10,762. RUDIMENTS, pt. 296

RUDIMENTS, pt. 296

Making Cars

Uncertainty has always stalked me.

You'd probably never know it, but

probably that's because of some sort

of operative over-compensation

takes over and makes me what I

am. Not sure. But, for instance

what's all that mean but personal

selection? Like in that early

religion school stuff, right off

the bat, I wondered what the

heck was meant by that 'I am

the Lord, Thy God. Thou shalt

not take my name in vain.' Or

however it went. I could never

flip that into any sort of order

or sense. It seemed way too

much doting on externals; and

who was this God anyway who

would come down to settle on

that as one of the strictures for

Mankind to stand or fall on?

Every time I saw some baseball

player rounding the bases or

something and looking skyward

then, while he blessed himself,

and then pointing up, too, to show

his thanks, I'd wonder : Wasn't

that just pride? Wasn't that a

vain use, in its way, of the name

of this Lord? For a freaking ten

minute baseball hustle? God's

involved? I had more faith in

that lightning bat that Robert

Redford swung in the film made

of 'The Natural,' a book written

by Bernard Malamud.

-

In the mid 1970's I went through

a real Malamud stage  -  reading

all his stuff, which then included

seeing the movie when that came

out. The Fixer. The Natural. He had

a decent line of stuff -  he died,

maybe in the 80's. I always liked

him. He wrote in, although a

vernacular tone, a voice that

was very Jewish, involved with

Jewish codes, and situations,

oftentimes. One short story I

remember, ('Rembrandt's Hat'), 
had to do with ancient Jewish 

values, very strangely, a guy whose

father is dying, and he goes to

some shyster Rabbi guy in an old

crummy, storefront, crap synagogue

that may or may not even exist,
and who has a weird, almost 
epileptic daughter who answers,
the door and tends to him, 

and the rabbi fellow asks like

900 bucks to make a silver crown

of some magical proportions, only

visible in a mirror, with the lights

out, which crown will, he says,

cure the dying father. There are

discourses of Jewish belief and

lore, haggling over money and

payment, levels of advance and

a sort of harsh proto-realism

amid all the doubts and regrets.

Turns out the guy opts for the

most expensive version, forks

over the money, regrets it all,

goes steaming back to undo

everything, and upon that last

point, unable to find this 'rabbi'

at the site he said, finally meets

him, goes on and speaks his mind,

'do I do this, or do I not?' etc.,

and the father, by that indecision,

dies. I made a short story long,

and garbled, but it all works

and is sort of strangely magical

too. It's like walking through

another culture; you feel the

place you're in but cannot

recognize it or its purpose.

Malamud wasn't in any

way media-savvy; you

hardly ever heard of him,

certainly not from him. He

was hunkered down, writing,

and that was it. Like the Spirit

of God itself. And then later

when he read of his fascination

with baseball, I was surprised.

But, no matter  -  seeing guys

bless themselves and thank

God for a base hit or a

homer really seems

wrong to me.

-

You know how there

are two hundred different

kinds of dog breeds. That

may be, even with the

mixing and combining  - 

they all have one Dog religion.

Whatever it is, food-bowl,

or running and romping,

or sleeping. Not like us;

Mankind has attached every

small dissimilarity to a

different God and God

format whenever it could,

and then killed and maimed

over it, so as to advance

the goodness of their God.

Pretty weird. Nothing to

do with baseball either.

The whole thing is about

as stupid as trying to row

a boat with a corn flake.

-

I liked Bernard Malamud,

the writer. I never really

even learned much about

him as a person, and I'm

not sure there's a biography

of him or anything like that

extant. Maybe I'll check. He

was real plain, and I got the

sense from him that he wrote

from the sad depths of some

New York sort of experience.

It had to be; Jewish Bronx or

something. His words were, and

the outlook was, always glum.
I guess I was attracted to that.
Life was never what it was cracked 
up to be, and at least he faced that.

It was as if the two versions

of reality  -  lights on and

lights off  - contrasted

themselves in his work.

I grew up in a real 'lights

on' kind of town  -  Avenel  - 

and his New York version

somehow represented everything

Avenel was not. It took me a

while to get used to the version

of reality that operates in the

'lights out' zone. In the same

way as all those rude, brash,

argumentative New Yorker

types, he himself represented

some solidity that was different

from the gauzy atmospherics

where I was brought up. These

things are never shared with kids,

or people. No one ever points

any of that out to you. Whenever

I'd go to Murray and Martha's,

it was an instant trip into a

lights-out zone  -  Jewish, New

Yorkish, argumentative,

tense. Always something to

be carping about. You'd go

in and they had this little

window area off to the

right where you'd pay for

your stuff  -  newspapers

and arrays of candies and

toys and junk; off in the

back were stationery and

school supplies, and then

at the rear was a fountain

counter. In the very

beginning it used to be

along the right-rear

wall, but a later revision

of it had it repositioned

to face the rear wall. No

fun, in that all you'd see

then, upon entering, were

the backs of the people there.

They had all that gloppy stuff 

-  malteds and cherry Cokes,

and syrups and sodas. Twelve

cents. Fifteen cents. Twenty-Seven

cents  -  all sorts of weird, homemade

prices. It was an experience. But

it was fun to be there, just to

see all that riotous difference.

Murray and Martha were

always at each other's throat

over something, and they lived

in the rear and above, so lots

of times their personal family

squabbles and business would

bleed out  -  into the store or

into the open rear entryway

to the section where they

lived. I never went in there,

nor ever got involved, but

my friend did, often. He said

our other friend, their son, had a

massive stash of girlie mags

hidden away upstairs somewhere.

Pilfered stock, from the racks

below. Oh, that dark and

unseen word again!

-

As it turned out, and only 

later did I learn  -  the reason 

the fountain configuration was 

changed was so as to allow a 

far better 'one-view gaze' of 

the store  -  for Murray and

Martha felt they were being

stolen from; someone was 

walking with things, and 

taking their money by doing 

so. This would allow better 

security, even from the perch

they'd had before. AND, insult 

to injury, their own son had 

been running a side-business 

supplying and selling those

porno-mags, by request, to

outsiders. And, he delivered!
-
I'm not sure if they'd ever found
out about that, and I don't 
remember the outcome of the 
story. Just that this kid, Howie, 
was cashing in nicely on his 
father's stock of monthly-delivered 
girly magazines. Always figuring 
that someone had their eyes out 
for an advantage, I concluded that 
Howie must be pretty sharp  -  
business head and acumen and 
all that. It was pretty funny, the 
things  -  all different  -  that 
varied people are attracted 
to doing.