10,780. RUDIMENTS, pt. 302

RUDIMENTS, pt. 302

Making Cars

I can't remember when, but the 

first time I ran across fast food the

concept just seemed odd, and pretty 

un-natural.  Plastic chairs and booths, 
clown suits, crowns, little finger-sized 
smidges of pre-made food. Managers 
and floor people in weird clothing. But I
have no recollection. It seemed suddenly
that everyone had decided to give up 
on any sense or quotient of quality.

I know that in about 1956 we drove

as a family, in my father's 1953 Ford

station wagon, with my grandmother

along, to Washington DC; Summer, 
1957, in the same car that I'd get 
creamed in by Feb '58. in the train
wreck. (Enjoy the road, Sunshine Boy). 
Portentous trip, for sure. We stayed

five or six days in some cabins along

the road just out of DC, in Virginia.

I can remember that well, because it

left an impression, strong. I'd never

been in a 'cabin' set-up before, and

enjoyed it. There were a few lawn

chairs set out and we sat around

the two cabins in the long evening 

light. What most stands out is that 

I recall eating in this large place

filled with people, and in the center

of the large room was the food service

center  -  something which I'd never

seen before. The people all got 

trays and cups and forks and all

and made their way to this center

area where, after calling out what

they wanted, they got their food. All

the people inside the glass service

railing were black people, but in

white kitchen-worker clothing  - 

a few guys with chef hats and

things like that. There was bustle

and it was all resoundingly noisy.

Everyone talked and the noises

resonated, the clink of silverware

and trays, pick-ups and drop-offs.

Men with carts, picking up the

finished settings and all. I was 

awed and had never before 

seen  anything like that  :  Large 

breakfast service, eggs and toast 

everywhere; and the same for

(I guessed) lunch, and certainly

for dinner, which I went to once 

or twice when we weren't out at 

that time (the usual sightseeing

junk  - Jefferson's place, Monticello;

Mount Vernon, The White House,

Lincoln Memorial, all that). Be all 

that as it may, what struck me 

most, even as a  seven year old, 

back then, were two things: I'd

never seen so much food in one 

place and so easily dispersed, in

fact, efficiently  -  the word I'd

use now; and (more importantly)

the strange feeling I got from

witnessing an entire 'class' of

people at work serving other 

people. I understand this was 

1957, and a little bit of the South

was going on here, but to me,

back then, it was strange and a 

sight I couldn't understand.

Everyone in positions of servitude

was black, Negroes, in the word

of the day. Willingly, and, it

seemed, even jovially going

about their task. It baffled me.

None of it was exactly 'fast food' 

in any way. It was all, for sure,

real food and there was nothing

quick about it  -  people, travelers,

and families lingered, stayed for 

as long and as much as they wanted,

talked and frolicked, although all

in serious ways. It was a benign, 

odd, 'road-culture' and this was 

my first exposure to it. The idea 

of travel and road-food serving

the needs of hundreds of passing

people had never dawned on me,

and I guess from that came the

incipient development of what later

became 'fast food' as an industry;

which, as in everything else, soon

enough devolved into an annoying

silliness, with clowns, junk, jingles

and mottoes. Stupid logo-characters,

like the Bob's Big-Boy kid, and

the likes of Ronald McDonald and

the original Burger King guy (who 

was, actually, to me, quite spooky).

It all turned to junk, especially after,

say, the demise of things like Howard

Johnson's and places like that which

at least kept a modicum of civility

about themselves. 

-

Anyway, fast food came later and 

by the late 60's was becoming 

ubiquitous. I remember being in 

a car at a Wetson's, I think it was, 

along the road to the Jersey Shore 

and, my 'long hair' and general 

demeanor having pissed these

two generally clean-cut and 

militaristic college types off 

(Hazlet, at what is now called 

'Airport Plaza,' because, yes,

it was once an air-strip,  now

just a dipshit strip mall kind 

of place along Rt. 36 or whatever 

it is, the Wetson's hamburger

joint being long gone), they flung 

open the rear door and grabbed 

my head from behind where I 

sat in the front passenger seat 

(no headrests back then) and, 

having my head pinned, proceeded 

to fancifully beat my face with 

their fists. It wasn't a pretty sight, 

but at least I lost no teeth, (they

punched like rich girls) though 

the blood was flying. Then as 

quickly as they started they 

jumped back into their car and 

took off. We were (3 of us) a 

bit stunned, and just sat there 

watching me bleed. Life was 

real fun back then. Talk about 

fast food, I'd rather fast. It was

more like fist food anyway.

-

By the way, I should point out, 

this whole 'long hair' thing wasn't

that at all. That took a few years 

yet to develop. Having long hair 

in 1966 meant maybe like NOT 

going to the barber every 14 days,

so there'd be  a small extra tuft of

hair behind the ears or something  

-  but people  went ape-crazy over

things like that. My own hair, 

after me being thrown out of, sent

home from, senior class high-school 

innumerable times, was a constant 

point of contention. The high-school 

dweebs who ran the hallways 

were always kicking me out for

something  -  to go get a haircut;

too many clothes (I'd layer up

for the cold walk to and from

school, rather than ride the 

school bus with a blubber of

fools around me; shoes no good

(warm-weather complaint); can't

wear sandals; can't wear boots).

I'd go home, do the minimal 

nothing with scissors, pretend 

at humility and go back the 

next day. Nobody really cared.

The Nazi jerks in the front office,

both Principal and Vice-Principal,

had it in their heads that they 

hated me, so the word was out.

Lou Gabriel, and John Stanaitis, 

I hope you're both enjoying Hell.

-

Guys were getting hand-jobs

in the back of the school bus;

girls were popping out their fine

specimens at will. These forlorn

administrators from the goofball

corridors of well-being were

more worried about how I 

looked. Teachers were trying

to have you think they were

instilling 'character' in you as

they taught, while stifling in

every way any spurt (except on

the school bus) of individuality

coming out of you. (Yeah, there's

a sort of wordplay going on there).

And  -  of course and let us not

forget  -  at every exit door was

a Sergeant McJerkoff trying to

sign these good boys up for

a vacation in VietNam, you

know, to defend your liberties.

That was what school was at that

'point in time'  -  nasty phrase.

-

It got to be a joke. I'd tell people

I'd be more than happy to go to

Vietnam if I could take their

sister, daughter, or wife with 

me. Never got any volunteers

for the gang bang.

-

Not much made any sense to me.

I've said that a hundred times. Most

things were pure prattle, mere words.

Oliver Wendell Holmes put it nicely,

once, in saying  -  about soldiers and

'the misfits who undertake military

service, somehow giving up their

freedom to go and die for Freedom:

'faith is true and adorable that leads 

a soldier to throw away his life 

in obedience to a blindly accepted 

duty, in a cause which he little 

understands, in a plan of campaign 

of which he has no notion, under 

tactics of which he little understands.'

He also wrote, 'It seems to me that

every society rests on the death

of men.' He left out 'you're being

used.'

-

I've always to like to read; for a few years

that's about all I really did, the rest

of anything being crap and detail.

You can learn a million things reading,

and find that you really don't need

anybody else along for your own

fine ride. Edmund Wilson was a

steady wonder to me. He'd started 
out in Red Bank, NJ, oddly enough. 
Born there. A town I detest. I loved 

his stuff  -  his living in Talcottville,

his diaries, his books written by

the decades : The Forties, The 

Fifties, The Sixties, etc. 'I Dream

Of Daisy,' was amazing for its 

day, still known too for its

stunning description of a 

vagina. He had later books as

well; one on the Iroquois (his

familial home was one Iroquois 

land) - 'Apologies To the Iroquois' -

another on Canada; another on

'The Cold War and Income Tax'; 

At sixty-eight, he wrote : 'I have

finally come to feel that this country,

whether or not I live in it, is no

longer any place for me. I find that

I more and more feel a boredom

with and scorn for the human race.'

Reading is a wonderful thing when

it can lead you right out of here.

(Well, hate to eat and run, but....)