10,032. RUDIMENTS, pt. 124

RUDIMENTS, pt. 124

Making Cars

Life can be a dynamic, or it can be

a static. Comfort and ease are always

static. I think that the 'comfort' factor

eventually takes over  -  most people

after a while just cease seeking change,

and opt for the routine and the regular.

There's nothing wrong with that, but it

becomes a slower and duller world. One
of the problems with 'running in place'

is that you quickly enough wear out the 
ground upon which you are by that

running-in-place, stalling. Some people

accept that, and they end up happy

enough  -  in the same unknowing way

they end up with a basic vocabulary that

probably uses the same 450 words over

and over but in different variations.

I've always felt, by contrast, that a

punch was better than a massage.

-

A year and a half ago, I was driving

down to Florida and stopped for 'night

two' along the way (no rush here) at some

plain-flake Motel 6 or Budget Motor

Lodge along the way, in Georgia. My

driving was calm and serene, the passing

parade of places and sights was grand.

I had what I needed, and was just on the

move. A placid world like that sets you

up for surprises, since it's not like that

for everyone  -  there are countless

others in the midst of churn, deviating

along the way, smashing into one or

another obstacle or problem, constantly.

Such 'running in place' is fraught with

the strife and the sadness of loss, need,

and want. (Don't get me wrong at all,

I'm in those same straits, but I handle

it differently and do not consider myself

stalled or static). In any case, proof-to

point, that evening, about 6pm (it was

January, and early-dark) there was a

tap at my door  -  seriously. And a

thin, presentable, but sad-looking,

black girl was at the door, asking if

I'd like any 'services' for the evening

and that she was available to be back

for perhaps 10 pm or so, pending the

arrangement (and money). I felt extremely

sad, for her, realizing instantly that her

prediction of money-making had somehow

hooked her up with the motel proprietor,

(who probably got a cut) and probably

the 4 or 5 other motels there within a

stone's throw as well. This girl's plight,
whether under the heavy-hand of

some pimp or not (whatever they call
the guys who run stables of girls and

get the proceeds), was saddening to see.

[A pimp is the owner, a John is the
end-user - had to check that out]. I
have nothing actually against tossing

it down whenever and where, but this

format of hire (even if she was, perhaps,

a 'entrepreneur' and just doing it for

herself) really threw me, and, once she

saw there was also a 'wife' inside the

room, she skedaddled. Perhaps it

would have been a set-up for a robbery

or fleecing. Had she known my wife, who
might have said, 'Yeah, come and join us.
How much ya'want?' - she might not
have fled so quickly. I do not know. But 
the instance has since stayed with me.

-

Grinding American, Georgia-type

poverty? Despair and abuse? I

wouldn't know. Dynamic or static,

the poor girl's life seemed already

set, and this was no more than 30

miles from Savannah, where all that

Southern history and bucolic old-city

charm made mention  -  on a hundred

placards and markers  -  of the high and

steady historic value of the places and

the city itself, with groups of tourists

from here and from there. Not once

was a mention noted or made of the

obverse side of all this out on the crude

and cruel interstates rolling by. I wondered
of some sort, perhaps, of a remnant of
black-bondage or slave-servitude.

-

I'd known and seen ('known' meaning

'hi hello again,' not the other, biblical,

sense) my share of street girls in NYC,

and they were always full of it, the

bustle and frankness of rock-tough,

take-no-shit New York doggedness.

('Look, Buster, ya' want this or don't

cha?' Don't fuckin' waste my time

otherwise'). They were different, in

the sense that, first off, never was I sad

a minute for any one of them because

they'd apparently and brazenly made

their choice and were enjoying, probably,

what they were so good at. There was

no hint of a sorrow or a hesitation in

their voice or work, and they probably,

for a few good years anyway, hauled in

fifty bucks an hour for themselves,

AFTER their guy's take. American

small-business ethos at its finest and

underway  -  no matter the occasional

violence, disease, death or beatings.

They were ready, and I'd often break

toast and coffee with them at any of

the three or four lower west-side dock

diners back then, where the waitresses

were most probably retired versions

of the girls themselves. It was all tough,

banter, chatter, and bluster. They knew

each other and they talked. Later, the

Javits Center was built right over their

prime performance area and work-grounds,

and by the seventies, much of the

'service' factor of that enterprise had

taken to the insides of cars, large cars,

the morning street there was littered

with condoms. 'Careful where ya' walk,

Charlie. It gets slippery around heah.'

-

It's funny when 'illegitimate' labor

gets its own workplace. Even for that

tired, sad, old girl in Georgia, there

was such a location even if it was a

normal, routine Motel 6. I began 

wondering how many other people, 

over the years, have been faced with 

this and whether or not the inherent

Georgia-racial-bias here was a remnant

of the past, or just an exceptional 

moment of now? Was she herself

bored and disgusted by her routine?

Was there any real money or friendship

in it? So many questions, so few answers.

I was almost tempted to just say, 'come

on back later, we'll just talk.