RUDIMENTS, pt. 271
- Maple Tree, pt. 10 -
And then one day it was gone.
I can't remember the actual
day of closing, or of demolition
either. It would have been sad,
had I been there. But (here my
own story takes a turn) I was
done. By the year 2002 I'd faced
a breakdown of my own. My
wife kept going, Friday nights,
Saturdays, on her own. I could
no longer bear it. I stayed home,
usually listening to Sibelius CD's
(Scandinavian/Finnish classical
composer, who earned himself a
lot of trouble over his 'Patriotic'
Finnish-national, music). His
2nd symphony seemed it was
lot of trouble over his 'Patriotic'
Finnish-national, music). His
2nd symphony seemed it was
about my while, life back then It
carried me along. My nerves
were shot, I'd had real problems
coping, people bothered me, I'd
closed up ABATE and had to
discontinue everything, plus the
eight thousand dollar personal
loan I'd taken out to try and
continue was a long-lasting
marker dogging me, to which I
answered by working in a nice
capacity for Barnes & Noble; lucky
break at the time. Plus it helped
me alter my world, back towards
books and intellectual/creative
pursuits. It was the push I needed.
The Maple Tree? I can't remember
marker dogging me, to which I
answered by working in a nice
capacity for Barnes & Noble; lucky
break at the time. Plus it helped
me alter my world, back towards
books and intellectual/creative
pursuits. It was the push I needed.
The Maple Tree? I can't remember
my last time there - can't really
remember a thing. I'd totally
retreated, was unreachable; I
wasn't answering the phone.
I'd completely broken down.
I'd completely broken down.
People would come to visit,
and I'd not come out; my wife
carried the ball for me. Joey,
Gary R., Jackie R., Harry, sorry
for all that. Those were among
the people who came knocking
and were turned away.
-
One day Harry came by, and spoke
to my wife on the porch - full of
condolences, offering help of any sort
as needed. She didn't understand. The
word was, evidently, that I'd cracked
up, gone nuts, and was dead. She
stayed non-committal, more in
the shock of the story than in
anything else. This is all true; I
make none of it up. It took me
a good 5 years to get back - by
that time working still at B&N
in Clark. And occasionally, still
reluctantly, people would now
and then come around for hello
or talk. Then I moved out of there,
in 2007, to Princeton, and started
everything anew. No one knew a
thing. I was a different person.
-
You come back from something
like this scarred for life, burned
by a holy ember, like Moses at
some stupid mountaintop coming
back down and everyone's around
the bar worshiping some golden calf.
At least if they still made Ballantine
beer, you could say they were
worshiping Ba'al. If someone
were to ask me, I'd have to say,
really, NO, I hadn't survived. I killed
that person; I buried myself and
those fiery embers, and walked.
First off, if I had half of the money
back that I laid down and pissed
away on bars over those years, I'd
have a ton of needed money.
Second, maybe I did screech it
all to halt in time to salvage my
gooseneck life. I moved on,
decided what I really wanted,
and went steady at it, ever
since and screw the rest. I
surely could have died. One
time, a Hell's Angel prospect
friend, Frank, and his girlfriend
were visiting for some reason
or another. I think it was an
Englishtown Swap Meet and
Bike Race day - by the end
of the long day I was toasted
and so was he. And her. He
asked for the way out, back
to the Parkway and Tunnel to
the city. I said I'd take him.
I was so piss-drunk I could
hardly think, and he and I
saddled up and took off. I
stayed with them, along the
Parkway up to Union and the
Rt. 22 turn, and then stayed
with them, and then stayed
with them. (That's a deliberate
repeat). My brain had locked
repeat). My brain had locked
(it used to happen), alcohol on
two wheels had taken over. Frank
was usually a hard-ass, wildman
rider, but I amazed even him. And
her. In a total booze-haze, I'd left
them in the dust. He said he
watched me, saw me, maybe
kept me with a quarter mile if
he could. In a fairly-packed,
Sunday Summertime north
flow of traffic, between cars,
in and out of cars, around cars,
I was doing 90. On a 4-speed,
shitted-up first-year 1984 Softail,
that was a lot. Pushing a hundred
was beyond control. I don't know
how I did it. I don't know where
or why no state troopers or cops
bagged me. Frank was ready
to shoot me when we got to
our extended good-bye point.
He just shook his head. His
girlfriend was in shock. She
mumbled that it was 'quite
arousing.' And I still had to
ride all the way back yet, alone.
I felt like Hunter Thompson on
one of his gonzo-journalism trips.
That was the last I saw of Frank,
until one day, some time later,
he was out front of Third Street
posted as watchman for the
H.A. bikes out front. I rode
back, slightly more sober,
and made it OK. It was
my miracle.
-
There are a lot more stories
I can tell; real-life stuff, not
stories. I lived all this shit and
got nothing for it but the telling.
No drop-bag of money ever came
with a bagman my way. Just dead
people (they started dropping like
flies, for a while). Wakes brought
me out again, but I kept being afraid
of getting bumped off or beaten
by someone for something. Now
I'm old enough not to f'n care a
whit. Let the bastards have me,
it'll be a fair fight. You want
more stories; you pay me, OK?
-
Somewhere in that time, I honestly
don't know when, the Maple Tree
closed up and was torn down. What's
there now is a level, flat field upon
which has been erected some generic
sort of senior-housing tower. Not
worth much, not even to look at. If
those people only knew. The town
has put up some half-assed excuse
for a plaque about the old days. I'm
not even sure what they're trying
to say, and those lying sack-o-shit
bastards would never own up to the
truth of old Avenel anyway.
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