11,077. RUDIMENTS, pt. 410

RUDIMENTS, pt. 410

(avenel boys, coming home)

It was kind of a torturous time :

highwire walking, between

definitions, ideas in turmoil.

The sniff of the Vietnam war

was around, hitting Avenel

too. Every so often someone

would go  -  little said. There

became a certain age threshold

when males just sort of looked

at each other and shrugged. LBJ

seemed always on TV, hemming

or hawing about something or

other. Gulf of Tonkin (a complete

and made-up sham to induce

som further war moves). What

had started out as advisors

soon became soldiers. Some

homes in Avenel had sons

moving out, and they played it

happy  -  proud to give our son.

All that stuff. Body counts, nightly.

The stories began filtering back,

about the sham and the lies. Any

number of guys, with the draft

looming, just enlisted instead.

The times of service differed,

whether you were drafted or

enlisted, but I forget what they

were. The Elks Club, in Woodbridge,

kept pumping up the war, with

essay contests and patriotism crap.

One after the other. They were still

in their old hall; not the large one

now on Rahway Ave. The year

was 1966. My friend Jack, over

on Minna Ave., a sort of a nutcase

anyway, he enlisted  -  as a Medic,

since he'd claimed he wanted to

be a brain surgeon as a career.

He just liked blood and guts.

And then he re-upped again. He

got placed in the upper highlands,

with a bunch of Montngards, and

he really actually liked it all  - the

gore and the people. They were

local 'Vietnamese' (though they

wouldn't say that) hill people who

made amulets and small statuettes

and things. A little weird, Jack

brought some things back with

him. They were like Holy Grail  -

worn around his neck and stuff,

he claimed they saved his life.

Jack was an orphan of sorts, and

had been raised, on Minna, by his

grandparents. We'd go visit them

from time to time  -  me and my

girlfriend. The two grandparents

were really old world, immigrants,

difficult to understand; the guy

was super quiet and reserved

and the lady, round and small

as a speed bump, never shut

up, in that heavy Austrian

or whatever it was, accent.

We'd always have to see all

her tomato plants, out in the

summer yard; she grew a zillion

things. The house was neat as

a pin, quiet, reserved, as if

untouched. Jack's room was

kept exact, and I sort of got the

idea that they prayed their brains

out every day so he'd stay alive.

-

I never got that war, never dug a

minute of any of it; it was all

bullshit and I sure wasn't sacrificing

my lambskin for any of that crap.

It was a stupid, old-mans' war  -

all their issues, all their lives. All

our blood and guts. I used to go

along Minna Avenue, and realize

how much I hated that block too,

as much as any other  -  there

wasn't anything around there to

fight and die for. Nor to defend,

just a bunch of the usual crap  -

'64 Oldsmobiles and ratty old Buicks

still wired up. The only cool thing

around, maybe, was Miller's used

Lumber Yard. It was on one of those

streets  -  some crazy old guy had

like two extra lots (they're all built

on now) and he kept a used-lumber

yard going there for years. Maybe
you've never seen a used-lumber
yard? Think curlicue corn chips or
think twisted and nail-holed old
gray lumber, broken down boards
and molding half painted. And think
of that all scattered and stacked
around two empty lots in the midst
of a collection of otherwise quite
suburban homes and drives. One of

those streets around there, Remsen

or Minna, I can't remember, and

when I got there now sometimes,

I can't recognize shit. I can find

my way better around the

Whitney Museum or the Museum

of Modern Art, and blindfolded

too, than I can find anything

in Avenel now. It's all been

claimed by crooks and midgets,

and no one cares. And old man

man Miller's dead and his place

is gone. So are Jack's grandparents.

Jack's somewhere down in deep

Florida, and I haven't heard from

him since. He lived on the last

street in Colonia, called Rahway

Road, right by the Parkway and

Clark too. It's a weird dead-end

street that collides into the Parkway

Wall  -  traffic always buzzing,

no where really to even turn

around.

-

Jack Manick was quite the guy.

His neighbor on Rahway Road,

(don't mix it up with Rahway

Ave., that's another place entire)

was the Iremonger family.

(Now this gets complicated,

so listen up)  -  Tom Iremonger

and I were alphabetical partners

in Woodbridge High School

home room. He was always

right  behind me. It was all

bad luck. Third to us was

Mike Kantor. He got killed,

Spring of that year, down the

shore somewhere when his

or someone's surfboard spun

out in high-speed surf and

blasted him right in the head.

Dead man Mike. So they

dedicated the yearbook

to him. Worse, for me, or

better, this same yearbook,

thanks to some freaky geek

on class-staff, had the photos

of me and Tom Iremonger

switched. So, for all eternity

now, Class of '67, I'm him

and he's me, by photos anyway.

My English teacher lady that

last year, a total, freaky pest,

she had one over for me on

that, sarcastically saying to

me : 'You've wanted to be

invisible and in complete

anonymity all year anyway.

Now you've got it and I

hope you're satisfied.' What

bothered all those teacher

types the most was that it

didn't bother me at all,

being switched. I couldn't

have cared less, and that's

honest. I never even bought

the yearbook, though I think

my sister bought one with

money my really annoyed

mother gave her.

-

The other weird connection too?

Tom Iremonger is also dead.

Not me, now, although I'm

supposed to be him, by these

rights, and he's living on as me,

but the real Tom, he got killed

about 8 years later, taking a turn

too low and tight (and fast) on

a motorcycle and 'swanking'

his head  -  while leaning too

low and too close to the curb  -

right on a telephone pole at

the side of the road. Dead

meat central. Uh oh. That's

two, yearbook dudes; isn't

that crap supposed to run in

threes?

-

Jack Manick wrote a self-published

book about his Vietnam time; both

a hardcover version, and a soft

too. He paid 700 bucks too for a 

booth one year at the Jacob Javits

Convention center Book Fair  - a

trade show for publishing industry

matters. He did a few military

veterans type shows and interviews

too. I don't know what he sold

or got from it all, but that was 

about 2009. I'm in the book. He

wrote me up, under an old nickname

he used on me, 'Fields.' He came

home in a blinding snowstorm,

on a plane that seemed to be

ready to crash. He made it back,

freezing while awaiting us at

JFK airport, to pick him up. We

were lost, couldn't see a thing in

the snow. My '57 Jaguar, at that

point running fine, like a bear,

had poor lighting, bad snow

control, and, to make matters 

worse, no heat. Here, I'l let

Jack tell you, page 209 :

"Within minutes, my body

began to shake uncontrollably.

The first stages of hypothermia

were setting in. I was just about

to turn around and head back

to the terminal when a set of

headlights approached and 

stopped nearby. It was them!

'Hey Ace!' (Fields called me

Ace). 'Good to see you, Ace.'

I replied in a rather shaky

voice, 'You too.' I was looking

forward to the warmth inside

the car. As the door closed,

I got a handshake  from Fields

and a kiss from Kathy. Within 

seconds I noticed I could see

my breath inside the car. 'Hey

Fields,' I said loudly, 'turn up

the heat; I'm freezing.' 'The

heater doesn't work, Ace,'

Fields replied."