10,869. RUDIMENTS, pt. 338

RUDIMENTS, pt. 338

Making Cars

Some people always had  

something to fall back on 

I never did. Some of those

Studio School kids would 

be living on a stipend, 

always sure of whatever

amount was coming to them

at the end of a month. And

I'm not meaning just pocket

change either. Real money.

One guy, I remember him

telling me : 'One day my

grandfather called me and

had me come over, and he

said 'I'm giving you the start

of your inheritance early. As

of today, at the end of each 

month, until I'm no longer 

alive, I'll see to it that (X 

amount) of dollars is put into

your account.'' He said his

grandfather was still alive, 

and it all still went on, and

there was to be more after that 

too. I'd just purse my lips and

do my best country-boy 'Damn!'

and he'd get a real laugh out of

that. But he was cool; Raymond,

by name. Raymond Wetzel,

who of course to me was 

always 'Raymond Pretzel.'

Oh, maybe it was Andrew, I

forget. He never minded, and 

he gave me lots of premium-grade 

deli sandwiches too, in those days.

With pickle. Me! Who didn't

know anything about sandwiches.

I think it's true  -  when you're a

real loser, coming off as one 

anyway, people take pity on

you and do throw you a 

mercy-bone. It's pretty nice.

I used to remember, about 1958,

back at home, my father would

come home with his week's pay,

cash, in a little brown envelope.

One hundred twenty-five dollars.

My first job or two also, back

whenever, I used to get paid 

the same way, in a small brown,

end-flap bank envelope, marked

on the front with wage and hours 

and deductions and all that crud.

Cash. I can remember like seventy-

six dollars, maybe two-ten an

hour, later on. My father, however

supported a whole family and a 

house and car and groceries too, 

on that kind of money. By contrast,

now it's 'digi-world,' as I called

it when I was still working  -  

they want you set up for direct

deposit, electronic banking and

all that stuff. I don't know how

people do it. They make like

ten thousand bucks a week,

have fifty sorts of electronic

toys, and a loaf of bread costs

them eleven dollars. On the

trains now, they just show the

conductors a phone screen

with their ticket pass on it, all

electronically renewed. I don't

even own a phone; the conductors

come by me like I have cooties,

having to handle tickets and 

paper freaks them out.

-

Let no one tell you different, in

1967, and even after, there were

still plenty enough of horses in

New York City. Working horses,

clomping the streets, especially 

along the west side, right up

through the 20's and 30's (streets, 

not years). They'd be pulling

charcoal, or coal, bags of this

or that, wood, stones. Whatever.

There were still stables around,

horsehoe guys, hay and stablehands.

I loved all that stuff, and made

sure I got acquainted. Most of

those old stables, where they still

exist, are weird little parking

garages and things, with ramps

and entries. Like from another

world  - angled funny, and

sometimes oddly oriented to 

the street. Those too are fading

fast now, as new development 

everywhere just tears them down 

and the new buildings and stuff

make serious business out of

parking areas. Nothing like these

old bays. Which I miss already.

I used to tell people, once I'd

see them again, 'Missed you 

like air, man.' I mostly meant 

it, but not always, sometimes 

it was more like, 'I missed you 

like a volcano up my butt and 

a knitting needle through my 

eye,' but, you, you gotta' be 

kind of nice, sometimes. But,

these old buildings and horse

places, them I really do miss like

air. What a world we've let die.

It's a sorrowful sight.

-

What was cool about horses was

that they were alive, and they

needing tending. Blacksmithing

was cool (the street wreaked havoc

and hard use on horse-feet and

shoes). I used to sit around and

think about Creation then, while

wondering if in the make-up of 

the idea of horses, they were

ever meant for 'hard' surface 

streets. I mean, it couldn't have 

been, since they were 'created'

as natural, wild animals out in

the soil and wild, but somehow

they ended up on the horrid,

stone or cobble'd, and then 

macadam and paved, streets.

Was that cruel? Was that not

natural? Was it meant as an evil

thing? How'd it all go? When they
were created, then, was the 
future already seen, and 
in-line, in full knowledge of 
eventual hard streets for the
horses?  Man, stuff like that used 
to drive me nuts, all these little,

strange questionings. Like finding

an old horse tie or something in

an old brick wall somewhere;

not knowing what it could be

and why there, but only realizing

that it once was part of some 

horse establishment. One would

guess, anyway. I hung around

as much as I could, only because

it all represented something better

tome; all imaginative material,

mind you, but good stuff. One

thing I hated as sleep. Still do.

-

You get into sleep after a while, 

and you do understand its value.

Transporter of images. Reviews

of things. Messages. The weird

little twist of those other worlds

you're part of still seeping through.

If done right you wake up with

a bundle of ersatz collages of words,

people and places, horses that can

sing and fly, ladies passing through

walls while holding eggs and ham;

men rolling around in hoops made

of cream and fire. No sense, never

a straight line, and its all ephemeral.

The more you try to remember it

all, the faster it begins fading away.

Like trying to find the source of

a fire with a finger that has no feel.
-
Old people just used to pile up and
die; one by one, the old felt-hat crowd
and wizened suit pants guys of the
old streets stared dwindling away. I
gauged everyone, back then, by the
age of my grandmother : She been
born with the 20th century, so that
whatever the year was, that was her
age too. In '67, she was 67, like so
many of these old guys. Campfire guys,
for sure, except it was broken glass
bottles, empty, and barrel fires for
them. That was the only lamlight
their memories had, and  -  for them,
men in their condition  -  age 67 was
already quite ancient. Things
were broken down  -  these were
men who'd walked through the 
Depression, the 1930's the war,
they were crazy boys in the 1920's,
all those memories, like loose 
nuts and bolts, were still flailing
around in their heads. Their
campfire stories were mostly
horrid. It was my grandmother  -
she was contemporary to most
of these guys  -  who used to
be the one telling me about the
arrival of cars, refrigeration, the 
ice-man and the coal-man, vending
their wares along the streets. When the
three-cent loaves of bread were sold 
fresh and apples were vended like
candy and pretzels. The War, the
upheaval; she too knew all that,
but it was slightly different, because
her 'scars' were the scars of home,
home-life and calm, by comparision
to the wriggled eel-life these men
had gone through. And they weren't
the wordy type  -  at least not then.
Life had pretty much shut them up.