Sunday, December 17, 2017

10,308. RUDIMENTS, pt.168

RUDIMENTS, pt. 168
Making Cars
One time my father and mother
for some reason drove me, in
a car, down Broad Street, Newark.
It was probably 1958, 1959,
something like that. I don't
remember the reason  -  my
father worked in Newark at the
time, an upholstery place called
'Co-Op.' I never knew what it meant,
but I remember it was 'piecework.'
My father got paid by the chair, so
to speak. Maybe that was common
currency back then  -  non-union. He
always steered away from union
shops and had little good to say
about them. It seemed he had a
hang-up, constantly, about both
management, levels of rank, and
the regular guys who then took
union shop positions and got all
big about themselves and were no
longer 'regular' guys, in my father's
eyes, with. As I've said previously,
he was always on the go disputing
or fighting something or other. No
matter. As we entered the brightly 
street downtown area of Broad 
Street, from the Route One 
turnoff, (remember, it was 1959 
or so), the majesty of the place 
overwhelmed me. Even if it 
wasn't majestic per se, to 
me it was like Oz or some 
wonderland. Tall buildings, 
in a row, with their flags and 
things flying. It was new then, 
and very white-marble looking, 
or whatever that cladding is. 
I knew nothing. The big 
intersection at Broad and 
Market really got me. I was 
lost in excitement. But then, 
that's all I remember. Not 
much else comes through 
from that night, though I 
remember being in the 
front seat, with my mother 
and sister in the back. No 
one else seemed excited
 about any of it. I sure was.
-
Meaningless drivel, but 
so what. It's a real specific, 
and I've always had a thing 
about being abstract. I lived 
in abstraction  - my thoughts, 
my references, nothing was 
square or straight. Only 
certain memories are.
When I worked at Barnes 
and Noble (this is purely 
humorous and nothing is 
meant, if it offends you, just 
go away from it)  -  one kid 
working there (I was his 
'boss' as manager  -  believe 
that), started telling me about
some magazine article he'd 
just read about 'Bob Dylan, 
Master of Enigma.' I immediately 
put on my best black southerner 
slave voice, and said. 'Master of 
a Nigra! Bob Dylan? I'm free, 
or at least I thought I was free 
since Lincoln. What-you mean, 
Bob Dylan master of a Nigra?' 
Yeah, it lived on in infamy. 
Abstract funniness, clandestine 
connections. So, I lived in 
abstraction, but you have to 
write in specifics. Sorta. Over a 
few beers at the White Horse 
or McSorley's or any of those 
places, we'd go on about stuff 
like that. One of my friends 
tried convincing me that, 
unlike Abstract painting, 
writing has never had the 
equivalent of that movement.
 No 'abstract-expressionist' 
writing. I tried saying it did 
but it didn't and that it 
couldn't really because 
writing was an altogether 
different 'medium,' if you will, 
and unless it's actually imparting 
something it has no reason to 
exist. I can't write 'jueokd fiuuty 
lopeppdyt okg' and tell you that 
it means the cabinet in the corner 
was filled with cups and dishes 
and saucers. I could perhaps 
describe an ancillary scene, a 
meaningful motivation into 
something like that, but you'd 
have less and less incentive to 
continue reading on if it made 
less and less reachable sense. 
So, what I mean to say is, my 
presence along Broad Street, 
to me, was details and incidentals.
-
A few times, in this same vein,
my father took me to work with 
him, along McArter Highway 
somewhere, or up a side street 
a little bit. Not much was said; 
I'd meet his co-workers and
 hang around a little, but 
mostly it was me and a ball 
or two I'd bring, and a glove, 
and I'd just spend hours 
pitching or shagging flies 
off the big blank wall of 
the next building and paved 
lot. It was fun. McArter Highway, 
as it's called when it runs 
through Newark, is actually 
Rt. 21, but it slows down a 
lot there and has many lights. 
So it's almost a local road. 
And looks like that too. One
side is the stone railroad wall,
and the other is the city. back 
then it was filled with Victorian
looking, Industrial Revolution style,
British -type factories, but they've
all been taken away now. It was a
sad day, in the nineties, when I
began seeing all that red brick
and those rows of factory buildings
being turned to rubble. America 
has no pride. But, no one bothered 
me, and I got to be in Newark. 
And having fun. I guess it was 
Saturday shifts or something. 
I can't remember, maybe it 
was Summer, and no school. 
One thing I do remember is 
going inside one day. It was 
a long room, of 10 or 15 men, 
and each man had a work station, 
with a chair perched there, for 
being worked on. They were 
all busy, working in  a row. 
Off to the left was a sort of
break-room or sitting area, and 
in front, where I'd entered was 
a big old wooden desk. I sat there 
for a while and started opening 
drawers, and, to my surprise, at 
the bottom left drawer, actually 
a large open cavity, was a stash 
of Playboy magazines or whatever
passed for the adequate pornography 
of those days, Playboy and others. 
That really curled my hair. I was a 
first for me, seeing that stuff, and I 
had trouble at first putting it together, 
perhaps, with the idle hours or break 
times of any of these men, my father 
included. I never spoke about it with
anyone, least alone my father, all 
that drive home. It was sure on 
my mind though  -  as they say, 
curiosity killed the cat.
-
Nowadays I'd sit and wonder if 
that meant anything, if it proved
that I was inherently heterosexual, 
as they say, engrained with sexual 
desire but for the other sex, or if it 
was a choice later made, or if boys 
born to be attracted to boys would 
have already known and sensed that. 
Weird stuff, but what's a ten-year 
old know, except that sometimes 
he gets hard. What a perplexing 
world we're put in, that stuff like 
this should ever become a gray 
area. How strange. Only later, in 
NYC did I even learn that the 
large gay contingent had their 
own coterie of raunch 
magazines, from Blue Boy on 
down, and there were stores 
dedicated to men-on-men 
contortions, configurations 
and exertions. 
-
That first trip down Newark's 
white way was a tremulous 
eye-opener for me. A precursor 
of New York City, as well. At this 
time, on the cusp of the 1960's 
Newark was just beginning its 
descent into destruction and 
abandonment. There was a 
highway sign, just outside the 
city limits, leaving Elizabeth, 
with test tubes, flasks, beakers,
and laboratories  shown, and it 
read something like 'Welcome 
to Newark! New Jersey's Science 
City! Hugh J. Addonizio, Mayor.' 
That sign stood on the old 
highway curve by the (much 
smaller) Newark Airport of 
the 1950's. Hugh Addonizio, 
by 1965, was in prison for 
graft, subterfuge, and corruption.

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