Tuesday, July 3, 2018

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. 







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