10,945. RUDIMENTS, pt. 365

RUDIMENTS, pt. 365

(a real hit in  avenel; & 'golden crust bakery')

I've made mention so far of

a lot of things, local items, 

that somehow relate to the

'being' of Avenel, and, of

course, my being in it. There

was a period of time I worked,

for a short, miserable, while,

a January, dead of Winter stint,

at the 'Golden Crust Bakery.'

It's on Rahway Avenue, across

from the Post Office, and is still

there, under perhaps a third or

fourth name since I worked there.

Right now it's run by a group

of Hasids or something from

New York or Brooklyn (same), 

and all they make are Jewish 

concoctions, sweet chocolate 

things, and religious calendar

cakes and such. Pollock's Bakery,

or something, but they have no

dealings with the community

and no longer is any product 

sold on the premises. There

used to be a bakery sales 

counter, and breads and 

cookies were sold. Now the

glass windows are gone, as 

is any idea of an inviting

front entry or any outreach 

to the community. I don't know

why they even bother, except

it's probably cheap rent and they

can just jump off the Turnpike

at Carteret and be right there.

(As in, 'Mascha, I'll be right 

there; tell Tevye too'). When

I worked there it was just a

regular bakery. And it was 50
years ago too. We made like

Torpedo Rolls, those little oval

loaves, used maybe for small

hero sandwiches and stuff. I'd 

mash up dough, with the two old

guys who worked there (I did all

the lifting of the flour bags and

trays and all. The old guys loafed. 

(That's a bakery joke too). They

had this rotating mixing machine,

a big arm thing, that would mix

the flour and water, after being 

loaded. Big vats of wet gooey

dough resulted, and, on large 

baking trays, I'd then dollop

out this small, circular wad 

of rounded dough (after a while

you'd learn the exact size you

needed) maybe 40 dough blobs 

to a tray; they'd rise under a 

damp cloth, maybe 1/2 hour 

(I forget), and then, uncovered,

I'd slit a little X type mark on 

each, lightly, so as it baked 

and rose and expanded so too

would the X-slit. I probably

made 3,000 loaves daily. The

nicely golden'd and crusted

loaves where then taken out,

cooled, and eventually put

in sacks and things for delivery

to sub shops, restaurants, etc., 

by the couple of delivery 

van guys who ran the routes. 

There were a few of those 

ugly, square bread-truck 

things they'd load up and 

drive. And then come back

empty, for the same routing

again the next day. Boy, was

bread boring! It got so I hated

even realizing the boringness 

of what I was doing. (I forgot to

add, I also, with a baker-brush,

had to slosh each pre-baked little

loaf with a thin touch of some

watery/butter concoction, for

the nice glaze and flavor. Thus

the name 'Golden-Crust'). The

place was a miserable mess. It

was overseen by like the crankiest,

most tight-assed woman, about 

45 or so, named Marian Cummings.

She was like one of those primped

school-lady types you'd see in

old movies; her shit didn't stink,

and she was too good for her own

world. Except she lived in the

Ideal Trailer Court, which kind

of destroyed, for me, any of her

visions of grandeur about herself

she may have held. Her husband,

a big, rotund cigar guy, he worked

there too  -  he was one of the loafer

guys I mentioned, and he also drove

one of the delivery trucks. Anyway,

I don't even know how I got hired.

She detested me, and, in turn, I

sure had no plans of running off

with her. She did the clerking and 

the counter-sales, etc., up front

at the street doorway. We were

in the rear, behind all that. The

guys (the loafers, that I've 

mentioned), they worked a little,

I'm not complaining, but the worst

part of it all was they'd be sitting

around with the radio on and this

hokey, Hawaiian-fake asshole guy

named Arthur Godfrey would be

doing his radio show, every damned

day. The guy (he was on for years,

a really lousy shtick of the same old

crap), was a reactionary Neanderthal.

There wasn't a thought in his brain.

He played the freaking ukelele 

constantly. Fake Hawaiin junk, as

I said; lame jokes about hulas and

Hawaii babes; corn-pone small

talk and a bunch of demented 

guests. He was rock-ribbed too : 

hated hippies, talked them down

constantly, hated beards and 

long-hairs, made effeminate

men jokes all the time. If he did

any of that stuff today he'd 

either be sued or dragged out

to have his old-man nuts crucified,

but back then he got away with it

all. The only 'good pure American

male youth'  -  in his estimation  -

was a dead one on the return trip

from Vietnam. Service for God

and country. That's how perverse

the son-bitch was. I finally just

one day upped and quit and 

walked out, telling old, huffy

Miss Marian, who demanded to

know where I was going, that I

'had some personal business

to attend to and was  heading for 

Vermont.' And I walked out. She

went nutso. The whole thing was

bizarre because no one in their

right mind (but I never said I

was) would walk off a job and 

jump in some piece of crap old 

Jaguar and think he could get to

Vermont without it blowing up.
And in cold, cold Winter too!

But, I made it! Got to Bennington

about 6 hours later, and then up

to Rutland. Later that day, back

down to Bennington, where I

took a room at the Bennington

Hotel and just stayed there, like a

monk. All by myself. The days

were fine, the car was great, 

I spent some time at the 

Bennington Pottery Works, 

off at the edge of town, and 

even bought myself a mug

or two to drink coffee from. 

All good.

-

I've written of this before, but

the desk clerk at the Bennington

Hotel  -  with whom I dealt a few

times before, and after  -  he too 

was a strange character. He was

shirt-and-tie stratlaced; dour and

stern. Mostly bald and, if you can

picture this, he had a collapsed

forehead. Yes. Imagine, say, a

golf ball, or a larger ball but

not baseball sized though maybe,

that had slammed into the middle

of his forehead, and left its indent

there, permanently. I'd heard of

people having dimples and clefts

before, even had them myself 

before I covered all that with 

beard hairs, but this fellow had,

quite simply, a massive implosion

void in the middle of his forehead.

Talk about distracting. It was like

a comedy routine, 'Yeah, well,

OK, we can pretend I don't notice

that, and I'll just talk to you, OR

I can ask now, what the heck?'

Never happened though. I would

have figured maybe he got kicked by

a cow when back on the farm, but

it was far too naturally-graceful and

organically curved and rounded

for any of that. I guess his head

just never closed up, though his

skin did. I wondered if it got

him out of gym.

-

And then, of course, I eventually

made it back down, NYC, Avenel,

and the rest. I could never shake 

my destiny, I suppose. Though I

never did figure out the difference  

-  between fate and destiny. The 

one good thing was that I never 

set foot again in the Golden Crust 

Bakery, and I ceded all that Arthur 

Godfrey stuff over to any old 

cadgers who wanted it. To me,

Arthur Godfrey pretty much

personified Avenel. The funny

thing was, years later, in a book

about a musician in midtown 

NYC, I ran across this, which 

I leave with you : "Columbia 

Studio E was on the sixth floor

of the old, lead-lined CBS Radio

Building on East Fifty-second

Street. Stepping out of the elevator

on May 19, 1967, his first day of

recording, his eyes were caught

by a large canvas sign that read

'The Arthur Godfrey Show.' Godfrey,

a popular radio personality, broadcast

his daily show from a room next to

the recording studio. Godfrey was

known for his cheery persona; he

even had his own line of plastic

ukeleles and played one regularly

on his shows. But the warmth did

not spread to the freaks and long-haired

musicians with whom he was obliged

to share a floor.....Crill and Darrow

found themselves sharing an elevator

with Arthur Godfrey. 'I remember 

listening to his radio show on the

cab ride back with the guys, and he

was saying, 'I had to share the

elevator ride with a bunch of those

filthy hippies.' "

-

It sounds funny now, but I

can tell you it wasn't then. For

myself, I recall at least three occasions,

two right along Avenel Street, when

people driving by stopped, and got

out of their cars, to berate and then

pummel me. One time, two brash

collegians, white chinos, the whole

bit, stopped in their top-down

MG, and took me down, beating

and punching me all the way.
'You freaky long-haired bastard...'

And then, like the shitwads they

were, they got back in their little

fey car and drove off. (Yes, folks,

I witness for you, it really was
like that, and I never forgave,
nor forgot). And, that's why, now, 
I'm always packing, and the next 
crackhead goes down. There are 
more stories too about this, but 
I don't feel like sharing right now.
Avenel even had its own tightwad,
 trouble-making 1960's reactionary
cop who insisted on causing me
no end to grief whenever I got
off the NY bus to Avenel at the
White Church (nothing racial, it 
was the color of the church.
That's how dense Woodbridge 
people are. Color-reference is
about all thy can grasp), but I
know his loony daughter, so I
 'ain't sayin' no more.