11,033. RUDIMENTS, pt. 393

RUDIMENTS, pt. 393

(on your church-knees, avenel)

There wasn't a great deal of

excitement to ever tell about

at the seminary. And believe

you me it wouldn't have taken

much. Most every moment

was controlled and set out, so

that not could happen. There

was always laundry day. (See

what I mean about excitement).

One day a week, I think it was,

a laundry service truck would

show up. Each kid had to

have readied a laundry bag

of dirty laundry to give to the

laundry guy. So, we never

handled the clothes per se, 
just the laundry bags; and I got 
involved too in the 'laundry 

crew,' but whatever day of the

week, or every-other week, I

forget, we'd get about 120

laundry bags full of laundry

and we'd fling them down the

open area of the stairwells  -

The ones where you could

look right down, like in the

old movies, and see all the

stairs. By the time we were

done, of course, there'd be

a huge pile of soft, landing

area, laundry bags just sitting

there like a big cushion. So,

yeah, we'd jump. I don't how

no one ever died, but I think

there was a broken arm, or

two. Some guy named Don, a

first-year guy, who was soon

gone. Gone Don, in fact. Yes,

some people didn't last long,

for various reasons  -  we had

the homesick, the weak, and

the too-nasty. Not everyone's

presence there worked out.

We never had the lovesick,

but  - wouldn't you know  -

the year after I left I was told

they somehow began having

girls on campus (beats me why

that would be, but whatever).

I heard stories of one or two

guys getting the boot then, over

'love matters,' let's call it.

My damned luck again.

-

When the laundry bags came

back, the drudgery of the unload

and distribution bore no fun or

resemblance to the outgoing

process. Our building anyway, 

which is all we covered. Some 

guys, get this, even did the 

dry-cleaning route. We'd

get their little, fussy, shirt

boxes back. The whole idea

was to have a money-draw

bank account in your name.

There was actually an office

room with a service window

referred to as 'The Bank' and

some chubby little monk guy

in there as the official Banker.

Brother Bucks, I called him.

I did all I could to to try and

keep 20 or 30 bucks in there,

except for textbook time,

when the home-folks would

have to send a hundred and

fifty or so. Some kids though,

they were rolling in money; 

no second thought ever given 

to the vending machine fiesta 

of candy, ice cream soda, 

and all the rest. Including 'dry
cleaning,' I suppose. One of the 

more well-used areas and 

popular too was the 'canteen'  

-  stupid name  -  which was 

a group of vending machines

with tons of junk to be had.

First year out, I remember a

chubby guy named Peter

Flaherty spending a majority

of his time right there.

-

As I remember Gone Don now,

I seem to remember his last name

as Czatkowski, from South Amboy.

Not that it means anything here,

like 60 years later. He kind of

stood out though; like a rifleman

in a roomful of people knitting.

-

Back in Avenel, my mother and

my aunt were  'overjoyed' when

I selected this seminary line of

work. I think they felt an instant

holiness of their own and a free

gate-pass to Heaven by having

a 'kin' in the priesthood; not that

it was ever going to happen. My

father was instantly suspicious

and morosely dejected, that his

spineless son wasn't going to

carry on the family name, (I

suppose that was to mean

impregnating some lassie,

which I ended up doing

anyway, and eventually.

So, the cracker, broken

in the middle, turned

out equal on both ends.

[What the heck does any

of that mean, Mr. Author?]).

To my father it was pretty

much alike to losing the

first-born to some weird

superstition. Then we

switched, years later, as

he turned out all churchy

and I'd walked away from

a burning  ship named

McCarrick. so, whatever

any of it all means, there

you have it. I try not to

dwell on it because, really,

my life has not been defined

by it, yet its presence is

curiously reflected in the

background of many of

the things I do. Conversely,

the minute I left that joint 

and entered my 'next' life 

chapter, it was always 

anchors aweigh and no

looking back.

-

The sanctimonious piety 

of Avenel was a bit 

disconcerting, mostly

because I realized right

off, in an immediate manner,

that it was poor-people piety.

Serfs and slaves, the kind

you'd find at the hired-hands

and indentured servants section

of any old Southern farm.

Avenel just didn't know any

better, and neither did I!

I had fallen right into the trap

I detested. My mother and aunt

sewed a hundred plus name-tags

into each stupid bit of clothing

I was taking with me (it was all

required  -  for the laundry-service

purposes I've just mentioned),

yet it was done joyously, by

them, while it seemed laughable

to me. I was ring-leader of a farce.

There was an entire sort of gayness

factor, I can see now, which was

not public profile in 1961. The

requirements included, with

name tags on any cloth item,

a napkin ring, and 12 cloth

napkins. Excuse my 12-year 

old French, but what the

'putain' was a napkin ring?

That was my first reaction.

The entire napkin and ring

thing was beyond my 

comprehension and what

it had to do with anything

was beyond me. It certainly

seemed to have nothing to

do with God, Salvation, or

the afterlife. Just a fussy,

damned napkin ring. I

should have seen these 

shitheads coming. Avenel,

AND Blackwood.