10,236. RUDIMENTS, pt. 151

RUDIMENTS pt. 151

Making Cars

I'm far from being someone

who notices everything; but not

much  -  in the same vein  -  gets

past me. A part of me wants to

say 'environment' (meaning, where

I live), is very important to me.

But if that was strictly the case,

you'd correctly say, 'Then what

are you doing here, good God.'

That would be valid  -  this place

is a cultural dung-heap, a wreckage

and a ruin, and a sluice pipe, as well,

of lies and corruption. I know that.

I keep my eyes peeled, believe me,

for anything I can catch to pin on

people  -  and if I ever scientifically

can point to and prove corruption,

I'll be the first to trot it out. The

New York Times (I was researching

the agencies and the government

links to which to contact and share

information), says most endemic

governmental corruption is not the

big-city stuff but is most prevalent

and made manifest in the smaller 

towns and municipalities. Things

change hands, deals are made and

buried, quid-pro-quo ('this for that')

goes on all the time (yay knowing 

Latin!). A new car, a season pass 

to the country club and swimming 

pool, the re-paving contract you're 

cut into for some kick-back, the

redevelopment deal you're told

about before it's common knowledge

and the land-values go way up  - you

get in when it's still cheap; the way

things go now too, the Mayor who

constantly walks with the blond not

his wife, the committee people and

the shitty motel. All you need these

days is to dangle some money (just

like they do) and the next thing you 

know the female is saying she was

coerced, bent over the desk, unbuttoned

against her will. It ain't over 'til it's

over. And then it's over. And don't

forget the conventions, firemen's soirees,

dancing babes, and all the other nice

things that happen outside of church.

-

I used to know the guy who ran High

Hill Garage. In the 1980's, still up on

the top of Main Street, after Woodbridge

Center and right before the overpass for

the Turnpike and stuff. It was a small,

cinder block building, and remained

as the last vestige, once Centric Clutch,

the Township garage, and the Brass

Bucket were gone, of the old area

which had been there  -  grassy lands,

claypits, etc. before the municipal

thieves back then put their hands to 

it. He always told me, with some glee

and some sadness, how those fields

always were hunted on  -  each season,

1930's, 1940's, etc. The woods and

streams thereabouts, deer, small game,

birds and pheasants. Then the big

roads came, NJ Turnpike and GS

Parkway, Rt. One, Rt. Nine, Rt. 35,

They all converge right there (if you 

get the gist then of what I'm saying,

you'll see why Woodbridge and Edison 

and such areas prospered and made

many crooks millions  -  at the

expense of the common jerks who

ended up living here, ringed by

roadways, congestion, pollution,

cancers and death. All those Mayors,

then and now, nothing more than dirty-

dealing crooks destined for their own 

Hell  -  you name 'em, Zirpolo, Jacks,

(not a Mayor, just a guilty prisoner),

DeMarino, right to the present NOW 

day). He pointed out to me, on the

walls of the High Garage itself, the

various bullet holes from being

peppered, over the years, with stray

shooting from the fields. Believe me,

this guy may have been a smple

mechanic, with a heavy back, but 

he still gloried in all that he'd lost.

To be factual, I never much trust

anybody, and the local business 

longevity of this guy and all he 

'knew,' always ended up making

me suspect even of him  -  for not

standing up the those jerks who'd

ruined the place while bragging 

about it. I remember Mayor Barone, 

in about 1970  - a perfect example 

of the sort of municipal sleaze that 

permeated the area. I know of

more than one case where girls

working for the 'Sheriff' in New

Brunswick, (no names), who then 
became Mayor  in Woodbridge, 
leaving the job rather then continuing 
to be chased around the desks by  
him. If it had been the present day, 
he'd be hung, and not well-hung either.

-

The High Hill Garage guy said it was

all lost by the time they got to the clay

pits. We used to race motorcycles in 

there, just kid-fun, trail bikes, etc.

I used to change car oil in there too  -

just open the drain plug under my

Valiant, and let it drain out. The clay

soil was like a sponge. Absorbed it all;

and it wasn't just me. There were rutted

spots where cars one after the other came

in off what then was a shitty near-dirt

road. You had to be there; I can't even

rightly get across to you what it was

like way back then. The High Hill

Garage is long gone, Woodbridge 

Center, condominiums, office parks, 

and shopping plazas replaced it all.

And each time that happened, another

of those sleazaball bastards made a

million. They got away with it all;

the 'American' system is made for

that  -  let no one tell you differently  -

and these people knew how to game 

the system perfectly. ('All the criminals,

in their suits and ties, are free to drink

martinis and watch the sun rise...').

-

There used to be a little boxing club

there too, right next to the High Hill.

You could go in there and get your 

brains battered a while, for a few 

bucks. Then the civic-freaks took 

over. It's now a huge 'community'

sports center, mostly crap for kids

to do, a 'Y' kind of place. A perfect

foil for the needed money laundering

needed. Even to this day, with tax 

dollars, they're still building 

unnecessary things there  -  a

large signpost and entryway. It's 

all completely un-needed but it

keeps the spigot open for the project

dollars to keep coming in. Costs of

the sign, concrete, electric, macadam, 

etc. They all have their hands out for

a slice of that panty raid. Back when

I worked at NJ Appellate, there was

a guy who bought in, loudmouth,

local municipal brawler, hands in

everything. He lived right there, by

the ramp for the turnpike overpass.

A bunch of new split-levels had

been built there, about '67. He'd

grabbed one of those. First his

printing business was in Fords,

in an old firehouse, re-purposed 

commercially. When he bought 

into Appellate he and I moved 

all his stuff, in two station wagons,

back and forth all day. Type-cases,

fonts, typesetting machines, etc.

Jim (last name not used here),

used to come to work nearly 

every Thursday, well every third 

Thursday anyway, with a black

eye, a shiner a'building, from some

brawl he'd gotten into at the Wed.

night bowling league thing he

was part of. It was pretty funny.

He knew a lot of stuff, had a lot

to say. Jim and his family, that

next Summer, went on vacation

to Peru. Jim never came back. As 

the 'story' went, he and his wife

were strolling on some Peruvian

beach, and out of the forest came

a poison dart that killed Jim. Yep,

he died right there  -  a 'poison dart'

no less. I'd have bet my car, house, 

wife and kid too, that some local

goons had been hired and paid to

get him  -  Peru or not, just get 

him. Some things are just better

left unsaid. That's how these

kingdoms and municipal fiefdoms 

get build. 'Dumbest guy, to the

front of the class, now.'

-

None of any of this was ever worth

crap to me. I stayed as far clear from

any of that stuff as a reindeer from 

heat. But at the same time, I never

fell for the prevalent storyline either.

I've ended up pretty much right back

in the local hell-hole I started out of.

I'm completely different, and couldn't

care a whit about what I do to them.

But they're all exactly the same, in fact

I think the whole bunch of them run

out of the same bloodline. If they come

from the devil, they come from evil.

D'evil is the family name. These are all

my own evil memories of an evil place,

and before I die they're all coming

out, right here. I can toast this place

over a fire of my own making. And
where there's smoke, there's fire.