10,666. RUDIMENTS, pt. 267

RUDIMENTS, pt. 267

Maple Tree, pt. 6

Everywhere you end up isn't

always going to be where you

wanted to go. It's like a hostage

situation sometimes, this life.

Just recently, back in January, I

went to yet another wake, forcing

myself sadly to look upon the

sorely dead face of my friend

Schultz. The same Schultz I've

written of in these Maple Tree

chapters a few times. When you

got him at the right time, he was

magic. If it wasn't the right time,

best beware. I used to tell him,

"Bobby, when you come around

here they ought'a change the name

of this joint to the Maple Treat,

or, then, well, at least warn people

you're on your way, at the door.'

It was the trickle-down theory of

humor  -  you'd better laugh now,

before the blood is trickling down

from your face and nose. One day,

one long, sickening, lazy afternoon,

it was, at the top end of Rahway,

on Cherry Street, or whatever it's

called up there  -  there was a

crummy bar, and five or six of

us had somehow ended up there,

wasting away a day testing beers.

There was no one around, the

streets were empty (it's always

like that in Rahway, even now,

with all the new building they

did, of condos and things. You'd

think there'd be two-hundred people

on the street, but you never see a

soul). Anyway, Schultz and a

friend of his, they got into some

sort of drunken disagreement

and decided to take it out to

the street. Literally. We all

walked out with a beer and

just sort of leaned on the building,

while these two just went at it.

A real super serious, fist-in-your-

goddamned-face fight  -  like

Ali and Frazier, believe you me.

You'd figure something like this

for two or three minutes, maybe

five at best. When I tell you it

was twenty minutes, you must

believe me. In fact, I think we

all went back in to get another

beer, and come back out, and they

were still at it, and IN the street

no less. No teeth flying, no real

blood, just that insane super-sound

of the thuds and slap-noises that

real punches make. Thy more or

less just ran out of breath really.

A half hour, it was over. Not a cop

passed by; no bartender called in

anything. And of course we didn't

do a thing except chuckle. You

don't have to believe me, you can

ask my wife. She was there too.

I don't know how they did it. But

when I looked down at that poor

guy in his last box, I thought of

his last boxing match too, or the

one I'd witnessed. Man, I hate

losing friends, even weird ones.

-

I often used to think about these

guys I'd be with, these fellow bikers

and denizens of the Maple Tree.

It was all sort of like a dark

brotherhood of some mystical

soul, with each of us operating

together in  a half-light wherein

we really knew little about each

other's pasts or situations, but

took it all on faith that things

were cool. What were they like

as kids? Was their complete array

of proclivities now jut as apparent

then? Was Schultz a crazy-man

when he was nine? See, you just

never know. I couldn't picture

him  -  or any of them  -  downsized

like that. And I figured if they'd had

brothers or sisters, damn, did I take

pity on them growing up with that

sibling. Half the time and more,

I didn't even know if they had kin.

Sometimes you'd learn only later

that X and Y were brothers, or that

Z was a sister. Holy cow! Really?

It was total surprise. Schultz himself

had a pretty weird group of friends

who, when I found out they were all

brothers, flabbergasted me. The

Poultney boys  - Wilbur and the rest.

Four or five guys, anyway  -  all of

a hillbilly sort but all Rahway and

Colonia, and all different, one from

the other. But they were all brothers.

-

Part of the thing was, after a point

I just no longer cared. There were

some days, one or two of those lethargic

Summers, when if we did get to the

Maple Tree, on some lazy Sunday

afternoon say, (it was a usual end-up-

there place, where even if you didn't

know where anyone else was or had 

been, you kind of knew eventually 

they'd show up. Previous to the 

Maple Tree, a place named the 

Pioneer Tavern in Iselin had served 

the same purpose, but once that 

town turned over totally, solidly,

 to a new South-Asian immigrant

population we just quit it). The 
Maple Tree, over time, replaced 
every other place. There were, 
across Rahway Avenue, some 
homes, and our noise didn't always
 sit too well with the people there. 
But we sat around anyway, gunning 
it or not. We often didn't even go
inside much, except to buy more

beers. It was the kind of big, sloppy

yard you could just sit around in  -

parking motorcycles anywhere,

sitting out front, or going around

back and plopping down anywhere.

it was like some deep south place

where the bugs buzzed and the 

weevils chewed. Time itself there

sometimes seemed open to backwards

introspection  -  that, of course, is for

me to say, as a writer. I really don't

think that kind of thinking was at

work for anyone else. I lived a

pretty graced existence right then.

I could think about stuff like that,

sort of withdraw, remain aloof, and

the others would carry themselves

through the things that didn't really

concern me  -  the sports guys, the

engine guys, the paint guys, the

skirt-chasers. Well, anyway. There

was another time, a busy, smoky,

crowded Saturday, when one of the

club guys  - I'd grown used to seeing  -

walked in with a totally beautiful

blond girl. I'd seen her a few times

before, and was always struck by

her look; just something about the

face and all. She certainly didn't 

seem to fit being with the guy with 

whom she was usually trudging 

around, but whatever. Her guy, and

her, and me, amounted to nothing

more than a nod, or a 'hi,' and that

was it. This one night, long in, she

came over to me, smiling nicely,

just killing me. She sidled right

up close to me, and said  -  'I just

wanted you to know that I think

you've got a masterful command 

of the English language. I read

your paper each time it comes.' 

Jeez, I was floored. It was like

the Pope had told me he'd just

cleared the way for me for a

straight path to Heaven when 

I died.

-

You see, that was the hypocrisy 

of my situation by then, the late 

nineties. Two different hands 

going, and I was trying, stupidly, 

to play them both. As if a Biker, 

in a massive Biker fight, or a 

shoot out, was supposed to 

stop the battle and announce, 

'Oh, don't hurt him; he's got a 

masterful command of the 

English language.' It just didn't

work; didn't fit, no longer made

any sense. And it took some

stunning, young, blond with

cherry red lips to point it out to

me; the dichotomy, the divide. It

was all a ridiculous trap, the

sublime to the ridiculous. There

was a range from the most exalted 

high thoughts and consideration

by me, to the lowest, most 

demeaning level of filth jokes,

beer talk, nasty words and 

actions by those around me, and

me sometimes too. A real jam-up.

I began to feel really stuck.

-

One time another girl I knew, just

a tease, a teasing relationship that

went on all the time  -  she came in

one night with another happy, bubbly, 

girl, a friend of hers. The small talk 

ensued, I asked what they'd been 

up to, she replied, typically, 'Oh, 

we've been working on our kegels, 

you know, strengthening them.' I 

looked puzzled, really. 'She replied, 

that's our sex-muscles (that's NOT

how she phrased it), you jerk. You 

didn't even know what that was, 

did you?' Ha ha. Well, no. This 

was the big  joke and the big 

moment, I guess. While the other 

girl is still smiling, this one 

goes behind me, the bar-stool

where I was sitting, puts her hands

down the inside-rear of my pants 

(this gets embarrassing), and yanks.

I mean yanks big time. My underwear

gets peeled about up to my eyeballs,

and she manages, at the same time,

to rip the elastic waistband off them

and somehow loosens it or something.

The waistband gets pulled back, and

with it she's pulling me off the seat.

That's about all that happened, and

she thankfully ended it, but I had 

this dangling piece of underwwear

on me the rest of the night. 

-

As I was saying, the sublime to 

the ridiculous just kept happening 

over and over. I couldn't figure out,

at that point, or the rest of my life :

You couldn't be a philosopher in

a pigsty; or was it, perhaps, that

a pigsty makes a philosopher

of us all?