RUDIMENTS, pt. 334
Making Cars
It was a hard deal, all this
getting around, the back and
forth and the give and take.
I had stepped into this as into
a firestorm, remember, in July
of 1967, not caring one way
or the other about much of
anything but escape. I had
already blueprinted my own
life, had those plans checked
over and approved (by me)
and was ready - under every
hellacious obstacle thrown up -
to begin implementing my
experiment in being. I was at
the point, as well, where any
other category, title, or meaning
given to life did not fit me.
Existentialism, Pragmatism,
Altruism, Stoicism, you name
it. I called it 'experiment in
living' and the rest be damned.
There was a crossroads I'd passed,
a point in my life when simple
prognostications and forecasts
meant no longer anything at
all. I guess you could say I
was zealous, and religious too.
I'd basically come to the
conclusion that all aspects
of life were built upon a lie.
But I won't get into that here,
right now. Suffice it to say,
it was my conclusion that
unless one lived every
moment of every day in
the presence of God, all
else was useless. I'd had
religious training, and it
was bullshit. Packed in lines
and stuffed in categories and
programs ruled and reigned
over by ecclesiastical levels.
A completely artificial kingdom
of bogus fools, mostly perverted
and repressed too. There certainly
was no 'Life' there. I don't care
here, either, to speak for this,
that, or any other religion, or
belief. You can have whatever
you wish - the Entangled Oasis
God of Blue Cheese, for all I care.
But if you're not there, with it
and it within you, every moment
of every day, you're a fool and
a lying sack too. That's really
all there is and that's really
your only way out. Any hope
relies on the creative manifestation
of concurrent and far greater,
universal and cosmic powers
which present to us the
appearance and the glimmer
of a world we see, or seem
to think we see. The rest is
contingency and manipulation.
This sort of universalism has
only two switches: on, or off.
There's no middle ground,
and it demands a total fealty
You wish to die forever then,
go ahead. It's your falsehood.
And your body aint'a gonna'
rise again.
-
Most all of these Biker guys
along the way, none of them
knew anything at all about this
religion stuff, and considered
it quite foreign to their style of
fashioning rebelliousness by
steel and oil and gas. They
were so hedonistic that they
might as well have hailed
from Hedonia. And even
the Jesus Biker clubs - and
they were a dime a dozen for
a while - were all screwed up.
They'd throw you down on your
knees, by request, baptize and
preach over you, and then gloss
it all over with the high-school
sheen of biker ethos and service
to others. Personal salvation?
I'm not so sure they covered that.
It just never fit, any of it - the
beer, the riding, the drink, the
babes. Half of them ended up
anyway as some sort of
one-hundred-and-seventy-five
dollar Ministers, so they could
perform highly stylish Biker
Weddings. By code, or by
distress. Give or take; I'll
take the give.
-
Little ever was any of this
owned up to - I stayed mostly
mum on those counts. Befuddled,
and probably numb as well. I knew
it wasn't going to be my final path
and none of it really mattered.
Down towards the bottom of John
Street, on the way to the East River,
was an old, black (slave) church.
Underground Railroad stop, a
few historic markers, etc.; all
the usual panoply of notice for
history that the usual spitheads
can put up - just enough to slide
by and make it look like they
care while they run through
and loot everything else they
can. The Hell's Angels kept
a bar down by there at which
they'd hold their gatherings.
Usually late-night stuff, almost
a club-scene kind of pounding
music (they were big on heavy
metal), some food, naked babes,
big-deal dudes and tattoos and
colors coming and going. Guards
out on John Street - everything
kept perfectly and sternly ordered.
'Step outta' line, the man come
and take you away.' Those nights
at the John Street Bar were certainly
something else. I'd stand outside
and gaze over towards the 1820's
staring me right back in my face,
and wonder. Looking back, seemingly,
into the mists of time and seeing
all those old moments and people
still slowly moving about in that
molasses-like atmosphere that
time keeps its remnants in. To
Hell with whatever was going on
inside the bar, their haunts and
holies, babes and booze. I wanted
to be right where I was and no more
than that - and I wished as much
to be able to just leave, through
some hole in the mist and fog,
that beckoned me into its
other time and place.
-
The way I began seeing it was that
at its core the only real thing bikers
were after was being 'seen.' It was
a sort of proto-revolt in the most
visual sense - the Tomcat image,
the guy with the thick cigar and
muscles, the tattoos and leathers
(or rags), the stepping back to
look at the next bike over, the
chrome, the modifications, the
rear tire, the paint. It was all a
stall-tactic, to keep going where
you're going without going.
To stop time by making it all
visual. Why else for anything?
The most stylish way of drinking
beer I ever knew. Costly too.
-
I first met a guy later named as
Indian Larry, in about 1989
at a biker club, Angels-affiliated,
in Brooklyn somewhere, named
the Iron Knights. Went there
any number of times : the place
was in the middle of a basic,
poor, rundown, Brooklyn ghetto
area. It had once been a garage
or two, maybe stables once.
The Iron Knights ran it as
a clubhouse in usual fashion,
bikes strewn about, a makeshift
bar, a sitting area, etc. Card
tables, TV, tools, and a half
idea kitchen area. On these
evenings and late nights, they'd
simply commandeer the street,
decide the perimeter, keep locals
our, drive in their bandstand,
and then patrol the place with
billy-clubs and bats. No one
ever dared break through,
in fact it was as if, stunned,
the locals remained oblivious
to any of it. Up high, above,
you'd often see them out their
windows, just watching down.
It was always long, loud, and
late into the wee morning hours.
Don't know how the locals
survived it all.
-
Anyway, one day I rode in there,
way early, like 1pm, early afternoon
of a late-night happening. A couple
of guys sitting around, beer and
small-talk (it was a fund-raising
party, in fact, for an imprisoned
'brother' named 'Animal.' Stupid
me, I'd asked, what's he in for?'
The answer came back - 'Killin'
a cop'). Soft-spoken, real nice guy
was right there, next to me. 'Hi,
I'm Larry.' The other guy says,
'Indian, they call him Indian Larry;
he ain't, but he fixes Indians.'
Meaning Larry was not himself
an 'Indian' in the American Native
sense, but the he repaired and
worked on Indian Motorcycles,
an old American marque, out
of Springfield, Massachusetts.
He was the plainest, most soft
spoken guy I'd met in a while,
certainly in a place like this. The
funny thing - within five years
he was tattoo-covered, a marked-
by-media motorcycle daredevil
star, famed, probably rich, and
within ten years, dead. Doing
one of his stand-on-the-seat
stunts, while motoring along,
some went wrong, he slipped
off and smashed his head, and
died. Even after he was rich
and famous, and a name-branded
icon, I'd see him and he was, to
talk with and hang with, one of
the nicest guys around. He just
got the hard deal too - but a
little too much. I lost a set of
ears, that day; someone who
heard me.
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