RUDIMENTS, pt. 289
Making Cars
Sometimes we just target the
wrong things, that's all. But
it's all shot in the dark : I knew
a number of Avenel guys who,
right out of school, ended up
at the GM plant. For a good
number of years they made
some good union money too.
The idea with all that was the
longevity factor - work there
for a long time; that's when
you really made out. Right
up Rt. One, north, there was
a little union hall too. I guess
that's where they held their
meetings and stuff. But, up in
Newark, about 12 miles away,
that's where the big things
happened. There was a pretty
basic, scum-bucket bar there
named McGovern's. Attached
to it, as a back-room, was a big
meeting hall. That's where the
election rallies, speeches and
sessions were held. Also some
phone-banking went out of there.
They had to call - mandatory -
to get out the vote for political
candidates the union brass favored.
It was all shenanigans - the usual
payoffs and paybacks. The UAW,
as well as the Teamsters, and all
those guys, they were dirty unions.
#560 in Hoboken got shut down
and taken over by the Feds, for
years, because of blatant, waterfront
and trucking infractions, crime and
graft. That went on all over, but
Hudson County had its own places,
and McGovern's was in Essex County,
Newark, and somehow served
the UAW now and then too out
of Linden. It wasn't like anyone
from Avenel was going to be going
to Harvard or Princeton, don't get
me wrong, but this was all low-tier
stuff, with guys who probably had
trouble even pronouncing the word
'election' and having it come out right.
(Big union joke at McGovern's was,
'What's a Japanese whore's favorite
American holiday? Answer, 'Erection
Day.' Har har, and keep making those
calls). The rub-off was if you were
say 18 or so, post high-school, and
doing little except working at the
GM plant, or any of those highway
places (there was Schenley's Gin or
something, a sort of brewery; Tenneco,
which made instant-coffee, and which
smelled like coffee from 1/2 mile away,
or any of the trucking companies along
there - servicing both the GM plant
traffic and the small airport across
the way. They're ALL gone now, and
in dead-ruins), your next big problem
was going to be Vietnam. By 1968, as
I recall, the betting was 90-10 that the
average Abner, with his little squeeze,
had oughta' get married and try the
little baby routine before Henry got
to Hue. Many nice hot-rod cars or
very treasured late-model GTOs,
Camaros and Mustangs ended up
on blocks in Dad's garage - in the
hopes, of course, that Henry got to
come up without perforations, and still
breathing. They were all union-type
guys; the same as the ones I mentioned
who sat out front by Mike's Sub Shop,
gobbling their Security Steel lunchtime.
That was the sort who did this sub-level
but well-paid labor; and all up and down
Frelinghuysen Avenue too, right up
into Newark.
-
McGovern's was a huge, almost,
(emphasis on almost, because it tried
but didn't really make the grade), stylish
drinking hall. Gigantic horse-shoe bar,
actually closed at all four ends, more
just like an oval, but the rear part
flipped up so carts of booze and stuff
could be rolled out into the meeting
rooms for the really big elections, I
mean meetings. Nearby was this
other non-alcoholic place I knew,
run by a big round woman who
called herself 'Jolly Dolly'. And that
was the name of her place too.
'Jolly Dolly's'. It was down below
the sidewalk, a few steps sunken.
Just a big square room, with tables
and chairs, tablecloths, little lamps
and candles too. Set up like some
eccentric lady's (and she was)
oddball kitchen, but without like
parakeets and canaries and the
stuff you'd normally think about.
She was maybe 38 or so, to my
whatever. We'd sit there and talk
as I whiled away free-time on my
delivery job. The funny thing was,
all she wanted was to make enough
money to buy a beach-house down the
Jersey shore and get out of the city -
in this case, Newark. I wanted the
opposite. I'd have given her my two
oppose-able thumbs to be where she
was. I brought my girlfriend there
once or twice too - they hit it off
really well. Both a little weird,
blowzy and free. I don't know
whatever happened to Dolly. Once
I was gone off to my other episodes,
I never caught back up to her. Too
bad, She was gem worth keeping,
The place is still there, and it's really
a winsome, sad feeling when I see
it. The little row of stone and brick
houses with the stepdowns is still
there, except only maybe two are
now inhabited, or inhabitable. With
Newark's big-ass renaissance now
underway, I'm sure they'll become
valued downtown real estate in about
a week. Boy, what memories.
-
One time we went into McGovern's.
To drink. There were about 5 or
6 people, tops, in there. it was
mid-day, so off-hours. The bartender
and the guys behind the place, they
were there, all blowhards, and some
lady who ran the kitchen. The guy
we were with told us about the rear
room and the meetings and how they
were run and the mandatory phone-
banks for Democrat candidates, etc.
He was pissing and moaning about
union dues and how the union heads
took it all and lived like kings on like
300 grand a year; big homes, fancy
wives, boats and cars. I asked him
what he'd expected, Saint Francis
and some vow of poverty. I said that's
how these guys, once they get rolling,
keep it going. They get tired of working,
become shop stewards and stuff instead
on their ways up, and then they get a
union position representing the guys
who do the job, without him doing
the job anymore. Because he's on
the way up. He's sniffed the good
side of the buttered toast already
and it's like a disease; he just wants
more. Working a union position then
stops actually working at all. They
don't even any longer care for the
stiffs they supposedly represent and
just send them around, bossing them
to force phone-calls for crooked
candidates who will keep the entire
crap-game going. The crooked crap
used to be called the numbers racket.
Now for these guys it's just a racket.
My friend wasn't much amused, and
by that time we'd already gotten into
the suds too deep.
-
Down the bar, to the right of us (we
were three) there was a woman who
had to be 90. She was incredible -
she had one of those old-style pull
along grocery carts people used to
use to go to market and stuff - in
the cities people used to do that
daily, everything was fresh in
the small greengrocers and corner
stores. No supermarkets ever
really cam to stay in downtown
Newark. She had on a few layers
of clothes, looked fairly bedraggled
and worn out. But she kept smoking
and belting down a drink, and talking
to the other lady now and then -
tough, city-rugged voices, they
both had. This old woman had
evidently been listening in. 'My
husband worked here for forty-two
years and I could tell you two a lot
of stories. But yeah, you're right,
the big brass don't want nothing
but what they can get. Unions in
here was just welcoming committees;
they'd welcome you in and when you
died they'd come back and drink again
to welcome you out. I could tell you
stories. My husband, and me,
sometimes, he'd come home
spinning with things he said he
saw. It's not like that no more
though, they're all dead. Where
you boys, from here?' And then she
had an old-lady hacking fit like I'd
never seen before - half tobacco,
half spittle, and half booze for the
other. We said 'No, just passing,'
and I said, 'Looking for Jolly Dolly's.
You know her?' She said, 'What, over
there? Yeah, I knew her, the fat one.
She never touched a damned drop,
except tea. We all laughed at her,
just a big hippie lady, even then. She
closed it years ago.' So, what do you
say to that? Maybe 'Oh, that dumb,
fat, ugly tea-drinking hippie lady
still alive? Here?' Maybe I should
have, but I didn't. She started
gathering up her things, and
slowly left. She was light, like
a pigeon would be light, if it
was a person - nothing there at
all. I wanted to feel bad, but
didn't. I'd seen her sort before.
Shuffling off. Avenel itself has
has a few of these over the years.
Probably walking 11 useless miles
a day for absolutely no reason.
We had a guy and a woman for
years like that. The guy died,
and this little old bent and
shriveled woman, with her
daily bags. She still does it,
without him. Every day.
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