10,833. RUDIMENTS, pt. 320

RUDIMENTS, pt. 320
Making Cars
The future, I soon learned, 

was never ending up as it

was planned. Things always

went astray. We'd get plans

and vistas of moving sidewalks,

short-distance air travel and

power-packs on people's backs,

to airlift them to their destinations.

All sorts of oddball things. Never

coming to be. Instead, we got

Amphicars, and (now) drones.

There was a guy down on Rt.

35, South Amboy way. His name

was Deacon. Last name or first,

I never knew. He had a small,

crummy, commercial motorcycle

shop, for weird bikes, not Harleys;

stuff like Bultaco and Greeves.

Trail bikes. Jawa motorcycles,

from Yugoslavia or somewhere.

I spent some time there, just

hanging out. (I never got a peek

at his mail, whether it was

addressed, as the postman brought 

it in, to his name, thus showing

first name or last). He was also

an Amphicar dealer. Which meant

MAYBE there was a demand for 2 

or 3 a year. I don't know if you've

ever seen one  -  they were Dutch

(canals, right)  -  and were essentially,

and looked like, a car. 4 wheels, etc,

but the whole thing had a boat bottom

and a propeller. And it was water-tight,

for engine purposes. You could just

drive your car to the water or loading 

ramp, and continue to just drive into

the water  -  lake, dam, or river  -  

switch it over to 'boat' and the

engine would engage the propeller, 

and you'd have a boat. A car-boat

anyway. ('Jeez, Harry, don't open

that door.')......

-

Deacon was a really cool guy; totally

informal, smallish, always happy. It

never seemed like he made a dime 

of the place, but I guess he did. Not

that he even cared about that. There

was stuff everywhere  -  parts, large

and small, hanging of the walls,

shelves overflowing with nameless

things, and tools and items everywhere.

He, however, knew exactly where 

any and every thing was, and could 

tell you too  -  'There's a screwdriver

on the back of that third shelf left.

A few, actually. I want the red-handled

one, not the blue-handled one also

there.' He knew. There was a bar

next door too  -  'Connie's'  - but

I never saw him drink, nor frequent

it. Anytime I was ever there anyway.

Other guys would come in, the big

ugly kind of motorcycle or fisherman

guys, and they'd start their business

with him, then break it off while

he did something for them, whatever

junk they carried in, and they'd go

drinking while he worked. Always

eventually these fat, sloppy cows

would  come back in, way looser

and more screwed-up then when

they arrived, get their stuff, pay

him for whatever he'd done, and,

woozy as a drunk praline, get back

into their 've-hic-cle' and take off

south down Rt. 35. I always figured

they really better needed an Amphicar,

for by the time they hit Keyport I

figured they were water-bound.

-

Fun stuff, old Deacon. I only met

two other people, ever, like him.

Fred Fox, the Rahway Mechanic

I knew, when he had a shop next

to the old Route One interchange,

and this welder fellow too, named

Butyl. Maybe old Bill too, at B&D

Harley, and Leo Hulnik too, at a

place called 'Deal 'N Wheels' -

another local motorcycle shop.

That's four, but who's counting?

These guys were all of the same

cloth, cut perfectly for that weird

zone of efficiency and mechanical

adeptness as to rule their own,

kingdoms; with a soft grace, a

slow mastery of place and operation.

Later on, the entire Rahway Harley

operation, at a different location,

off the highway, oddly enough,

and downtown, in the old, bankrupt

Rahway Chevrolet dealership, (and

to prove the point that you can't

recreate that sort of thing in the

modern, 'business,' world), was

put in place and run by a wired

guy as taut as a kite string in a

heavy wind. By contrast to the

smoothness and ease of any of

those guys I'd mentioned, he ran 

his place like broken glass, and

it never was nothing but real

uncomfortable. You lose a whole

lot when you play harsh instead 

of easy : Like the grace of a 

circle versus the hard-glare 

of a square.

-

One of the saddest things I ever 

saw was at Deacon's too  -  a 

friend  of mine who was almost 

always there, he would bring 

his dog along. Kept off-leash, 

well-behaved, quiet and it

never strayed, this dog. The

guy was, it was announced, 

soon to be getting married. 

The word was that the dog

didn't get on too well with the

fiance  -  a totally different kind

of girl, certainly no match for

this guy, worlds apart, but 

whatever - and one day, close

to the wedding date, the guy

as usual shows up with his dog.

He's saying how nervous and

antsy the dog's been, how it

seems so unhappy about this

new mating, as if it knew. It

was really working on the

 guy too. All of a sudden the 

damn dog bolts up and darts

off, right out into Rt. 35 traffic.

Blam! Instant dead dog. It

was pretty horrible. And the

poor guy went nuts, wailing 

and gnashing his teeth. Blaming

himself and the upcoming

wedding for the dog's deciding

to give it all up. Dog suicide.

Boy, that was tough.