11,127. RUDIMENTS, pt. 427

RUDIMENTS, pt. 427

(avenel trophy boys)

Perhaps sometimes as we 

grow we take a stop along 

the way to cease the growing, 

for a moment anyway : we 

look at other things, in their 

own place and time  -  lawns,

baby carriages, automobiles, 

old people, our friends, houses, 

places we walk past, places 

we go to. It stops things dead; 

gives us a break and, for once, 

clears our heads of all the 

voices and commands being

put into it. Some of it is just 

making friends with our own 

Self, rather than friends with 

others. Options of that sort 

are constant; this is all, by 

contrast, one alone, of the 

moment, and specialized.

- 

Along Avenel Street, before

they took the old church down,

one of my chums and I were 

'hired' as it were, for some

Summer-job worth of small 

change, to paint the insides

of what had been the church,

de-consecrated, or whatever 

they do to 'un-church' those 

places, because the new one

had been completed and was

in use. There was no magic

involved  -  at least I never

caught any of it  -  and the

one church just rolled in

as the other rolled out and 

became a weathered, old

recreation hall. The way it

had been transformed was

in itself pretty startling.

It had been turned into a

gym-like basketball court.

We used one of those 

blue-chalk line things to 

paint, as closely  and 

perfectly as we could, 

the finely delineated 

separation, on-about 

four-feet up, of the two

colors of the wall. I 

forget what they were, 

but the bottom area

was a deeper-toned 

hue than was the top, 

and where the two colors

met, obviously, we had to

be careful. We used chalk 

line and masking tape too.

It took some doing, and 

we got it done.

-

Neither can I remember 

what the amount of work 

involved came to. I do 

remember it as having 

lasted all that Summer, 

but we may have just

milked it  -  maybe '62, 

maybe '64. I simply can't

remember. But I do recall 

a radio being on and a lot 

of discussion over politics, 

I think. Robert F. Kennedy

was being called 'carperbagger'

for switching states and 

running (successfully, as it 

turned out) for the U.S.

Senate seat from New 

York. I can also remember

names like Kenneth Keating

and, even, Adam Clayton

Powell. Faint stuff; the 

echoes of time. But other

than that, I don't know. All

I do know is how weird it 

was, almost a 'crisis of faith'  -

that's the very comical way

they put this stuff  -  to see, 

all of a sudden, the old 

church having, downstairs, 

a pool table, and garage-band

rehearsals for Mike Bassarab's

little band, playing Wipe-out

and Telstar, while teen-kids

danced, under the bizarre and

watchful eyes of Catholic adult

sentinels, which basically meant  -

for dancing  -  no touching and

no sniffing. Ha. Man, I used to

think, how quickly they forget  -

wasn't this the 'place,' until

recently, where Jesus had 

dwelt? Now there were seats, 
basketball-bleachers, where the
altar had been. How in the 

world do adults do this stuff?

-

Our top-dog, priest honcho

that year was Father Genecki.

He was kind of a swishy goof,

but a nice enough 'shepherd' in

his own way. A little too much

giggle and touch for my liking,

but, whatever. He'd pay us, and,

of course we'd try to do as little

as possible while still making

progress, so it was a delicate

balance. We didn't really wish 

to work ourselves out of a job

in Mid-Summer. He also liked

to take us 'boys' out for ice 

cream. We'd troll around in

his church-supplied '62 

Plymouth. It was, the entire

scene, halfway to perversion,

and stupidity, but we'd get ice

cream or milkshakes out of it.

I guess he got his kicks out of

riding around with a car-full of

4 or 5 young boys. One time, 

another friend, Albert Clark,

spilled an entire milk shake

(probably because he was

getting tickled or something)

on the front bench seat of the

car. The Padre freaked; went

all swooshy and noisy. You'd

have thought we killed his

parrot or something. We had to

get napkins, water, and more,

to clean and scour the seat, all

the while he was moaning and

groaning over the accident.

Albert Clark, who lived at

the bottom of Avenel Street,

just a few houses up from

Rahway Avenue, was little

seen by us after that  -  even

though he too soon enough

showed up in the seminary.

Just another Avenel trophy-boy

soon to turn failure.

-

It's always amazing to me 

now, looking back on this 

stuff, to see  -  or to understand  

-  how our parents, my parents, 

whatever, put up with this 

crap. Why didn't anyone just 

beat this guy with a broom, 

or push him over a cliff

or something? I guess I can

overlook it all for myself  -

I was just a kid-idiot knowing

no better, and on the way to

wreckage and ruin from it 

anyway. But, outside of that,

and me, what was the damned

mystique that kept all this

Catholic Church stuff going,

unto this day, where we now

have piles and heaps of the

defamed and the ruined, all

thanks to these perverted and

black-robed belt-buckle jumpers

who presumed, in addition then,

to tell others how to live and 

what to do, and enforced all 

that crap too? Man, what a

sizzled and fevered and

entrapped world that was :

Seven come eleven and I'll

never get to Heaven!