9734. RUDIMENTS, pt. 11

RUDIMENTS, pt.11

Making Cars

It was always important to remain calm, 

I had to steady myself. Sometimes it was 

as if I was under assault : As difficult as

any of this was, visualize this  - The few

times I'd be back to visit Avenel, I'd usually

take some Carteret bus but stay on it until

it made a stop at what was called the 'White

Church' in Woodbridge, on Rahway Avenue.

This was 1967, Winter '68. The world was

not yet quite up to the sleek evenness of

today. The 'White' church didn't mean

racial segregation, that was just what it

was called. It had once been white, a 

clapboard, white church, and had gained

a sort-of landmark status by that. No longer

'white' it was covered over and modernized

and enlarged  -  some white bricks, crummy

siding, and a larger design look that had

ruined everything abut it  - Woodbridge

aesthetics at its finest, even then. By only 

a small stretch of the imagination this all

could have still been deep south stuff, but

it wasn't. Anyway, this must have been a

heavily patrolled street, because more than

once the second I'd step off that bus (I had

like a 2 mile walk yet ahead of me), the same

creepy cop would unfailingly come driving

over and stop. I knew the cop, I knew the

family. He was a clunkhead Marine guy who

was still mentally in that mode : he'd see me,

apparently, as a hippie apparition of unkempt

filth and long hair getting off the outsider

bus in his little fiefdom. Invariably it went:

'What are you doing here? How long are you

staying? Do your parents know where you are?

What are you carrying? (bag, book , whatever).'

It resembled any crazy southern-town jerk

movie you ever seen  - this was two years or

so before Easy Rider, the movie. It never got

that bad, thankfully, but I always stayed wary

while walking; never sure where this law-unto-

himself would maybe be lurking to pick me off.

It was just a thought, and I'd once been a 'Be

Prepared' Boy Scout, so I tried to think a

jump or two ahead. The guy was out of line,

but no where in Woodbridge would I have any

recourse, and the rest of the snotty force was

no different. All hail Avenel.

-

The Port Authority Bus Terminal, in NYC, from 

where I'd leave, on the bus (sometimes I took the 

train back, just to mix it up), was a cool place. The

dregs, but perfect for its day and for the level of

life I was leading. I forget, but the fare was like

eighty-five cents, and the buses, each at its own

boarding gate, were lined up at an angle. Doors 

open, so that whenever you arrived and got

ticket-ready and all that, you would just board

the bus and sit there. Until it was leaving. This 

afforded me, usually, a passing view of the others

boarding the bus, for any of the maybe 5 or 6

stops along the way. Once the bus left the NJ

Turnpike at the Carteret exit, it wove its way

through Carteret, with a few stops, and a few 

more along the way in Woodbridge to, as I 

said, my selected White Church stop. It was 

fare-beating on my part, because I only paid 

for a Carteret fare, but no one cared and these 

few extra stops were probably only worth 

10 cents more anyway. But, I used to think 

if that cop guy ever  knew I was fare-beating, 

he'd have had a good reason to lock me up, 

beat me in turn, or swat me good with his 

brave-boy nightstick and probably set bail 

at ten thousand Woodbridge-jail dollars for 

resisting arrest. So I'd sit there, watching the 

others as they boarded; the stained and 

snot-driven older men, the coy women, the 

young girl or two, always lascivious-looking 

and tender, it seemed. Or maybe I was just 

crazed myself. These were unique days, 

things were just starting to change, two 

cultures were at war for sure. Women and 

men on one side and kids of either sex 

on the other  -  making their point. Mostly 

by look, clothing, sex appeal and attitude. 

Some of these girls just dripped a hippie 

lust they only later would advertisers 

learn to sell cigarettes and perfume with, 

in ads and commercials. Funny stuff. 

Someone like me, a male, in perfect 

working order, basically appeared as 

nothing more to anyone than Vietnam 

War fodder, so no second looks from the 

eldsters (my word) except maybe the 

quizzical 'why are you here and not 'over 

there?' look. Today it's called patriotic 

gore  and all those cranks at the VFW's 

and Legions and Elks and Moose halls 

are still slopping over all that.

-

The thing about the bus ride (I always felt 

the train was much more invigorating, a 

much more exciting ride, with a slightly 

different class of people. But that was then; 

not now), was that it was a holding pen, a 

steel tube on rubber wheels, of, mostly, 

losers. People with John's Bargain Store 

packages, filled with the usual .29 cent 

NYCity trash (yes, yes, there was a time, 

1967, for sure, when .29 was the going 

price for lots of things. it was a very 

normal sum, probably the equivalent today 

of $5.99). These were people of the precipice, 

always close to the crumpled edge of something. 

The best of them would maybe be reading 

their copy of the Reader's Digest. Maybe. 

That was deep into the season of intellectual 

entertainment, like the All Star game is at 

mid-season, for baseball. Take no chances; 

ride the bus. Others would continue their 

imaginary conversation with their personal 

Savior or their own version of Sam Twiddle 

 -  debates and arguments, while the cookies 

or the baloney sandwich was brought out 

to be voice-splattered then all over the back 

of the seat before them. Sleepers and moaners. 

The greatest thing about it all, in Summer 

months, was that there would invariably, 

somewhere, be some sort of traffic slowdown 

or tie-up, whether on the turnpike itself or 

along an exiting or a small-town street. Back 

then much of the landscape was still wild  - 

the Jersey meadows, the wide-open fields  - 

and there were acres, always, of beautiful 
black-eyed Susan flowers spreading out 
alongside the waiting bus. I loved it, and 
often it was the greatest sight in the world.