MUSIC OF THE
GRAND AZORES, 1984
One time, lost in Jersey City, I
turned right into the 'ghetto-dog
central station.' It was a rap-music
club somehow run by Haitians.
On parade, always, in their mind.
Just like that, too, no capital letters.
Jeez it was cool, and I usually dislike
that stuff. (I was going to say 'hate'
it, but it's too close to 'Haitian'
to work). I've had lots of little
experiences like this, and I always
try to make the best, stay alive,
and see what I can take away -
as memory or learning something.
One time, my friend and I - this
was Newark - coming down the
hill from Irvington in his Matador,
(Jeez, what a car was that). We
got a flat, and pulled over in front
of some abandoned bank. We put
the car up on the jack, but with the
hill and all, we no sooner turned
away to work the tire and the
damned car rolled off the jack.
What a mess we were in now.
A few black guys from the tavern
across the angled street, once they
stopped laughing, came over. We
figured we were dead, so we were
gripping tire irons. They were maybe
a little drunk, but we were still white,
see, and figured that would be a bigger
problem than the car no longer being
on the jack. The smallest of the guys,
(I'll call him Tyrone, because it's a
bit like tire-iron, no?), he starts out
laughing, saying, slowly, 'Now you
fellas, I'm thinking, had the car mebbe'
been facing the other di-rection, the
up-hill you see, the dy-namics of
the tension, would have maybe kept
it up straight. It all works out, yeah,
and mebbe' we can too! But first,
we's all will need another beer.'
Much obliged, as we were, we
soon bought - which was, as it
turned out, about 16 dollars later.
They got a jack from the rear of
some red Nova, and let us work,
while they also guided the car
again so as not to fall off the jack.
All pretty good. It all worked.
We said our thanks, and set about
an exit. (They was sure slow
drinkers). Anyway, this Jersey
City one wasn't anything like
that. I was just lost; went on inside,
this beautiful lady with enormous
Haitian mammaries steered me
over to Jacob, who most easily
gave me the proper directions
from there to Newark Avenue,
which turned out not far at all.
My ABATE accountant, Ed
Zampella, had his office there.
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