10,772. RUDIMENTS, pt. 299

RUDIMENTS, pt. 299

Making Cars
The thing about life is that most
people never see the half of it.
My mother, for instance, was always
worried about what things would
look like to others. As if, for goodness
sake, they were even watching, or
cared. I grant you, the kind of folks
we lived amongst were a cheap and
a nosy bunch, and it's still like that
around here  -  judging from what
I see  -  but no one really cared, and
when you came right down to it, no
actually noticed. Everyone had their
own stream of quirks and problems.
It was a basket case of addled people.
Old Jim Yacullo, with his big Buicks
and his Betty Boop wife. I remember
she always always looked hot and
we just used to figure they screwed
like crazy people every night. For a
living. For a way to make anything
have any sense. She had a pink and
cream '55 Chevy all her own. She 
cradled that car like it was a dead
Jesus and she was the Virgin Mary.
Yeah, right. The thing about cars,
and people too, I guess, is that after
about ten years or so they both 
begin looking like crap. Chrome
fades, and bumpers sag. At least
back then  -  now the bumpers are
plastic and are integrated into the
car design and thus cannot sag.
Who'd have thought?
-
I used to always think there'd 
be a way for me to find a real
meaning in life and end up doing
just that one meaningful task, to
my own liking, all the time. Like

a true dedication of purpose that
would just become all-consuming.
It never turned out that way, no.
My life mostly has been spent - or

had been spent up until five years
or so back - doing the bidding  of 
others. The way you have to, for

money, as a job, to stay alive and

remain in place. I've never had a

knack for anything - some guys 

I've known, they could spin a 

dime instantly from a thought 

or a dream. Some women could

do that too. Whether it was a sense

of power, a forceful personality, 

or an ease and a complacency 

about being glib, they'd never

look back, and were usually on

their way to the bank. Anything

I ever got from them was the 

shavings of what they'd leave 

behind. Wages. Boring, old, 

deadening work. I hated it but 

always just stayed with it. I even

reached the point where I got to 

telling other people to 'stick with 

it.' I'd go on about how what 

counts, over time, is the longevity

of what they were doing; no matter

how miserable it seemed, it would

be better for them to not be jumping

around from job to job and instead

show themselves as steady and 

dependable. I have no idea what I

was thinking - reflecting my own

stupidities, I guess. My average job

time was maybe 12 years, maybe 

15, on a job. I once knew a girl,

she's in Tucson now for many years,

who held strictly to the 'seven-years

and out' rule. Mary Kay would leave

a job in the seventh year, no matter

what - she said past that point it 

was all tiresome, and there was 

nothing more to invigorate her 

or keep her there, money included. 

She stuck to her guns on that too.

-

Mary Kay lived in Elmira with us, 

on the other end of town. Having 

grown up there - her father was 

a tool and die maker, had been, 

in Elmira's postwar industrial 

heydays - she stayed. She

was a cool kid, my age, very 

opinionated, militaristic 

'feminist' in those 1971 early 

days of the women's movement.

She lived with a girl she called 

'Kiki'. At first they living in a
place  called Bentley Creek. That
was in  Pennsylvania, about ten
miles below Elmira. That was  my
first experience there with girls living
together in some 1970's way of 'girl's
solidarity' or whatever was going on
then. They may have been lovers too;
I didn't know nor care. And then every
so often Mary would get hooked up 

again with some guy or another, 

for short periods of time, and 

then it would crumble and 

she'd be back. More militant 

than ever. I remember being 

glad it was never me on the

receiving end of her venom -

though, to be frank, I would 

have never minded that one. I

always was gainfully enough

attracted to her. One time she 

moved to Syracuse, taking up 

with some surprisingly boring,

divorced guy with two kids. That

didn't work, maybe two months,

and she was back again. She wasn't
the family kind, not the care-giver
kind either. I figured she would
have known that. Guess not. Her

and Kiki (I used to hate that name),
then moved to Corning, and for a

while they a nice apartment in a big 

old house that had been broken up

into apartments. She had a new 1972

Datsun B210, I think it was called - 

the original Datsun import car, the

one that made their name here (now 

they are no longer 'Datsun', and use

'Nissan' instead). She drove that car

to death and she drove it forever. 

Over their bed, in Corning, or her 

bed, or whatever, she kept a calorie 

chart. I guess it was some sort of 

woman's movement, or MS Magazine 

joke - a large poster that illustrated 

about 20 varied sexual positions, 

and the calorie count for calorie 

burn-off, of each sexual position. 

Then, the rest were listed, with 

numbers, instead of being illustrated. 

Big whoop. Every time we'd visit 

there, she had Elton John blaring

on the stereo, the album 'Tumbleweed

Connection,' I think it was, and 

the cut 'Burn Down the Mission,' 

because she said it always reminded 

her of me. Big whoop #2, I guess. 

(zero calories). Funny thing was,
Kiki was chubby. Mary was thin.
If they were lovers, one of them
was, apparently, doing all the work..

-

Living in Elmira was like living in a 

grim, sad, mining town, after the 

mines had closed, the seams had been

exhausted, and people walked around

thinking they had memories about 

something that once was good times, 

but they can't quite fully recall. It

always seemed to get dark early 

there; I guess the little hills around 

it shut the sun out early. Maybe. 

Even when it was light though, it 

was lonely, like you knew you were 

far away from anything useful or

that mattered or was 'alive.' A dot 

on Rt. 17 somewhere, that's where 

you were. Funny thing was, we 

were always told - as if it had 

some real self-importance - that 

because of the big IBM plant over

in Waverly, about 12 miles east, 

the entire area was on the list of 

first places the Soviets would send 

their nuclear-tipped missiles to take 

out (IBM had some defense and 

tracking systems headquartered there 

in Waverly). No one ever really found 

out what was true and what wasn't, 

but I wouldn't put it past anyone - 

the dumb corporate and defense 

bastards would not have cared 

less about what places or people 

they'd get obliterated. 'Collateral 

Damage' that's called today. A

guy I worked with, Rod Reynolds,

of Waverly, his father worked at 

that IBM location, in some mid-level

capacity, and it was Rod who first

told me about it. Rod was a real quiet,

sedate guy, always praying. I mean

that literally. We worked at Whitehall 

Printing, on e.1st Street, downtown

Elmira, and whenever we were on

break, or at lunch, or whatever, he'd 

start praying. Saying grace, reciting

prayers, the whole bit. I never knew

what that was about, but I just always

kept away from it, and no one else

ever said anything - just made fun

of him when he wasn't around. One 

day, he left at lunch, and came back 

about 2 hours later saying his wife 

had just had a baby, his 2nd or 3rd, 

I forget, at home, at lunchtime. She'd 

called, and he'd gone home to assist 

at the birth. And then he just came 

back. Didn't talk much. I guess he

had midwifery and all that, almost

like Amish stuff. We went to visit 

him one evening when he'd invited 

us to a quick cook-out. It was his 

father's big house, and they all lived 

there too. It was OK, we ate some, 

and then the 'boys' (Rod's two younger 

brothers and Rod and myself) had to 

go out on the adjoining field, and play 

catch for like a half-hour, baseball-stuff, 

just throwing back and forth, before 

we could leave. Pretty weird Summer

night. Rod drove a pretty nice, V-8 '67

Chevelle. Not hot-rodded or anything,

just a nicely kept, large engined, probably

fast and furious, car. I wasn't even ever

sure if he knew what he had.

-

I never much judged - I mean others 

or people and their ways. It never much 

mattered to me the fabric of the lives of 

others. Anyway, I'd had enough of all

that living with my father in his house

all those years. I kind of knew what I 

was and wanted, and how greatly it 

differed from other people's wants 

and desires, so I just kept quiet. My

wife was enough like that too. We

knew each other's general themes. 

Other people would start talking 

about money or trips or vacations 

or their fancy dining and stuff and 

we - used enough as we were to 

poverty-line stuff and none of that -

just pretended to listen well, feign

interest, or show concern. None of

that was ever for us. Their dollars 

were our dimes. But we got on. I

always figured to be dedicated to

my work and my craft, and the rest be

damned, as it were - I know I had no 

time for niceties, and, besides, I was

always ready for the big changes to 

come. That never came, but whatever.

I guess, when you came right down to

it, Mary Kay Hickey (her full name) had

me pegged rightly - a real 'Burn Down

the Mission' kind of guy.