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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