Friday, June 29, 2018

10,933. RUDIMENTS pt. 360

RUDIMENTS, pt. 360
Making Cars
Being as it's midnight
again, I'm determined to
state my point : My mother
was my most indeterminate
factor. I never got to
understand the role of a
mother in a boy-kid's life.
I heard a hundred different
versions of this or that.
They all began the same  -
with all that 'don't be a
Mama's boy' crap, and
then they ran the gamut
from hate your Mother to
love your Mother to you
really desire your Mother
but you hate your father
because he has the love
from your Mother that you
want. All that Oedipal and
kill your father stuff too.
It was enough to make
one puke. I never believed
a word of it, from the old
Greek crap to Freud himself.
What a bunch of jerks. I
really just always figured my
Mother was a sorrowful character,
and that made me sad, and even
moreso as I began to realize I was
just like her  -  way more that
I was ever like my father. Man,
did that ever seem like a not
so good dead-end trap. For me,
not her. She didn't know the
difference anyway. My father
would likely rip the legs off a
horse and then demand that
it go faster, and farther. Yeah,
that dumb. My mother, on
the other hand, would just
start crying and bemoaning
the poor horse's fate, all that
blood it was losing, and the
stain the blood was leaving,
and then she'd parlay the horse
with some meek, 'Well, what
are you going to do now for
the rest of your days?' She was
a pretty good saleslady for
suicide, I always thought.
-
But, on the whole it was
always unfair, because she
often blamed me, outright,
for things I had no control
over and were completely
made up of weird-thinking
too. [Writer's note : This
is the spot where you need
to get tangible with something
specific to show your case;
otherwise it's just blather]
(SO, here goes:) One time,
it must have been the first day
of Fifth, maybe Sixth, Grade,
but I think Fifth, because of
where in my memory the
classroom was. My mother
ironed a lot, afternoon stuff,
in front of the TV  - really
dumb; stupid format, a thin,
metal ironing board, a bunch
of afternoon clothes, and that
music show on the TV. The
old one, from Philadelpha, where
Dick Clark would have a fake
live act, Bobby Rydell or
Paul Anka or any other geek
back in those days before
'pop' music had supposedly
caused a head revolution and
changed society. She'd watch the
kids dance in place to some
horrible lip-synched BS. Dick
Clark (aptly named) was a jerk,
the kids were jerks, and so
was the music and the fakesters
who did it. I came home for lunch.
The first day. She asked how it
was, who was my teacher, etc.
And then she asked who was
in my class, with me.
-
When I was this age here, Fifth
Grade, I had all sorts of local
kid friends and acquaintances,
from school and from just being
around. Being a kid back then,
in Avenel anyway, was nothing
like today  -  we'd be out all the
time, all sorts of places, licit and
illicit, crawling in pipes, stealing
things, hanging around, breaking
into closed up places, walking the
woods, even taking girls and others'
sisters into the woods. It was an
open season for everything. My
Mother didn't know the half of
any of it about me. She had all
these little categories in her head  -
good kids, wild kids, rude kids,
loud kids, etc. Hell, if she knew
what we were up to then maybe
she would have had a right to
freak. But she heard the names
of some of the kids who were
going to be in that year's class
with me, and she freaking went
nuts. Right over Bobby Rydell
and the Chapel of Love, or whatever
it was, Shirelles or something, she
starts yelling at me  -  'Oh no,
that's not good, you're going
to turn out just like them,
being no good,' etc., etc.
Ain't even worth listing. She
was patently nuts, and fearful
of every little thing. 'Excuse me!
But maybe they'll turn out just
like me! Ever think of that! We
can all smoke and steal and rob
together!' (I didn't say that, of
course not. It's a thought bubble).
My point is, I guess, what sort
of weakness drives someone to
be like that and say those weird
accusatory things for no reason?
Point of fact was, I had not a
damn thing to do with whoever
else was in my class. 'Go see old
Mr. Lund, the Principal, if it's
all that so-important to you.'
(Thought bubble footnote).
-
So anyway, that really ticked
me off for a long time, and, yeah,
I thought less of my Mother
over it. I found her unreasonable,
weak, and unmanageable too.
But I never said anything.
That was a crummy year
anyway. Some twisty, young,
Jewish teacher, who seemed to
be about 16 years old, her first
or second year teaching, Miss
Artym. It was funny. She wasn't
hot or anything, I never thought,
but she must have rung the bell
good enough for some of those
swanked-over men teachers
there, because they were always
seemingly swooning over her
and hanging around. Her first
name was Ceil. That was the
name, not short for Lucille or
anything either. We had to sell
Burpee's Plant Seeds that Winter,
and a kid in class, Louie Carew,
he stole all the packet money
that was stored up by her desk.
She went nutso on us, demanding
that we turn in the culprit, but
none of us talked, all stayed
mum. Louie probably got his
thirty bucks, or whatever it was,
and our stupid honor system
probably saved his ass, but
all it did for the rest of us
was to get our class trip, with
the other kids, to Philadelphia,
on a bus, to visit the Betsey
Ross House, cancelled. All
the others went, but our one
dumb class had to stay behind
and have a regular Spring
school-day. (I'd say 'thanks,
Louie,' but poor old Louie
Carew, of Clark Place, died
when he was about 30. He was
a good guy; I always liked him.
It was funny, one day we were
talking, about this time, as we
were walking home. I'd go
straight, up Inman Ave., and
he'd turn, at the Wilk's house,
where there was a corner
mailbox then, for the left up
Clark place. He lived next to
Billy Moran's house. He was
talking about what he had done
on Saturday, or something, and
he said he'd gone to the movies.
But he didn't say movies. It was
weird. He said, no fooling,
that he had gone 'to the
'Thee-ay-ter.' He didn't even
say, like the rest of us, 'there-ter.'
But instead he had this weird
swag that he put onto the word.
Making it three, fancy, syllables.
The Thee-ay-ter. I'd never heard
that before  -  never much ever
after either.
-
So, on balance I don't fault
my parents for anything  -  they
were what they were, and whichever
format they came through with
they managed. They managed me too.
In fact, I probably deserve a merit badge
for tenacity and they for tolerance.
The part of all this I can never figure
out is how and why any human
being has to go through ringers
like this in order to eke out a
subsistence living. Someone
ought to tell me soon.





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