Friday, March 23, 2018

10,659. RUDIMENTS, pt. 264

RUDIMENTS, pt. 264
Maple Tree, pt. 3
One of the stranger conflicts
of my life has always been about
community, versus my solitary
nature. Essentially, it's a deadly
conflict inasmuch as I am really
quite internalized and singular.
Yet, once I got involved with
all this Maple Tree and motorcycle
stuff, that was out the window.
The most difficult thing I had
to do was to get used to this new
style of neighborliness. It wasn't
really 'me,' let's say. My daily
job with what was called ABATE,*
a definitely motorcycle-centered
operation, had been quite by
accident. I was sick and tired of
the business world, and this new
opportunity came by me, third-hand,
when someone else, (Judy Schott)
clued me in that the 'office manager'
for the organization had given notice.
I had no clue what it entailed and
only because I was part of the once-a-
month mailing crew did I even know
they had a publication. I saw the
office they were in (an entire lower
level of a house 4 blocks from my
own), watched the kind of work to
be done, and said 'this is a breeze.'
I also realized that the dumb-bell
monthly publication was ripe for
someone like me to grab hold of
and really expand. It was a golden
opportunity, staring me in the face.
Then, once I saw the salary, my
own hours to come and go (only
later, actually did I see that I'd
expanded it into something that
surpassed 'hours.' 40? It was more
like 80 when I got done. But I
didn't care  -  it was Biker life
stuff, talks and travel, writing and
journalism, etc.) -  I figured it was
a must for a man of my bent  - 
writing, computers to write on,
paste-up, editing, covering events,
and photography too. Plus the
crazy enough salary was more
than I was currently making (I'd
already left St. George Press 6
months before), AND it had
medical insurance! Philosophically
too, there were some problems.
Motorcycle Rights? What the
heck was that about? I didn't care
two cents for that  -  my personal
life was all about rights, and the
last thing I wanted was to legislate
'rights' into laws about having those
rights. That sounded like a oxymoron
to me for sure. A contradiction of
terms for sure  -  but these people
wanted 'laws' to be written to allow
them the rights of not wearing a
helmet, things about insurance,
exemptions, exceptions, special
consideration  -  all because they
rode a motorcycle. It made little
sense to me, but the meant I'd have
to promote, defend, and speak for
that agenda. I did  -  Trenton, DC,
etc. Political campaigns, Sen. Lou
Kosco (NJ Senate) helped  -  who 
(suspiciously?) just happened to 
have a long-standing Harley dealership
in Kinnelon NJ, or somewhere up
there along Rt. 23. Of course, having
such an ally was nice (but still it
was ineffectual), but for him it was
a way of promoting his business by
siding with Bikers in a cause he'd
know as hopeless. It was no-lose,
for him. 
-
So, I went to work with a vengeance;
up and down the state of NJ, and more.
Meetings, hearings, testifying  -  which 
all meant dealing with some of the most
obtuse people I'd ever met. It always
seems that these sorts of organizations,
run well as a business or not, fall apart
from internal dissension after a while.
Way too many weird egos get involved.
Factions and cliques. This was worse
because with 14 'chapters' up and down
the state there was no way I could be
everywhere and it was very difficult to
get them to understand that, regardless
of their locale, their first allegiance
should be to the 'State' office. That was
never good news. They all had treasuries
of their own, they claimed; which by
the by-laws, were State organization
monies, due to be turned over. Try 
talking 'by-laws' and stuff like that to a 
group of bent-on-destruction bikers 
anywhere - it's a dead-end game. It was 
always tough, and a hardship. There
were constant battles. The office, salary 
and health insurance junk was expensive.
Against all wishes I took it upon myself
to freeze the salary and then to drop the
health insurance. For years it went
on like this. Fights and squabbles.
-
Thank goodness for the Maple Tree,
because the frequency of runs and 
events at least allowed me to have 
a decent enough stream of money 
coming in, if I watched it carefully. 
The feds and the taxes were always 
a problem. That was their way of 
getting us to shut down. I had to hire
a Jersey City biker accountant,
(Ed Zampella), who at least 
straightened us out on taxes and 
won a few appeals for us too,
but he was never cheap and he
wanted his money. Eventually, I
looked at the bank balances, the
income, the kittys around the state,
the expected takes from the different
chapters, and figured we were 
good for maybe another three
or four years. I was about right,
close enough. By 1999, insolvency
loomed. I stopped even paying
myself at the very end, which is
how I got re-involved with Barnes
& Noble  -  which all turned out 
good enough for the rest of my 
work career anyway.
-
Now, back to the Maple Tree and
forget all that boring crap. They
all sucked, from Hunterdon to
Sussex and from Salem to Cape 
May too. And the clubs too, who
started muscling in and wanting
money as well. They ruined a
decent-enough thing. 
-
Politics? Give me a break. There's
no such thing as politics  - it's all a
myth propagated by self-serving 
assholes on the take. The Mayor of
Woodbridge at this time was one
Jim McGreevey. An Irish lad who
looked about 12 years old. He had
come out of St. Joseph's High School,
in Metuchen  -  more on all that
in a minute. Towards the end of one 
of his terms, he was deciding to
run for governor  -  it was all lined
up, the Demo. Machine geeks
were behind him, funding was set.
He contacts me to ask himself in
to one of our Maple Tree Summertime
bikefests - to meet and greet, say a
few words. He'd been to one or two
of my meetings in Rahway over the
last year or two, so it was nothing
new. He was glib, a little stupid, and
way slick. He comes rolling in
with his aide and driver in some 
township Crown Victoria. All around
him are some three or four hundred
half-drunk bikers. Half-clad girls.
Loud music. The rumors around town 
had always been that he was gay. St.
Joe's was halfway considered a gay
boy's prep school anyway, and he 
was held as a prime example. There
had been a few 'brothers' on staff
at the school who'd gotten into trouble
with boys. It was all just an icky scene.
In Metuchen, where I lived (and my
ABATE office was), you'd see the
St. Joe's boys on their lunchtime in
Dessell's Confectionery Store. I
swear all they ever bought were
candies called Mary Jane. (That's 
a joke). Anyway, on the field there,
at the Biker party, no one really
gave two hoots about McGreevey.
When he started talking, it got a
little quieter, and the music had 
stopped. Hazel disliked the guy,
said he was gay, others said the
cops had covered for him for 8 
years, it was common knowledge,
he'd get blow jobs in his car, from
his personal driver, etc., etc. Crap
talk; we all scoffed. (Funniest 
thing was when 5 or some years
later it all turned out to be true
and, after being Governor for a 
while, he resigned). Joke was on 
us. McGreevey begins talking.
Hazel and I are watching his 
every move, and the crowd is
sort of like Red Sea parted, for
this guy to talk. Trying to be
glib and ultra smooth, he opens
with, 'It's a pleasure to be here
with you today, all these bikers,
all these people, surprised me. I
didn't think anyone came to the
Maple Tree except prison guards,
mailmen, and escaped convicts.'
That was supposed to have been a
big laugh-line. It failed miserably.
Hazel was livid, steamed-up
immediately, and went berserk -
an otherwise God-fearing lady all
caught up with St. Andrew's Church.
I guess running a bar teaches you 
a few things while on-the-job.
The lady had a mouth when she
needed it  -  'That fucking fag 
son-of-a-bitch talking like that
right in my face when he knows
damn well what we could to do 
him. I hope he drops fucking dead.'
That was that. Whew, Hazel!
-
He finished his speech, glad-handed
some, walked around a bit. And left.
What the Maple Tree had opened for
me was a constant exposure to others.
I'm not bragging or tooting my own
horn (is that too McGreevyesque?), 
but at every turn there was someone
wanting to talk to me, have me a
listen, hear them out, air a grievance 
or a problem, help with this or that.
My 'solitary' nature was shot to hell,
and I compensated for its loss, 
I see now, by drinking. The good
thing about the Maple Tree, and there
were many, was that it was so informal
that I could get away with it all. It was
as run-down and sometimes decrepit 
as was my own heart and soul.
I just got tired of hearing, and
catering  -  after a while  -  to idiots.
The Sunday-school near-beer guys
whose mother's wouldn't 'allow' them to
drink when they had their motorcycles
out; the hot-to-trot girls looking
to take me down upon them; the
hot-heads and the soldiers, the 
fairies and the queens, the 
living, and the dead. Yet as
bad as any of it may ever have
gotten, these people became part
of me, just as much as I was of them.
Wouldn't have missed it for a minute.
----------
* ABATE was originally a Biker organization dedicated to the repeal of helmet laws. Officially, the name was 'American Bikers Against Totalitarian Enactments.' It was in 42 states. For us, here, it soon degenerated to either :'Always Bring Alcohol To Events,' or 'American Boys And Their Erections.' And then, finally, when the political correctees got done wrecking it, it was 'American Bikers Aimed Towards Education.' Go figure.









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