10,918. RUDIMENTS, pt. 354

RUDIMENTS, pt. 354
(Perth Amboy : Avenel train wreck)
Walt Whitman said he loafed to

enhance his time. Yes, I can

understand that moment. Life

ends mostly on a dreary note;

within an estrangement of both

circumstance AND time as

they overlap. Go. Go then.

Just watch the birds in the

field, and see the river, how

it flows. The words of Man

are nothing, and the works

of man are battered. Long,

long ago it occurred to me

that I was born in the wrong

place and the wrong time.

Once a realization like that

hits, it throws you way off.

The papers said I had a family,

a sister, at first just one, then

more, and then a brother. So,

I guess I did, but it never ever

seemed natural, Or right. I was

one, alone, struggling through,

and without any aid or assistance

to take or give. Really, I wanted

to strangle myself, but that's

one thing near impossible to

do  -  for, at the moment of your

passage, your muscles, going

limp, undo the strangle and you

pop back into life. Kind of a

knowing-coward's try at death.

When I woke back up in that

stupid hospital bed, after getting
creamed by that lonesome train,
Jeepers, I wanted to die. I was like

6 floors up, whatever the height

of that  old Perth Amboy General 
Hospital was, and I could

see down to the street if I

craned (try that some day,

craning a broken neck and

body). Plus, I was in casts, and

all slinged up too. I looked

most like one of those Mad

Magazine caricatures of the

jerk who flew off the cliff

trying to elude Spy vs. Spy.

They gave me a male, Philippine

guy as a nurse, or orderly. I

hated him, bringing juice, like

a girl, messing with my bed

sheets and clothing, in fact

changing my sheets under my

staggered body  -  lifting me

painfully up while all wired

and tractioned up. They had

these ropes or slings that, as I

healed, they continually tightened

To better mend me, they said; yes,

it was called traction; or however

that guy said it with his Philippine

marbles in his mouth. Even those

few inches up so they could get

the sheets out from under me and

the new ones in, were killer inches.

Total pain and I don't know what

they were thinking. Once I woke

back up, I had all these things

to get used to again  -  like time

and clocks and lights-out and all

that stuff. I realized that where I'd

been, thankfully, none of that crap

existed. It was like some mad

Calcutta of dream time, and I

didn't really know anything

about Calcutta. I just said that.

For effect. I feel a Mark Twain

mood coming back on, so watch

out. One thing about this here

hospital, 1958 version anyway,

was that no one really knew what

they were doing. The science

involved was pretty much at the

level of a seventh grade lab. Medical 
care in Perth Amboy back then was 
just vying to be the equal of Civil War 
trepanning. and the cutting of limbs.

There were all sorts of people, even 
in the hallways, because the place was

way over-crowded; people were

healing, Beds. Wheelchairs.

Even just like waiting room

chairs. People battered and

bent, stitched up, bruised. I

remember these two old cadgers

going on, 'Didja know that 43

percent of the women in America

are battered?' said the one. The

other old timer looks quizzical.

'Really? All those years I was

eating mine plain." Like two

old TV comics, the laughs

ensued. Guffaws and slaps of

the wheelchair arms. Problem

was, even though I remember

it, I had no clue what in the heck

they were talking about. I guess

you miss a lot when you're a

kid, even though people always

say 'Shhh,' and talk low, because

they think you're getting it all.

Weird adults. When you do

get it, they hate you for it,

and when you don't get it

anyway, they think you do.

-

This wasn't an Army hospital or

anything  -  just regular stuff like

old people, heart attacks, car

crashes, stitches, operations,

bruises, falls. Not like now,

when they can change  your

hip at 7am and have you

walking home, and to the

square dance at the Elks

too, by 11pm. And nobody

cared about money either.

They just took care of you

and worked all that crap out

later. Now, they want your

life story and ID cards and

paperwork before they'll

even let you die. They also

must have made babies there,

giving them birth I mean,

because there was this whole

floor of nurseries, cribs, cradles,

bins, and everything was filled

with babies, crying or not, people

at glass windows looking in, 

masked nurses breaking kids

to the windows and all that.

It was happy, but just as

weird too. Once I got off

the bed and un-tractioned

and all, even with the leg 

casts, etc., they let me roam.

Wheelchair, cane, whatever.

It was supposedly good rehab.

I'd pass the same people often.

There were guys  -  I never

saw this anywhere else ever  -  

with slabs of raw meat, like

steaks, over their wounds, eye,

foreheads. I never asked about

it but someone told me it was 

a means of promoting healing

on bruises and things. Seemed

stupid, and wasteful and expensive

too. Unless that's the kind of crap

they later served the inmates;

I mean, patients. Why bother?

You could do that kind of raw

meat-healing crap at home.

There was this other section too.

real scary  -  they called it iron

lungs, what the kids were in.

Contraptions like space capsules

or time machines  -  I mean I

can't even describe it and how

sad it was. I wanted to cry even

as a kid. All you'd see is the 

person's sad head, and you'd hear

this pumping noise, pulsing, as

the forced air was jammed in, 

or something. I wasn't a doctor, 

but I knew trouble when I saw 

it. Polio maybe, I don't ever

know and no one ever said. 

Boy, but it made me glad to 

just only have gotten hit by 

a train, instead of having to 

be one of those alien things, 

pumping away. I always

expected them to rise, open 

their capsules, and start 

stalking about; like some 

old sci-fi movies me and

Kenny Kaisen used to 

watch at the old Woodbridge 

Movies, by Town Hall.

-

I spent way too much time in 

that hospital. Darn neighbors

kept visiting too, bringing me

stuff, except I couldn't eat

anything but regular Gerber

baby food, believe that, because

my mouth and jaw was wired 

shut from when my faced got 

smashed. I still can't breath 

through my nose like others 

can (their own nose, not

mine). It's like my nostrils

never got opened back up,

just stayed half flat-shut. And

other times, lungs and all, I have

a hard time breathing anyway.

I used to get the stupid baby food

and a big spoon, and they'd

taught me to smash it all up

into the braces on all my teeth,

wiring my mouth shut (about 

5 months) and sucking this crud 

in, for food. Other times they'd

stick me up with needles and

hoses to get like proteins and 

needed crap from a drip system 

or something. That too then

meant I couldn't twist around

and all, being hoked up like that.

Plus, it was all like some Nazi

torture that, the more I thought

about it, it would drive me crazier,

like being in a box you could never

get out of. I couldn't breath right,

my mouth and jaw was wired shut,

I was tractioned and in casts, this

needle-drip crap kept going in

my arms, and visitors expected

me to be all happy and glad to 

see them. Jeez, half the time

whatever they brought, someone

else ended up eating it. Bummer.

-

Yeah, that was some real loafing

I did. Weird thing was, no one ever

brought me a book, or anything

even remotely smart. Just crap.

And to top it off, the one kid I

hated the most ever in school,

Michael Hoffman, or John, I

forget, one day he and his 

happy family comes strolling

in and he's given the bed right

next to me for a two-week stay,

appendix removal and something.

Man, was I really bummed at

that one too. I thought about

renting one of those pods, or

hiding under some big, raw

steak. But someone  visiting 

would probably  end-up 

wanting to eat that too.