway. The
girl who eventually
won, whoever
she was, she'd
get to lead the
town parade,
July 4th maybe,
I forget, sitting
on the back of
the seat in his
open car, waving
to everyone and
throwing kisses.
It was all some
Andy Hardy
version of reality
anyway - on the
other part of that
same spectrum,
high school boys,
right there, were
getting churned
up and sent to
the ringer of
Vietnam. Escorted
around in tanks, so
to speak. Hoo-hah,
there. So, as I said,
this 'Richard' Bassarab
guy always had us
befuddled, riding
around all the time
with these healthy
girls. We just laughed
it off - figuring
they didn't call
him Dick for
nothing.
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