RUDIMENTS, pt. 420
(avenel gives hell?)
I spent lots of time at the
crumbling of those piers
just mentioned - essentially
it was where I lived, on
foot or by bicycle, that
entire first Winter - between
things, but always returning.
It's difficult for me now to
try and recreate the ruination
and decrepitude of what
once was there - most
especially now as how
since it's all become
fashionable and quaint -
parkways, joggers, bicyclists,
gymnasts with their weird
clubs, stuff I just don't
really understand, all
done by people I
understand less, and
care to understand even
less than that. Another
world entirely has eclipsed
any of that which I may
have been or inhabited,
and that's fine with me.
You can take your
sensitivity stuff, your
girl as boy and boy as girl
crossovers and emotional
bleeds, sob-story sentimentality,
feeling for the 'other' and all
that 'it takes a village' myopic
bullshit and shove it. It's
ruined a world already, and
working on another, as soon
as all today's nitwit kids
grow up and get where
they're (supposedly) going
- eyefuls for brains, keyboards
for teeth, and distraction as
a nice, tight underwear beneath
it all. You don't have to be an
outlaw to be an outlaw, or,
better put, you don't have
to murder to be an outlaw,
you can just be one by
standing way off and
watching and wondering
about all the other puke
you see. Some call it
the shits of an old man,
the foibles of passing on.
That's fine. They can have
it. What passes for the
education of what they're
now coming through with,
alas, is the fault of these
oldsters anyway - all that
'we pretend to teach, and
they pretend to learn' dicta
- meaningless, but true
enough to be said, even
if in some form of jest -
by the self-satisfied and
superior mouths of the
minions who pretend to
teach. In 1967, when I hit,
the streets of NYC and
these old dockworking
piers - all of that stuff
now of old calendars and
sweet words about 'vanished'
New York, all of that was
run-away destroying itself
and mostly hated by the
locals anyway; those doing
it, the workers, the cops, the
crime stoppers, the stevedores
and longshoremen, the killers
and thieves, the whores and
the bull-whip, sex-licking
transvestites and multi-sexual
Martians. (Yeah, rude as hell,
but that was what NYC was
before Disney and Epcot
snuffed it). They were all
there, and just laying about,
doing their stuff. To call it
back now, in retrospect, a
'golden age' of prime New
York City is bizarre and
unwarranted. But, it's done.
The waters were foul, they
reeked and stank. The sky
was always a dismal scoff
of brown, gray or yellow;
breathing was sometimes
difficult, traffic was beastly,
crowded, smoke and filth,
noisome. So, that was it
- think of a black and white
movie of old, dark, smoky
scenes, furtive glances and
half-baked views and schemes.
That well gets it to you.
I'm just getting going here,
again, but it's necessary to
point out the odd paradox
that I'd constructed, or ran
myself into anyway. Me :
a purloined letter myself, a
note to some scratchy someone.
Avenel personified, perhaps,
with its rivers of guilt and
hard-honed attitudes. And
that useless mix now bleeding
into New York City, but
making it all up on the fly
too, as I went along. 'Give 'em
Hell from Avenel' indeed. (By
the way, whoever said tee-shirts
don't lie was a liar. That insipid
give 'em hell thing always was
such a crock. I never saw more
a bunch of cautious children in
my life - afraid to offend, licking
Mayor butt while the town gets
destroyed. 'Better wear it inside
out, Destry; the game's over').
I had somehow overlapped
times - I had somehow let the
switched allegiances of things
reverse course with each other.
I was living a double-negative.
It happens; it's easy to do, and
to get all caught up in doing.
One suddenly finds oneself
in the midst of a crowd of
people and operations that
one has absolutely no
confidence in nor
commonality with, and all
the while having a realization
that these people are what
they say in name only.
They have no realization
themselves that they
do not represent what
they think they do - and
all their gibberish and
mind-numbing undertakings
are just sideshows and distractions.
To keep them 'cool'. That's how
it was, after not too long at
all, with Mark Eneret and
his amazing Isro-gypsy friend.
They were nuts, off the wall,
Hedonists, in fact, and
'New York' in name only,
by geography alone. Nothing
else of them represented
anything but the seepings
and bleed-throughs of a
miserable and foul modern
day. I got out, and quickly.
-
One other thing to mention
here - one of those days
with Mark Eneret and Ruda
or whatever her name was,
one of the times we cruised
the beaches, again at Sandy
Hook - this time not the
military field, not the officer's
houses, not the abandoned
fortifications or the screw-palace
ammunition bunkers, not the
implanted, under-the-soil
NIKE missile emplacements
for defending the American sky,
but instead a rat-commercial
place much nearer to the
entrance of the 'Hook'. It
was a multi-level bar, booze
outdoor deck and restaurant
place - large, sprawling,
usually crowded and busy -
called the 'Seagull's Nest.'
The owner's name was
Ed Siegel, a man I knew
well enough. He'd made a
bunch of money off of us
(me) from my having run a
few motorcycle rallies which
conveniently ended up at
his place for the bike shows,
the raffles and prizes, etc -
thus keeping a crowded
bar-deck of at least two
hundred bikers busy with the
ringing of his cash-registers,
tips and flirting with his
beach-babe waitresses and
all that crap. He would always
call me up, begging for another
bike run, knowing full well
that he'd prosper from the
debauched drunkenness of
whatever level of constituent
I brought his way, two-wheels
or not. Ed was old then,
about 73 or 75, and that
was back in '96 or whenever.
As the only concessionaire
on all of Sandy Hook he'd
made a fortune, gained
some fame and notoriety,
and was a wealthy man.
Short, small, cranky, gruff
and even rough-looking,
you'd never know his
attainments. He looked
like a pugilist. I always
wondered how he could
stand it all - hiring any
number of Summer help
kids and teens about
whom he'd then have to
constantly watch and
worry over for pilferage,
theft, giving away food
and drink to friends and
family, underage drinkers
being served, laziness,
sloppy habits, and all the
usual problems of the
possibilities of bad food,
mishandled food, fights,
brawls, arguments, tips,
cash, stolen tips, stolen
cash, money on the bar,
wives and others' wives
and husbands, drugs,
violence, drunk drivers, the
accountability, record-keeping,
ordering, having enough
stuff always on hand,
dealing with deliveries
and supplies, opening
and closing, days of
operation, hours, and,
lastly, the weather. Yes,
Ed and I would talk. He
lived by the weather too.
It could make him or
break him. Much like a
motorcyclist. A lot of
accumulated stuff to
eat up any man's dollar.
-
People who start and run
businesses, it seems to me,
must sacrifice an awful lot
for the gains they claim.
I don't think they really
ever honestly do the
accounting. In Siegel's
case, it was apparent he
was immersed - and that
immersion indubitably led
to being immersed in money
and its continued accumulation.
One look at the guy and
you'd understand : he had
that 'look', the look of the
leer of money, the man
who, ever-faithful to his
viewpoint, thinks nothing
of accumulating, and then
accumulating more, one
banana at a time, one
hot dog at a time, one
old book at a time,
one after one. After a
while he'd bought buildings
and had tenants, and was
- in fact - an absentee
landlord in parts of Jersey
City where apartment buildings
still came cheap; bad and
unruly tenants, but cheap
housing and money to be
made, one dollar at a time.
I once had a boss who kept
on his wall a picture of a
cow. Beneath it was the
slogan 'Remember the
Cow Story'. It somehow
bolstered his idea of what
he was doing - the story
was, in some manner, that
one cow plop after another
cow plop, seemingly
meaningless, small and
incremental, if you stay
at it at keep doing it,
soon enough you'll have
a real 'shitload' of cowplops
as fertilizer (money). Fortunes
made, a dollar at a time -
yes, you had to be there;
evidently it's a businessman's
inside joke at Kiwanis Clubs
and things of that nature.
It takes patience and
forbearance (and mostly
a belief in just that work,
to think any of that matters
one hoot. Not important;
the story here is thus : a
complete afternoon and
early evening of drink
and talk and more drink,
with Ed Siegel mostly at
the bar most of the time,
talking to Mark Eneret
(yes, him once more) about
absolutely everything - life,
philosophy, wins, losses, the
whole gamut - I look over
there and I see Ed Siegel
broken down, shattered, in
tears - sobbing like a baby.
The man had somehow, over
the course of the afternoon
with Mark, completely
destroyed himself, telling
secrets and experiences he'd
never wanted to re-live.
Mark Eneret had somehow
gotten this out of him.
Ed finally did go home;
asked to be excused,
apologized for what he'd
done, and slobbered away
in the company of one of
his adult assistants. The
way the tale went was this :
Ed had been a concentration
camp survivor, had the
numbers on his arm to
show, came to this country
as a refugee with nothing,
worked, and worked some
more, eventually bringing
himself up to the point of
ownership, through some
government deal, of this
site-protected, sole-franchise
for food and refreshment
on Sandy Hook, in Gateway
National Park. He'd made a
fortune, from nothing, even
after the rents and paybacks
and percentages the host
'government' took from him
to keep the franchise - no
matter, he'd built a cool,
clean beautiful piece of
real estate right there, the
Seagull's Nest. In order to
help his family along, do
something with his money,
he'd begun buying buildings
in depressed areas. In
order to advance his son
along the way - once
reaching adulthood and
family and all that - he'd
made him the Superintendent
and Landlord of a few of these
holdings. All was going well,
in this rags-to-riches story
until the day his son, out
collecting some back rents,
was killed, shot in the head
by a recalcitrant tenant not
wishing to pay. Ed Siegel,
in re-telling this story, in
spilling his guts about
this horrid, pent-up emotion,
and everything connected
with it, had let forth a gusher
of fury, regret, sadness and
emotion that was unstoppable.
He felt HE had killed his own
son. It was an amazing scene.
I went over to Mark and
simply said 'What the hell
have you done? What's going
on?' Mark, drunk and high as
an ever-skunk, claimed a certain
bemused detachment, claimed
not to have known what happened,
but told the story completely well,
with no regrets. That part of the
experience, by the way, never
entered any re-tellings, and
that was the really last I
saw of him and Ruda. I
did see Ed Siegel once or
twice after that, over time -
he mumbled something the
very next time about
regretting what had
occurred, I played dumb
enough, and that was it.
-
This has stayed with me
a long time - I think of
it often. The Seagull's Nest,
by the way, was destroyed
in Hurricane Sandy, about
2012 or whenever, and
Ed has not been able to
re-open or rebuild it,
though, at 90 or whatever
he is still willing. His last
phone message to me was
that - all of sudden now
- 'people' have arisen
who oppose his again
re-opening the sole
concession, without a
bidding contest, a complete
airing of the issues and
the submission of new
and completing plans.
Sounded like a plot, to me.
He's missed, for sure now,
at least six Summer seasons
I know of and the place just
sits there, rotting away. As
of this writing I do not
know his plans, intentions,
those of others, nor his
current health and status.
Sad, weird story. How strange
it is that the past still haunts.
It's all still vacant and boarded
up, until some stalwart reporter
was able to draw it out.
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