10,658. RUDIMENTS, pt. 263

RUDIMENTS, pt. 263

Maple Tree, pt. 2

At the Maple Tree, from the

motorcycle perspective, and
coming from Avenel St., you'd

bank left at the driveway  -  

which of course wasn't a drive 

at all. It was a quick, gravel 

turn-off from Rahway Ave.

You then had to decide about 

going straight, over some 

more gravel and to the grass 

at the rear area, or another 

slow bank right, over and 

around the little rise there, 

to the spot where the usually 

disdainful bikes parked. 

Disdainful means, perhaps, 

like 'don't really give a shit;

I'll just park here and you shut 

up'. One bike always led to 

another and another  -  misery

loves company, or however that

goes  -  and anyway there usually

was a greeting committee there

anyway. Various states of empties,

people drinking, looking out, on

the watch for who or what might

be coming. Bikers always check 

out every bike  -  so there was

always that. Early on in any night

the talk might actually make sense  

-  proper qualifications about gear

ratios, various forms of brake 

systems, clutch play, rubber, 

exhaust (or not)  factory cams
versus hot cams. Straight pipes

were a great hobby. Sold as safety

equipment actually  -  so the guy

in the tan Duster would at least get

to hear you before he'd run you 

down. By the middle of the night

the talk changed  -  this or that

mechanic being an asshole; how

freaking pathetic is belt drive; 

check out the hooters on this one

coming in. Oops. We're on bikes.

I forgot. By midnight, hell you

could get killed for mispronouncing

Conti tires. Today cars have Kumho

tires, from Korea. Who the Hell 

thought that one up?

-

One time, at one of those Bike party

things I mentioned, there was a knife

fight. Thrilling as all get out, brought

to you by the friendly folks at Alcohol.

Poor Bob Schultz, he's dead now, he 

had a dog back then named Rowdy,

(there was also an Avenel guy, an

old-time ruffian from the old days,

known as Rowdy, also Bob's friend. 

But this was the dog). Six hours 

deep maybe, into one of those all day

and all night boozefests, probably 150

bikes scattered around everywhere,

music blaring (we used to have a

flatbed truck brought in, rented for

the weekend, on which the band 

and the amps and the whatever 

equipment were all staged, center

middle of the rear yard area). 300

or so people, and some fool starts

yelling at Bob (not a guy to yell at,

young fella') about his dog being

too skinny; 'TOO skinny, you asshole,

don't you ever feed that dog, look at

it, I can see every rib.' I'm sitting there,

thinking, 'Oh please, yeah, have another

beer, we've got it covered.' Old Bob

Schultz was never one to take things

lightly and there had been enough

beer floating around that day so they

too were all probably afloat  -  not just

him. He takes considerable and

personal offense at this, and begins

answering point by point (here the

music notation would be marked

'crescendo rising...') yelling back as

to how 'a dog's ribs were supposed

to show, you're not supposed to

over-feed, you dumb-mother-fucker

from back before Adam had a dick.'

I hope you get the idea, Music's

playing. Five or six porta-johns,

stacked up against the side fence,

all busy; vendors, jewelry, tee shirts,

bike parts, pipes and hookas too,

everywhere, a'buzz. There was a

little rise of nice grass and a few 

evergreens out at the State School

side of the other driveway in and out

of the Maple Tree, and I look over

there to see kind of what I thought

was a dreamland. Now when I always

thought to be dreaming, I'd figured

it would be nice stuff, whatever her

name was, covered in silken dollars,

smiling back at me while petting

her Pomeranian. Right, sure.

-

There's Bob Schultz and this other 

guy, no one I even knew, from places 

unknown (back in these one-percenter

Biker club days, someone like me,

running these events, would need 

to be constantly aware of who was 

who, who they came in with, how 

they arrived, what affiliations they 

may have, who or what, if any, came

in behind them, van, car or bikes.

Anyone with colors on (club 

signifiers for those not in the 

know). There was enough bad

blood going around back then

to refuel Frankenstein. There had

been shootings, and there had 

been deaths). So, anyway, this

unknown guy and Bob, I quickly

notice, are in lockstep battle, and

each of them had 6-inch blades out.

Ok? Got that? Drunken fisticuffs

over a skinny dog wasn't enough.

These two ballet stars had to do 

it with killer blades. Neither of 

them could actually, at that point,

stand erect without a wobble. So

my very quick mental rundown 

of the scene  - yes, already clicked

over into 'emergency' mode  -  

saw that the entire thing was soon

to be nothing more than farcical.

Dangerous, don't get me wrong,

but farcical too. (Hand me that

beer). They waved around, flipped

and turned, like Nureyev at the

Bolshoi. It was a bona-fide display

of drunken knife-dance amateur

ballet. At any point, no matter,

either of these blades could have

done serious damage, perforating

a face, a cheek, gashing a gut.

You don't normally flail a knife

around searching for someone

else's better pound of flesh;

here there were TWO, with the

same idea, propelled by rocket

fuel in  addition. The whole place

by this time was a bit aware of

what was going on. The band

was pounding harder (I sound like

Procul Harem in 'Whiter Shade of

Pale'), and any distraction was a

help (I was later told a populist

uprising of distraction had turned

into the better efforts of a wet

tee-shirt contest to keep people

busy). The knot of people at the

hill had grown, and boisterous.

And, the rowdies (speaking of

which, the dog was sitting there

watching) were trying to step

in to break things up  -  of course

increasing then the chances for

someone getting slashed. Well

ten minutes maybe went by and

by some maneuvering we managed

to sucker-trip Schutlz, taking

him down enough to then corral 

the other jerk too  -  whom we 

promptly expelled, though I'm 

not sure he actually left  -  and

took the knives away, also having 

made sure (days before cellphones

anyway) that no one had called

the constabularies. We put Schultz

away for a while, plopped in  

a chair at the fire by the barn,

and he somehow numbed out.

Crisis over. Over the course of

those years we were NOT always

so successful. There was a stabbing.

There was a shooting. Maybe two.

A bottle-slashed face, and a lawsuit

too. Poor Hazel, sometimes.

-

The Maple Tree was once just a

farmhouse. Then I think it was a

small store or package goods

liquor store, and the bar. There 

was an added-on room or two 

out back, extended room for 

parties and bands and games.

The rickety bathrooms were 

always lacking : flooding,

messy, crowded, or 'being 

used.' I saw many a male 

come proudly out of the female 

bathroom, and with a smile on 
his face, though I admit to 

never having seen the other 

version. The hallway there

was pretty horrid; unlit, no 

windows, and no outside light.

What you need to realize, I

guess, is that whatever it ended

up as it had never really been

meant for that use. Hazel used 

to say that when her husband

first brought her there, from

Perry Street, NYC (right by the

White Horse), to her 'new' home

with his Polish family, this bar

room was the large, almost

formal, sitting room where they

all had gathered. The house 

back then had simple, serious

living use. I never asked a lot

of questions as to how many 

people, or generations, or all 

that. The now enlarged, more

commercial kitchen, had once

been the simple country-home

kitchen that everyone had.

There was a stairway there, 

and a doorway, to get to living

quarters upstairs. Must have

been cool though I never saw it.
-
If there was an atmosphere
inside that place, it was made 
up of blue haze, beer fumes, 
Marlboros, puke, farts and beer.
It always started the same : early
evening, smooth and easy. Back
then you could still smoke anywhere
you wanted, but even so there'd be
Biker guys out front. It was funny;
as if you'd go inside to smoke, but
take your beer outside to drink.
Once darkness came, all rules were
off. You could go out back, or into
the old barn, drunk enough or not
and do your coupling, had you found
a lassie wishing to couple. I can't even
begin to explain why there weren't
10,000 children born of that location,
though I can imagine. It's all about
where the juice ends up, I suppose.
-
Looking ahead to next chapter?
How about I tell the story of the
Biker party visit by a local gay
Mayor? That was a hoot.