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.