10,940. RUDIMENTS, pt. 363

RUDIMENTS, pt. 363

(avenel state school)

I can't remember, but whatever

year it was that was the Spring

and Summer of the Beach Boys

and Sloop John B, that was

I first got any exposure to the

newly built State School  -

which had, at my backyard

and tracks there, taken away

the prison farm which had

always been there. Everyone

in my house was oblivious to

any of this, and never said a

word. I hadn't been around,

being away at seminary school,

and, here being back for a

Summer or something before

I finally left it for good, I

looked up and all that farm

stuff was gone. Man was I

pissed at this world. In my

house there, they must have

seen, at the least, surveyors

and bulldozers and footings

and things being put in, but

no one seemed aware. One day

it was all just there  -  massive

construction stuff, constant

noise everywhere, dust and

trucks and debris. How they

couldn't have seen it coming

was beyond me. I connect all

this with that Beach Boys tune

not because I liked it, but because

it was constant. My surprise was

as I found its connection to Carl

Sandburg, American Chicago

poet  -  someone of course that

the idiot kids and Beach Boy fans

would have had no knowledge of.

He'd collected a bunch of old

and traditional shanty songs, in

1927, called 'The American

Songbag,' and this was one of

the songs. It had been around 

forever, under various names,

John B Sails, etc, and this group

of Californa drug-hens got their

hit from that, calling it Sloop

John B. Whatever, it sort of 

became, for me, the anthem of

farm-wrecking.

-

Once that farmland went, so went

Avenel. After that, redemption

had left the premises and it was

just a soiled heap of truck oil

and gas runoff. 'A venal place;'

I called it. That was a set of sins,

in the Catholic Church. Fools.

Over the centuries they've 

actually lined up 'Sins' by 

ranking. Mortal sins, like

murder and fornication -- (well,

I'm not so sure on fornication

any more, because I hear-tell

a lot of that goes on now and 

no one much seems to care),--

they get you in deep shit and

straight to Hell if you don't go

getting forgiven first, by telling

someone else about them, in 

secret. Then there's what's called

'Venal' sins, like small stuff,

lying, cheating at tests, peeking

at your sister naked, stuff like that.

Like 'close but no cigar' sins, but

in reverse. A prize you don't

WANT to win. How any sane

organization of prelates could

defend any of this was always

more than I could figure out.

That whole construction thing,

by the way, and oddly enough,

took place in much the same 

way as did/is the current

General Dynamics property

of apartments right here at the

end of my street now. One day

they just moved in and started 

ripping. But in this case it was

all pretty obvious because it

wasn't farmland; it was soil,

contaminated and poisoned, 

that the EPA had shut down

years before, even closing

the adjacent park. All of a 

sudden, even with the EPA

soil contamination signs still

up everywhere, they were 

hard at work. Now people 

live there, and kids, and 

everyone else too, play on

the old soil without a care.

Of course, they glow electric-

green at night, but no one

notices.

-

I lost all grounding in Avenel

after that -  the State School

went up in all these little satellite

pods, each sheltered encampment

housing a different sort of seriously

deformed and retarded person  -  

all, from little kids to old adults.

It was the scariest, weirdest

place ever. My wife, when I 

first met her, as a late-teen, 

actually, was volunteering 

there a few hours a week. 

These were creatures who'd 

been given up by their parents 

and had become wards of 

the State, being sheltered 

and cared for. It was pretty 

horrible. Along the rear

fence, at the tracks at my 

house, there was a satellite 

pod of severe cases of young

adult people, like 20's or so.

I swear, my heart used to break.

These people were broken, and

I think their hearts ached for

company, love, and comfort.

These were males, by the way.

I never saw any females. They'd

be, in the evenings, out back,

clinging to the fence, wailing at

the heavens  -  strange, keening

sounds, up and down the scale,

while looking skyward. She 

and I sometimes went out 

the fence. They'd want to see

us; they'd put fingers and hands

through the fence, to touch, and

they'd stop their noises for those

moments and start a hum or a

low groan. Dying for humanity,

it seemed like. I almost cried,

each time, and I'd curse the 

Creator too. My girlfriend 

would feed them, as her 

volunteer work. I never saw 

any of that. She had a special

case, one John Balby, in whom

she took special moment and 

care. She'd feed him with a large

spoon, ladling the slop into his

mouth. He would be constantly

humming and rocking back and 

forth. She'd worked it how how

both to properly feed him and

have the noise and the rocking 

stop too. I guess he's dead now,

because apparently few of them 

made it out of their 40's.

-

I'm not making a big stink

specifically over the State 

School. On the whole, none 

of that had much to do with 

my life and, frankly, I couldn't 

give a care about it. I was never 

any sort of missionary about 

others  -  once any of those

super-sorry situations arise,

the problem is yours and those

who own you. I never figured

the State as a baby-sitter. But,

whatever; what got me more,

for a poor place like Avenel,

was the mission-creep of

this kind of stuff. Once the

powers-in-place get you figured

for being a dump, even though

they still take everything they

can from you, they begin to 

place all sots of nasty things

right where you live. You can

bet Scotch Plains or Westfield,

or even Colonia, isn't ever

going to have a settlement 

of severely retarded deficients

placed in their backyards.

We had the prison, after it was

just a boys' reformatory; then it

was a Maximum Security prison;

Then we had a Lifers Unit; (I

used to do their printing. 

Lock-Box R. I used to tell

them, 'Your printing's done. 

Come pick it up!'); then we 

got two add-ons of depraved 

Sexual Offenders units  -  

high-risk dick-maniacs who,

if they got loose, would go

right back to rape and pillage 

and murder anything that moves.

('Avenel; where men are men

and sheep are nervous.' Saw

that on a postcard once. OK,

kidding). And then we got

55 acres of some four hundred

of these State School people.

Some kind of, as I said, 

downward creep. How can

you make anything sensitive

out of a place like this? Now 

we're getting some Twinkie Arts 

Council stuff that, beside being 

redundant (ever hear of the 

Barron Arts Center?) is a tax-

drain, a money fountain for a

few fluffernutters coming in

to run it, and  -  I'd swear  -

a criminal enterprise to boot.

There's not a piece of clean

money in this town, and it 

makes me sick. I hope at

least they can keep the

prison open to house the

30 recalcitrants from here

who are prison-bound in

my estimation. And I hope,

when that happens, they put 

them in with the Lifers who

haven't had a good piece of

sheep in many a year. Now that's

a blimey musical to stage!
Avenel follies to the rescue!