10,756. RUDIMENTS, pt. 293

RUDIMENTS, pt. 293

Making Cars

My new piano teacher, after the

train wreck, was a Mr. Novack,

on Hillside Avenue, up above

Rahway Ave., at the driving range.

I didn't know anything about him.

My parents had met him one night

somewhere, as his little band was 

playing at some dance or Legion

party or something. The story went

that my father had started talking

with him and one thing led to another,

the subject went to piano lessons

and he said, 'Yeah, I do that too.'

He was also an accountant  -  tax

returns and CPA stuff. So they 

made some kind of a deal, shook 

on it, and after maybe a year and

a half I was back at piano lessons.

Last thing I wanted. And to my

chagrin, it always seemed no one

ever asked me about this stuff.

Kind of common courtesy, I'd have

thought, especially after my last

bout of piano lessons ending me 

temporarily dead and pushed into

a pretzel-shape by fourteen tons of

locomotive (guessing). I mean,

what's up with this? I should

have just said 'take your own

damn piano lessons,' but then

I had to remember that both my

parents were missing a finger.

Really. My father had sawed off 

3/4's of his thumb with a band 

saw in the furniture/upholstery

shop at work, and my mother, 

long ago, during the war (WWII)

had, as a Rosie the Riveter type

of stateside female industrialist,

lost her middle finger in some

sort of machine shop accident.

So, like who ever heard of a

Piano Sonata for Nine Fingers?'
To compensate, I guess they 
were determined that their little 
Gary Ten Fingers would learn to
play piano for them. Sounds like
a good American Indian
name anyway.

-
My previous piano teacher, over
at Claire Avenue, Woodbridge, which
is from where I was leaving when the
train hit us, was a 'Miss Frank'  -  oddly
enough Anne. I don't know if there was
an 'E' on the end or not. Just assuming;
you know those silent 'E' types.  Her
and her mother lived together in a
nice little house all the way down the
end of Claire Ave., which was a white,
(color, not race), concrete street.  I
always liked that - large, seamed slabs.
They kept a very traditional, Jewish
home, and it was always absolutely
perfect, quiet, and clean. When I
was in there, it was scary. After the
train accident, long into my recovery,
a frightfully distraught Miss Frank
came to visit me, at home, a few times
as I recovered.  I made sure to show 
her I'd not lost any fingers. She
wasn't good at jokes. Then she
moved away, together with her
mother, to the old Atlantic City,
where she'd taken a position in a
music school. Thus, Mr. Novack.
-

This Mr. Novack fellow was some

sort of high-standing Woodbridge 

guy. His place is still there. I go 

past it now and then  -  the little 

garage on the side, which had 

been converted to a tax-office, 

also held a nice 'upright' piano  

-  which is where our lesson-hour 

took place each week. The main 

problem was, he smoked big

cigars, constantly. Now, maybe

that was OK if one was, say, 

Gruocho Marx, or George Burns.

They were two guys back then

with big fancy-ass TV careers,

part of whose shtick, each,

was their looming, big, phallic

cigar. But he wasn't them. Ugh!

The stench was atrocious. The 

piano keys were yellow, and even

his breath smelled. A piano teacher

often shares the bench with the

student. So basically I'd eventually

get to breath his expelled air. Oh

joy. I never could say anything 

though. He'd be talking to me,

walking words through a piece,

while clipping and working the

end of his next cigar, which 

he'd then light and go to the 

bench to play the 'offending' 

piece, or some portion of it, so 

I'd get to hear what it was 

supposed to sound like and 

then I'd get my turn to torture 

it like he tortured me. Real

progress, at all times.

-

Other than that, the place 

was all nice enough and the 

lessons went well. I'd bicycle 

there, and back. The only 

problem that ever brought

was passing this one house on 

that hill, heading up to his 

house. There were always 

some three or four kids there

just waiting for me and they'd 

begin winging stones and 

pebbles at me as I both 

approached and passed. No

real damage ever, but a bit of

fear each time, and humiliation. 

I'd occasionally use a different 

block to ride up, but this one

was by far the best and most

direct. I just really hated those

stupid kids. Why they had to

do that was beyond me; and

what, if anything, annoyed 

them about me, I never found 

out. They all died one day in 

a plane crash. OK, NO, not

really; but that's how I felt.

-

When I said before that I still

occasionally go by the house;

I really do  -  it was a small,

stone-finished cottage type

house, facing one street, with

the detached garage/piano studio

facing another. Around the corner 

but still on the same property. I

didn't know a thing about his

home life or his family, but out

that window by the piano I

could always watch his yard,

where there was one of those

free-standing clothesline things,

the kind people used to have;

multiple lines on a pole, like a

square of clothes  -  not the long,

single clothesline. These things 

aren't around much anymore, 

but he had one and he also had, 

about maybe 5 years older than 

me, a daughter. A daughter who

was quite attractive, and finished

off quite well. She'd often be 

there hanging wash. I'd watch.

It was worth it.

-

He never got any other phone 

calls or any other business stuff 

while I was there. I guess he had

no-call hours or something. It 

was a little strange, for I always 

figured there'd be SOME sort 

of interruption. But, no, that 

never happened. One time,

oddly enough, I remember

my father coming to pick 

me up (I guess he had driven 

me there as well), and once 

inside the two of them started

talking, graphically, about

birth control. Huh? Picture 

me, at 10 or whatever I was,

having to listen to all this.

Cigar smoke too. Grown men

talking about weird stuff. My

father had had five kids with

my mother  -  six of you count 

the 1956 one that didn't make 

it  -  and this Mr. Novack guy is

somehow instructing my father

on the proper procedure for 

having the 'loop' inserted 

properly, describing this thing

'shaped like a loop and a cup,

but squeeze it right as it goes

in and be sure it's set'. And 

he wasn't talking about my 

father. I still don't know 

exactly what was going on,

but it hardly matters. Once

back in the car, my father

turns to me, like nothing 

mattered, and says, 'Did you 

understand what we were talking

about in there?' In there? I thought.

Uh oh  -  not wishing to sound

stupid (?) I muttered, 'Oh, yeah,

sure, yeah.' And that was that.

Sometimes I think adults torture

kids just for the fun of it, or

just because they can.