RUDIMENTS, pt. 266
- Maple Tree, pt. 5 -
When I first started out with ABATE,
they had two little boxy Apple Macs.
I had to learn them, learn computers.
These pieces were simple units, and
user-friendly, as it was said, easy to
use and arrange copy on. But, I guess,
they were primitive and small too -
no color, just b/w text. About a year
later, one of the members, from West
Caldwell or Montclair - I kind of
forget; out of the blue - contacts me
to meet and visit. Turns out he's an
older guy, like 65 then, or more,
with a sweet little older woman for
a wife, Mary was her name. About the
same age as he was. The stone house,
on a hill, was a veritable palace;
totally impressive. I mean totally.
I went in, having ridden there alone
parking next to his motorcycle,
which turned out to be some
piddling Yamaha cruiser type,
Virago or something. Smaller
displacement, maybe 650cc,
which actually isn't that small
if you can punch the right
horsepower out of it by re-tuning.
No matter. It just looked funny
to see these two differing motorcycles
like that in the upper driveway of
some stone mansion. We went, got
introduced, Mary made coffee or
something. The guy took me
downstairs to his large workroom.
Unbelievable. He was a total
computer guy, units everywhere,
inter-connected, etc. This was
about 1995, so I guess it was all
primitive. Don't know. He had wired
stuff and electrical operations going
in all directions. I knew very little
of any of this - so he also soon
enough became my 'computer
mentor' for back in those days
anyway. Here was his deal, I'll
just run it through - The monthly
paper I published amazed him,
more even than the motorcycle stuff,
which he enjoyed also - runs and
rides. He wanted to offer me, piece
after piece, each of his cast-off
Gateway computers as he got new
ones and updates. Desktops,
monitors, sound cards, speakers,
printers, you name it. It ended up
being like 2 a year. I said OK,
and later came back with a vehicle.
Over time I'd even sell a few of
these, for OK money, and dump it
back into ABATE, after taking out
some for beer. There were two
caveats - he wanted me, each
time, to sign off on his donation
affadavit, for tax purposes, on
his assessed valuation of what
he'd given us. For his own tax
purposes on his returns. I didn't
care, and I didn't know valuations
like that anyway. The other thing
was, he smoked. He smoked
cigarettes like two at a time,
constantly. His face and skin were
pale and tissue thin. Same for his
wife - she died, by the way, whtin
a year or two of all this. Everything
he gave me, these tan computers,
had a yellow film on it - washable,
yes, it all turned into a dirty, runnng
yellow slime as I cleaned everything,
and the stench was overpowering.
But eventually it went away.
The two of them (he died in another
ten years, after some time in the
equivalent of an oxygen-nose thing,
which was sad to see). His deal was
he'd retired as an English Professor
of some sort from Syracuse University
and was tutoring students on the side
and acting as an advisor for graduate
work and PhD's. at Montclair University,
a college near his home and retirement.
He too had a PhD., and because of
it people called him Doc. (Doctor
E. Duane Meyer). Toward the end
of his life, he'd come by with 60, 70
photographs, at least, of his solo travels.
Pacific islands, Australia, Switzerland.
I was at Barnes & Noble, Clark by then.
He was doing good, and had bought
himself a beautiful, brand new Corvette.
(No, he never turned that over to me
for tax purposes. Too bad). And
then, he was dead. We'd sit around
and talk writing, intellectual matters,
etc. Nothing at all to do with Bikes.
It was as if the entire motorcycle
thing had just been a nice adjunct
to our shared, real, interests. It was
very cool. Sometimes, in a meager
life, you run across exceptional
moments or things or people. For
me, this was one such. If I had to
sit here and make stuff up, it
couldn't be more sweet than this
story. The resources were bizarre.
I have no clue of his earlier family
life; kids, etc. He and Mary lived
really well, proper and refined
almost, but why they'd insist on
killing themselves like that with
endless cigarette haze everywhere,
well, that just baffled me. I guess
everyone has their vices. Besides
his cigarette habit, let me add, he
was also like a Martini or
cocktail-in- a-tumbler kind
of guy.
-
Moving this forward, to the Maple
Tree, you have to envision me.
Sort of one-foot-in-two-worlds.
How to you go back to a U-shaped
bar, also of blue smoke, lined with
heads, all in a row, loud with music,
chatter, and outpourings? How do you
extricate from that curious web of
concerns and activities when, from
the other extreme Doctor Duane -
(he was called 'Duane' by everyone;
I don't know what the 'E' was for.
There's a memorial page up for
him, facebook, you can see) is
calling? That was the core conflict.
The sort of conflict that's mostly
unbridgeable and why there are
class divisions and barriers in the
lives we lead - no matter what
others say. Face it, there are only
so many combinations of the bar
juke-box spin that can be done, just
as there are endless variations on the
three-chord structure that bar bands
churn through - but it all gets done,
yes, and gets mixed and mashed.
And you can drink to that. However,
inner cores and personalities are
different. There were some nights
in the Maple Tree when I'd see
someone walk in and I'd just just
immediately think, 'Get me out of
here, oh, right now!' But I couldn't
go anywhere. Five steps in either
direction would have me engaged;
with someone. And then, if I passed
that phalanx, the guys out on the
porch would nab me. There was a
year or two I had a Mercedes Benz,
which I'd traded a crummy old
motorcycle for, straight up to some
guy who had a garage of antique
bikes he kept in Baltimore. He
lived in NYC and worked in the
'Fashion.' industry. The Benz was
a two door 280CE, I think it was,
about 1975 vintage, 150,000
miles on it. The interior leather
was all cracked and beat, but
otherwise it was pretty sweet. I
did eventually wreck it, in a drunken
windstorm a year or two later,
driving home from the bar. But
while I had it, that Bob Schultz
- he of the knife fight - used to
be out front, usually, and watch me
coming and going. It was hard to get
a tender moment out of Bob, but he
really liked that car. He said it looked
like a German Staff Car, to him,
which is how he referred to it. I'd
pull in, if I wasn't on a motorcycle,
and he'd say 'How's the German
Staff car doing?'
-
The Maple Tree got all kinds of
people; at the Biker level, you
just never knew. There were
always surprises. Club guys
trolling for trouble, local drunks
in the middle of a big mistake,
newcomers, absolutely amazing
(occasionally) girls from out
of nowhere, sometimes in pairs.
The currency was alcohol, and
sometimes it worked, sometimes
it didn't. One night, while a few
of us were sitting near the front
door (and wall phone),a group
of heavyset girls walked in.
Three or four, nice round young
things, but you knew they liked
their Big Macs or whatever.
As they strolled by, I muttered,
again in drunk stupidity, 'So
what's this, Jenny Craig Girls
Night out?' Har har. Apparently,
the last girl of the group had
heard me, turned on her heels,
came straight at me and glared:
'I heard that, and you're going to
apologize, and right now, aren't
you?' Feeling like a big-time
jerk (Oh Duane! Where are you
now!), I said 'Sorry; I'm a jerk
and I have a big mouth.' They sat
down way across from us at the
U-shaped bar - thus facing us.
Humbled, I made sure Hazel
took my money for their next
2 rounds. Man, you wonder
how Bikers go broke?
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