10,201 RUDIMENTS, pt. 142

RUDIMENTS, pt 142

Making Cars

I don't remember anything about

getting hit by that train. I can

maybe tell myself, in dark

moments, with my eyes closed

and an almost seance-like try

at pure recollection, that I do

remember the noise, the sound,

the almost textured feel of it as

it happened. Yes. Remember, it

was while I was inside a car, so

there was probably a lot of smash,

crash, and crumble. Twisted metal

and glass. My part of the car just

kept going, taken down the tracks

by the rumbling freight some 180

feet until it was able to fully stop.

My mother's, driver-portion, of the

car stayed pretty much where it had

been. She was in-place and stunned.

I was a fair ways off and twisted up

near to death. My very own, 8-yr old's

version, blood-wedding, as it were.

It's funny now how the all those

portions of a person's life can

be looked back at long after, in

a sort of recollection, and viewed

in any of ten different ways. There's

no one who can correct you or

tell you different. We go on. It's

like extruded plastic, whatever

gets squished in later gets mushed

out, in whatever shape you've set

up for the receiving end. My story

alone. If I were to tell myself, or say

here, that I clearly remember this,

or that, part of that crash, I'd be

lying. The whole thing probably

took, what, less than two minutes

for sure  -  and that's probably too

long for what happened  -  and for

the rest of my days, 60 years gone

now, I try to remember? What sense

is that, on Life's part? Obviously it

all has to be a disappointment that  -

if life is so momentous  -  a thing like

that can simply be forgotten. And
then I realize I remember, a lot.

-

I used to think of stuff like that often.

Down on e4th street is a cavernous

bar type place, called Jonathan Swift's

Hibernian Lounge  -  that's the official

name anyway. No one calls it that; it's

just referred to mostly as Swift's. It's

just off the Bowery, across from a

place called 'Merchant's House,'

which is an intact, and kept that way,

home of some pretty 'well-off ' merchant

from about 1850 or something. I think

the name is Treadwell. There were

others just like it around it, but over

the years they'd gotten all derelict

and leaning and weakened and were

eventually all taken down. Only this

Treadwell place still stands, and they

charge you about 10 or 12 bucks to

go in. I only went once, never really

having that kind of money to pay

just to go in some old guy's old

house (of course, thinking nothing

at the same time of dropping three

or four times that amount in a

session of hours at Swift's across

the street. One was a 'museum'

and the other was real life). I have

nothing against seeing how people

in the past lived, and this was a

good one, but I still more than

that treasured, as I thought back,

those older, leaning and twisting

ones which had been torn down.

I found much more interest, over

the years, in watching them slowly

deteriorate, even for a while get

taken over by squatters and

drug-den types. To me, that's

where the interest was; as if I

was glad to see the gears meshing

as the 'old' and the 'new' were

slammed together -   the 'new'

(the present) of course winning

out, and the 'old' getting taken away.

That's what history is and it makes

better sense to me than does the

paying and the stepping into the

Treadwell house to be greeted by

two old volunteer women in period

costume pretending, or telling

me were the eggs and ham-hocks

where kept. And the other funny

thing was, for all that high-toned

futzy New York City stuff, these

ladies (to their chagrin had I told

them) were acting like no more than

some suburban geek-town denizens.

As I said I went in once, just to see,

and it was, yes fascinating. But anything

in there that fascinated me was glossed

over by them as if it were the plague

itself. Especially in the oldest portions

of the 'kitchen' as they called it. Using

that word, in places such as this was,

simply doesn't work. They're not really

'kitchens' at all, more like workshops

and prep-shops for food preparation.

The ladies act as if every corner had

a small supermarket where these happy

Treadwell folk could get their prepared

and well-cleaned foods and come home

to heat them up and dine. But, no  - 

nice try Mama Cass. These had to be

more like science-kitchen workshops.

There were tool racks, nooks and

crannies for hooks and saws and stuff,

utensils, and buckets too. Absolutely

no connection to the present day at all.

And to further add bafflement, all this

work was done for them by others.

Their 'staff.'  Usually, at first, the

indentured blacks, and later replaced

by immigrant Irish, who got like 40

cents a week to do all that privy work.

All of that is mostly glossed over too 

-  shouldn't someone at least be able

to memorialize, by the re-telling,

what really went on? Instead, they

waltz you through the house, and

down a few stairs to the outdoor

area, the 'garden, behind the house,

to point out to you the nice rows

of floral and growing stuff where

the family lounged, on nice Summer

days. Again neglecting to tell you

that all the work and container

gardening, etc., was being done

and cared for by 'household staff.'

Damn. Must be nice.

-

I of course never asked for my money

back. I just high-tailed it back across the

street and said to Bernadette (real name,

real Irish girl, accent and all), 'Bernadette,

another Guinness.' She's gone now  -  last

I knew Josephine had run off with some

guy from around there and they were

living happily  -  in Hawaii, of all places.

-

What I'm saying, I guess, is that all these

memories and versions of 'Life' as we each

tell and re-tell it, is pretty selective, or ends

up being that way. It's what you 'remember,'

more than anything else. Like me with the

train. I swear I can hear the noise and the

crash, and in that sound, deep within me,

I can re-live the moment, the crush and the

toss of the very engine that squished me

up. I can probably recollect the smell of

blood and iron as it splashed all over me.

But, I have to tell (ask) myself  -  just as in the

Treadwell house  -   what's real, and what's

true, and what ever happened and what

didn't anyway?