9718. RUDIMENTS, pt. 7

RUDIMENTS, pt. 7
Making Cars

It's mostly about how language evolved.

I had a friend, as a kid, who used to say

'thee-ay-ter' for the word I knew as

theater. Never could figure that out.

Local, neighbor, friend. A bit slow

in the computation department, I

always thought. His father was the

local postman, and moonlighted too,

right nearby, at the Americana Motel.

He was part porter, part doorman,

and part security. The American was

one of a series of hot-sheet motels right

here along Rt. One, both directions.

Little did I know, as a kid, this highway

strip of nothingness, Avenel, had a

regular reputation of having these

trysting places, one after the other  -

the tiniest little roadside cabins, right

up to regular motels, hourly rates.

Basically, it's where you took someone

to get laid. Secretary at lunchtime,

girlfriend, a buddy's wife, neighbor.

Whatever. Most of them, in fact, had

little walls and things around them

so your car was hidden for the duration

of the hump. No detectives or wives

could easily tell you were there. Later

on, even the local cops got in on the

deal, a few of them, about 1978, opening

one called the Loop Inn. Before that,

the biggest deal was the La Mirage.

I never frequented either, but was told

by those in the know : jungle room,

mirrored ceilings, theme rooms, the

'equipment', etc. My friend Don was

a pro at all this. When I first got wind

of this I was taken aback. Only later

did I learn that, once, long back, this

was really fringe area for the old southerly

flow of NY-to-shore traffic, and the other

direction too, of course, and all these

little way-stations once involved needed

stops for what used to be much longer

journeys and real treks. Food, lodging,

and even encampments. One of those

encampments later turned into the

trailer park at the end of my road.

'Hiram's Trailer Park.' Once it was

also a roadside eatery and fruit and

vegetable stand stop too. That was 

all gone by my time there. I had a 

few friends from that trailer park. 

In that much different, and much slower, 

world, things had another set of identity. 

Travel was a chore, of some interest, 

yes, but still human. A biblical move 

across the landscape. Not like now.

-

So, my friend, back to him, and thee-ay-ter.

Where would he have picked up that fancy

pronunciation? I couldn't figure it out and

often wondered if there were other words

he spoke differently  - that whole tomAto,

toMAHto thing. Did he even know his

quibbling pronunciation was so different?

I never knew, but it certainly wasn't anything

refined or special that he'd gotten from his

father  -  postman, regular guy, doorman at

the local brothel, for all I knew. His mother

was a cipher  -  in the house, never seen

except maybe when hanging laundry in 

the yard. So I never knew. But, you now,

that 'rudiment' thing kept popping up. No

matter they were, at core, they too sought 

their dignity of being. Like anyone else;

to them the world was trim and proper, 

and they belonged.  I never really got to 

talk much, deeply, with him, because as a

kid he just never talked much. We'd walk home

from school, as far as the mailbox that used

to be at the corner of Clark Place and Inman

Avenue, where I'd go straight and he'd turn

left to go up Clark Place. It's funny, as kids,

it seems there was always something to mutter

on abut  -  TV, a movie, a ball game, a girl.

Whatever, even in fifth grade. Rudiments,

again. Like the really normal people who just 

go along making the world : cars and car parts.

the ideas for brakes and accelerators and

carburetors. Pools and tents. Baseball gloves,

sneakers, belts for one's pants. A million

little things. My friend died really young;

by the time he was 25, he was gone. Too

bad. We never covered any of that final

ground I'd have liked so much to have

known more about.