10,797. RUDIMENTS, pt. 308

RUDIMENTS, pt. 308

Making Cars

It seems to me that most

people spend all their young

lives wishing to be adults, and

when they finally get there

they soon enough revert to

acting like children. I don't

just mean the kids and the

grandkids and parenting and

all that; that's a real nuisance

too, but it goes with the

territory and for the most

part most people end up

comporting themselves

very well with all the

goo-goo and drivel and

DisneyWorld stuff. That's

not what I mean. I'm meaning

more the childish aspects

of thought and intellect:

only wanting to hear happy

tales and good news stories;

avoiding the dark and serious;

seeking returns to old nostalgic

places and times, though now

with some money and some

alcohol too. By contrast, I

was a terrible kid, and dislike

children to this day. All I ever

wanted to be was an adult.

-

The entire children's world

panoply of hysteria, magic and

make believe escaped me and

I wished having nothing to do

with it at all. And I mostly never

did  -  Buffalo Bob and Howdy

Doody, the Three Stooges and

Officer Joe Bolton could all go

to Hell for all I cared. It just

got worse when I had my own

kid, and thank goodness I had a

wife around who could terminate

maturity enough to hang tough

with all that crap. When I was

in the hospital for that long

stay after the coma of the train

wreck, after I'd awoken and

merged somewhat back into the

game, my mother somehow set

up this TV jerk of the time to

show up at the hospital (Perth

Amboy General then) and visit

me and perform for all the

kids around there too  -  the

usual appendicitis cases, etc.

I don't remember much of it

but the guy had a kid's TV

show called The Merry Mailman

[Barf!]. His name was Ray

Heatherton. (Later, in the 60's,

he had some sexpot 20 year old

daughter named Joey Heatherton

who did USO Shows and Playboy

level crap for the national GI boys

stuck in Vietnam Corps  -  and

GI doesn't mean my initials). He

played his routine for everyone

around and I recall it as a big

hit. Except, as I said, I remember

little of it. But right off, in the

midst of this crummy situation  -

me in casts and traction and jaw

wired shut and all sorts of long,

drawn-out injures, I was supposed

to see only the bright and sunny

side of things. Make light of a

bad situation  -  which I thought

was easy for others to say but

not so much for me, and not too

thoughtful about things either.

They may as well have sent the

Grim Reaper or Father Time

out to entertain me. Nor do I

know what this Heatherton guy

was up to  -  I guess he did this

to make some extra dough as a

sideline to his probably not that

longstanding career as a dumb,

TV clown-type character for kids,

in a wacky, pre-Mr. Rogers day.

God, if they'd sent Mr. Rogers I

swear I'd have beat him to death

with my pillow  -  casts on or not.

-

What it was all about, back then,

I never knew anyway. It was

considered cool and successful

I guess to produce a daughter

whose only claim to 'success'

was to become a fantasy-whore

to a hundred-thousand soldiers,

while her father is back home

performing for kids. And their

mothers? I can't remember who

showed up for the Merry Mailman.

It's pretty funny now, actually,

because I just looked up The

Merry Mailman and I see his

career was a bit erratic  -  and

he was heaved off the air for

a few years for 'Communist'

leanings, whatever that meant

in those gory, McCarthy years.

Cool though, maybe I was

entertained by a commie, and

complicit in tainting thereby the

entire hospital! I get it now!

Bood, and guts, and they were

called Reds! Hmmmm.

-

As it was, the entire world of

children and kid's stuff I couldn't

keep far enough away from. I

so desperately wished to be an

adult and hold adults ideas and

attitudes and opinions. I mean

real adults, not the nitwits that

passed for adult around me  -

the cool dark-thinkers along

the Quay D'Orsi, or the cafe

dudes along the seine, furiously

scribbling their words, and on 

edge about all sorts of post-war 

things that now, as issues, are 

fallen by the wayside as the 

world has turned infantile. 

Nothing accounts for anything 

any longer  -  certainly not

intensified learning or reading 

or opining or deep-thought 

writing or work. Everyone 

somehow has turned into the 

bedroom equivalent of Buffalo 

Bob and the Merry Mailman 

combined, and I guess  they 

all get wives to go with that, 

combined of Lucille Ball, 

Carol Burnett, Rosie O'Donnell 

and Whoopi Goldberg, in 

some hideous combination 

of toast and marmalade. But, 

that's how we live now. I pity 

the poor immigrant (who 

wishes he would have stayed

home), to quote a phrase. I guess 
I never got what I wanted, in
any respect  -  always sniffing
around some place that wasn't to 
be mine. However my life ended
up, this wasn't quite what I had in
mind. This is all too ordinary, straight,
and boring to me  -  and because
of that I'm always breaking out
on my own, doing my own things,
and most eventually irking some or
another poor soul who just doesn't
get it or can't take it. But  can't help
it either; it's always been a spiritual
thing to me, and like some coven
of witches or some such, the
true soul part of me just knows
immediately when the flares are
going off  - who and what I can
mesh with, or not. I hate fireworks,
but it seems I was always setting 
them off somewhere. It was
always just a matter of time  -  some
of it took longer than others, but
the break-apart always came. I'm
sorry here to be so proud, but it's
not easy, never has been, being 
exceptional  -  in whatever weird way
it turned out I always was, not saying
for good or bad. Just whatever.
If you look on certain maps, you can
still see the two large, uncharted areas
that old mariners steered clear of :
'Terra Incognito' and 'Just Whatever.'