RUDIMENTS, pt. 364
(avenel oddballs)
I can't count too high, but
including myself, right off the
bat, I can name three people
who have been destroyed by
Avenel - turned wacky.
One is far from here, so I
guess that's good. Another
is me, so I guess that's not
that good. And a third is
simply a local pestilence
whom I must tolerate and
deal with : Because of the
goodness of my Nature and
my fealty to my own uncertain
principles of God and Service.
There's a good note that goes
with that, and which always
makes me smile. In the 1970's
as I first began landing, in my
self-imposed exile and flight,
fictionalizing myself as much as
I could to thwart any fingerlings
from New York City finding
me, I began surfacing at Elmira
- both the small city of it and
the college of it. I've written
of this before, in any of these
5 books here (you really ought
to just buy the set, $400 dollars
won't kill you), and you're probably
to get like 8,000 pages of truly
a one-of-a kind history of our
times. Anyway, Gandy Brody
was there, an old 1950's Beatnik
era New York School painter,
and, because of him and that
connection, there'd often be
cool and surprise guests
among us. Poet Kenneth Koch,
(pronounced as Coke, NOT
Koch with the soft ch). Brody
was just a regular, stand up
guy, replete with all that 1950's
panoply of insouciance and
total 'cool' that went with the
era. He and I - and his friends -
kept an open-door policy going;
free to smash in and mingle
at any time. The thing was, in
Elmira, along the roads coming
into town, along Rt. 17 and
elsewhere, there'd be these signs
about the Elmira 'Sertoma' Club,
their Thursday meetings, where
and when. etc. I never knew what
it was. Sertoma? Sounded to me
like a sleep medicine or something.
Anyway, over time I found out it
was something like the Elks or
Moose Lodges, a local Rotary
Club, business group. All it meant
was 'Service To Mankind,' from
which they had taken Sertoma.
I mentioned it once to Gandy
Brody, and he said those
'service' groups were the
worst manifestation of the
American business ethos that
he knew of. And then he said
that American business people
were like puppies, always
seeking a mother's teat to
suck off of. He said lots of
other things too, and I was
always enraptured to be able
to talk (we'd walk Sunday
mornings dogs, each ours,
around the campus area). That
sort of thing doesn't happen
that often and is one of the
great serendipities of good
living in a place that harbors
interesting people. Alas,
in the middle of all this, at
age 51, one day he just
keeled over and died.
-
My loss. It's like that. I'd
never get the equivalent of
that here in Avenel. Perhaps
back in the day I could have
walked and talked with Mr.
Metro, the local deli guy,
about cold cuts and ham. He
used to complain that our
newly-built houses (1954)
when they were constructed
had taken away his best
deer-hunting land. I suppose,
with all that prison-farm corn,
deer liked it there a lot. There
was another Avenel eccentric,
pretty weird guy - he was
the fellow who manned the
gate-house at Security Steel,
for all the incoming trucks and
cars - bills of lading, packing
slips, appointments, all that stuff.
You sort of couldn't get in there
without passing his muster first.
I was always walking around,
Avenel Street and the train
station, etc., and over time we
just got to know each other. He
was probably 45 or 50, to my
16/17. He told me his name was
Ben Gazzara. I went back home
and mentioned it to my mother
and she laughed, 'He's pulling your
leg! Ben Gazzara is an actor.'
That was weird; and then when
I looked up Ben Gazzara, this
turkey actually did look just
like him. Strange. He lived in
the last, brown, abandoned
storefront building at the
railroad underground piss-stairs.
They took you to the Rt. One
side of the tracks, by the
country-western bar, The
Hillcrest, that I mentioned
(Hey, cowboys and cowgirls,
there weren't no hill and there
weren't any crest). He was
on the Security Steel side.
(I'm not sure if it was called
General Dynamics then; I
forget). Anyway, he was their
gatekeeper. I don't know much
else about him; he lived alone.
I went there a few times, with
my girlfriend too, because he
had started paying me for a
project. Also quite strange.
Once he heard of my interest
in art and painting (I guess I'd
told him), he began buying
these three-feet high religious
plaster statues, all white and
unpainted - of saints and Jesus
and Mary and stuff. I don't
know why or what he did
with them, but he offered me
like 7 dollars each if I'd
paint faces and clothing and
stuff, color-paint, on them.
Eyes, lips, hair and all that
stuff. It was weird and I
really didn't enjoy it, but
I did maybe 8 or 10 - I'd
pick up the plain white statue,
and walk the tracks to my
house, and back in the same
manner, with the finished,
painted-up product. He paid,
but was never perfectly happy
with my work - not precise
enough for what he'd wanted,
colorations and things not
always to his liking. After
a while I just stopped going.
Never saw him again, after
I left town - but another
friend has told me the word
was he fond of doing this
and took numerous other
Avenel boys into his little
lair there. It was a nice little
place, small, and set up for
one person; kind of a cool way
to live, right there AT the train
station, a nice, flowery yard.
The old abandoned hulk,
and his yard, is still there, all
derelict, and set for demolition
in a month or two. For the
moment, it's right next to the
handicapped spots for train
parking. Better get there quick
though, because the usual, elected
local-cheerleader bastards are
about to take it all away and
develop the section. Their names
are legion, and they don't like
being called out. (I was asked
to stop. Isn't that cool; the little
tax-moochers can't take it). So,
this Ben guy, liking boys I guess,
he never tried anything like that
with me; was instead just weirdly
pliable, soft and without much
spine, it seemed. You can usually
tell about a guy by the kinds of
things they like - all this religion
stuff being one of the telltale traits
of something ain't right. I've got
nothing against religion, and God
knows I've been around the track
with it too, but when what you
accept as religion is nothing more
than a weak-kneed obeisance to
command and dictate, something's
not right. Or, as I used to say,
'Ben there, done that!' (ha ha?).
-
Maybe I'm wrong by just claiming
three people destroyed by Avenel.
It's probably three-hundred and it
all depends on whichever floating
definition of 'destroyed' you wish
to use. I know a lot of people who
would never tell you they were
destroyed. But they are.
-
I always keep coming back here.
This little place, like a rounded
glacial hole that just keeps on
collecting water, is always a
ready pool of something - lately
off course it's just been bad bugs
and mosquitoes breeding, but
for what I demand out of life
(which ain't much at all and I
believe in nothing and mostly
disdain everything), this works.
If I was a sleep-around kind of
guy (oh drat) there's enough
hot-sheet motels to keep me
going for a year (I'd give out
before then). Sure are plenty of
gas stations to keep fueled at, and
now the latest ones all have little
crap-stores attached too, with
the marginally employable
locals all swarming around to
do the bidding. There used to
be a whole slew of what were
called go-go bars, with nice
condom machines in the
restrooms and French-tickler
machines too! They're gone
now, and what's left are called
'Gentleman's Clubs' which
means instead of dancing
girls in g-strings and stuff,
there's NO alcohol (ha) and
you pay a fee at the door (like
20 bucks), so it's considered
a 'private' club, and the girls
are all butt-ass totally naked
and without 'inhibitions' let's
say. Now, I don't know about
you, but to me that's a far cry,
as I see it, from painting
naked statues, and maybe I
missed out. Nor do I see, as
I pass things like the Loop Inn,
etc., how any intensified
ownership by and with local
gendarmes can possibly have
any positive effect. Hell, sex
and prostitution is sex and
prostitution, however you
call it. 'Service to mankind,'
indeed!
-
So, what exactly is going to
happen to this little place of
ours? I can tell you - we're
going to soon be subjected to
the endless prattle of gay little,
double-entendre'd musicals
and fashion shows and
swivel-hipped dance recitals
for the fat old locals who
can somehow get their stinky
butts off a recliner and pay
14 bucks for the privilege
of watching, while in their
best Walmart clothing, the
most-high culture they've
ever imagined, while all
around them everything
else is getting ripped and
torn and broken asunder.
You gotta' watch them
crazy people - sometimes
the devil comes in the name
of the Lord.
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