10,087. RUDIMENTS, pt. 114

RUDIMENTS, pt. 114

Making Cars

I have a couple of notions, and

they're always fun, and this here

is all true. I simply relate. When

we first moved to Avenel there

was a lady there, I guess she was

a widow  -  -  she lived right across

from the elementary school, in a

brick building fronting the street,

her half of which was her little

housing unit - back then it had

a side entrance  - gone now, and

next to it was a tiny little store

which she ran. It was very quaint

and cute, for 1955 I guess. Gloves

and shirts, towels and handkerchiefs,

all sorts of linens and such, things

referred to as 'Notions.' I always

thought that was pretty cool,

whatever 'notions' was. These

were of course still the old,

American days of small business

and stores, local people who you

knew. (When I worked as a 'dept. mgr.'

at Barnes & Noble, Clark, NJ, they

used to hire as district managers

and such all sorts of outsiders who

lived way up in Bergen County

and other places. The last guy

they brought in had previously

been with 'Staples'  -  he's now

with Bed, Bath & Beyond, or one

of those. I said to him 'Staples?'

and then asked what that had to do

with books, he said, 'It's all the

same, merchandise is merchandise,

and, anyway, (his famous quote)

'Book people are weird.' I never

got to the bottom of that one. Point

is, all local color and influence

gets lost, and no one notices. Even

here in this stupid Podunk of Avenel,

the fire house sign board always

reads, 'Buy Local.' The only thing

local around here of late are the

highway motels and their assorted

hookers and 'chambermaids'

working overtime. Outside of the

occasional tomato, grapefruit or

ice cream cone or sandwich,

everything around here has been

turned over to an endless progression

of (and happily so, as they brag

over each one like it's a big catch),

national-name chain stores, Best Buy,

Target, TJ Maxx,, all that crud that

so proudly adorns the malls and

highway plazas and all that. So

I never know what they're talking

about with all their side-splitting

comic routines. You can't even buy

a pair of pliers nicely around here,

unless you go to a big chain store.

'Locally made' or not.

-

My point was, for whatever value it

had, Mrs. Kuzmiak (the store lady)

was about as local and authentic as

you could get. A local church lady,

eventually and friend to my mother

and all her church cronies too, after

we'd moved here and got a little

settled, she probably felt, as well,

that she'd struck gold with these 300

or so new inhabitants. That always

happens at first blush  -  it fades after

a while, but first the local business

people see dollar signs everywhere,

all these newly arrived people needing

knit hats and socks and clothes. Like

having a new business, shoes or donuts,

right at the pier for the immigrant ships

as they roll in. The local ladies actually

did shop there  -  I remember all the neat

open glass cabinets and tables, with

little dividers, showing the merchandise.

It sure was NOT yesterday, but I can

close my eyes and walk through that

place just as if it WAS yesterday. And

her little house doorway too  -  gone

now. It was very neat. The flip side of

all this small-town lovey-dovey stuff,

and something that today would be

looked at aghast, with the two schools

right there across the street  -  and

something also that puts the lie to it

all, is that right there, at school-lunch

free-time, in front of Mrs. Kuzmiak's

(Modesty Alert Here!) my friend

Jimmy Yacullo and I got, right there,

taken aside by some guy, unknown,

who had a deck of cards which he

proceeded to show us, on the back

of which each card (really) had a

different naked lady with a guy's

full-blown unit in her mouth. We

were flabbergasted, not even sure

what the hell was being shown to us,

and the stupid guy chuckling 'Hee hee,

look at that! She's got the whole thing.'

That's how far afield from storybook

stuff real life really is  -  even right

outside poor, old Mrs. Kuzmiak's

dry goods and notions store.

-

I think there's always two sides to all

this goodness and happiness stuff  -  in

that, always lurking, is a dark underside

just waiting to snatch you, best intentions

aside. When you're a kid and they teach

you that the cop's your friend, you don't

really understand the safety-hatch they're

extending to you. It's a scary world. The

sun-side of life, as represented to us by

the wholesome, white goodness of Mrs.

Kuzmiak's store and self, was accompanied

by the dark-side of every bad intention

that 1957 possessed, and little did we

know. The funniest part of it was how,

by 1967, a mere 10 years later, Mrs.

Kuzmiak, in her dotage and really old

age, I guess, jumped all over my mother,

who was totally embarrassed by it all,

for allowing me to be (apparently) so

out of control  - unkempt hair, sloppy,

hippie-ish manners and all, as if it

was my mother's fault. 'What happened

to Gary?' was her complaint to my

mother in front of others and in her

church basement, at a social, no less.

My mother was humiliated. What is

it, anyway, that people do or do not

understand about others? And what

business is it of theirs anyway? So, as

soon I was able, anyway, I high-tailed

it out of town as quickly as the local

Carteret bus would take me. That's

all she wrote. I was so done.

-

Thus, for a while that was my reality, until

I forcibly changed it. I was pretty much

a 1968 mental case, I admit. The world

wasn't ready for me, and neither was I

ready for it. There was simply no

reciprocation between the two. For

a while I really did think I was lost,

but it eventually all came together.

Alienation's a funny thing  -  at first it

feels really bad and painful, but then

over time it goes away as you just begin

to rationalize you plight, and overcome

it. I mostly felt like an orphan, even

though I'd done it to myself, and you

really can't 'orphan' your self away. It's

not that simple; more like I had willingly

and knowingly repudiated anything I

once may have had. Besides, unlike all

those other kids and people around me,

I had no money for the really big things,

like, for instance, analysis  -  which was

a big NY thing at the time. Anyone who

was anything and had a smidgen of self

awareness also had a shrink, even a family

analyst. I was so far from that it was

laughable, so to buttress my own position

I constructed this whole anti-analysis

stance, about how it kills creativity and

only tries to make you normal, how it

stifles any 'impulses' one may have

towards the new and the daring, how

a complete understanding of self just

makes you into a normal everyman. My

idea was that, at seventy-five bucks an

hour, the analyst was a killer, and that

the whole point of life was the 'personal'

coming to grips with self, and attaining

awareness, and that the toil and the

struggle of all that is what made great

artists and writers. I never gave

'understanding it' first any credit.

That whole deal can be argued endlessly

and all day long, and I know I could

probably argue either side. And then,

to my fortunate rescue, came R. D. Laing,

the now-deceased philosopher of a vague

sort of pop-philosophy of the asylum

that saved me. He said, basically, that

everyone is crazy, and that the crazy

is the normal. That was good enough

for me, and all the other fine-tuned

parts of that, by 1974, I read slowly and

carefully, and found ways, through it,

to at least get by, if not save myself.

There's in fact, absolutely no way to

make those sorts of distinctions, anywhere,

nor in any form of Life. If that crazy guy,

peddling his playing cards of guys getting

their banners torched by naked babes, was

normal, then as a 7 or 8 year old, Jim

and I were the crazy ones. Undereneath it

all, I realize now, there never was any 

'idyllic' place anywhere  -  in any phase

or age of life, people were always underway

with, yes, the good, the bad, and the ugly.

The entire 'sacred' American ideal, anywhere,

was bunk, and Tom Sawyer was always

lusting for Becky Thatcher, and probably

inviting Huck and Jim in on it too.

-

I have to admit that NY City answered all

my prayers, as I professed to a belief in

nothing. This place was all about 'nothing,'

in the philosophical sense. The highest

aspirations of Humankind lived there, as did

the very lowest, and most of the real energy

was spent digging for the lowest. But I 

understood real quickly that it called for

another language, another way of speaking,

and another point of view  -  each of which

I adapted to very quickly. I've mentioned 

this once or twice before, but it wasn't 

but maybe three months or so after I was

there  -  having finally settled in and found

my place and rhythm  -  that, along 8th 

Street, which was by then 'my' street and

home, that a group of Woodbridge High

School kids stumbled upon me. There were

maybe 5 or 6 of them, out for the day on

the town or whatever, and, upon seeing 

me, it was all hi, hail, hello how are you. 

Like I was their best friend from forever  

-  these were kids who, a mere 2 or 3 months 

previous would have held me in complete 

disdain and contempt. Now I was, to them,

representative of some complete ideal of

getting away, escaping, and making all

that work. If they only knew. The best

I could do was say,' Hey, hi. Is Mrs.

Kuzmiak with you?' Well, I made those

words up, didn't say that at all. But at 

least I'd kept my sense of humor and

wits about me. Now, where's those cards?