RUDIMENTS, pt. 432
(the pigeon sisters, in woodbridge)
I worked with the guy I've
mentioned, Bill Konowalow,
for a while - he was from
Milltown, with the teepee
and Injun down the end of
his street. I made mention
of it about 10 chapters back.
Bill was older than me,
maybe by 8 years or so,
and thus a slightly different
kind of guy - more oriented
towards the older '50's street
guys. Cars and girls, and not
much else. A different set of
loyalties and awarenesses. He
smoked cigars, two odd kinds,
in particular. Cheap junk; I
don't mean those multi-dollar
fat cigars like you see guys
with today. It was funny with
Bill, because the two cigars he
selected from were each so
different from each other, except
both being junk, that you could
kind of gauge his mood by
whichever one was in his
mouth. I used to laugh it
off. One was a cheap, crap,
workingman's smoke; junk to
pass the time of day with. They
were called Swisher Sweets.
God knows what was rolled
up in them at the factory -
sawdust, shavings and
cardboard probably, and
all wrapped in only a
suggestion of a tobacco
leaf. From what I also
recall, having tried one
or two myself (yes, back
then one could smoke while
working, even around
printing chemicals and
what-not) they were dipped
in sugar or SOMETHING
sweet. Thus the name and
the slight suggestion of
sweetness. (I just remembered,
there was something else, a third,
he'd occasionally smoke too,
called 'Factory Seconds' - they
were basically 'rejected' cigars,
sold like 40 for a buck-fifty).
That was his 'good mood' cigar,
the Swishers. When he had one
of those going, you knew he was
up for fun, wisecracks, laughter
and noise. The dark-mood cigar
was a dark, dark brown, twisty
stump called 'DeNobili' - it
was some form of a Mafia
killer's cigar, probably dipped
in blood and cow-dung. It stunk.
It looked miserable, and when
he had one of those going, he
WAS miserable. At least at
all was well-telegraphed. It
was his 'leave me alone' cigar.
This was all good, because it
became easy at any time then
to read him. You knew when to
stand down, keep back, for his
furied explosions. Banging
things down hard, smacking
countertops, throwing stuff.
-
We should all be so easy to read;
I think it would make a big, nice
difference. Or maybe we do and
just don't realize it; figuring for
that, how much better is it, by
dog-senses, to just get the gist
by smell. Too bad that sense
has never been finely developed.
Primitive Mankind may have
had it; when Mrs. Cave Girl
was in heat, everyone got ready
to jump. I guess that's how we
all got here.
-
The other thing about Bill
was a pet phrase of his,
also very cool. (I'd developed
strange little antennae to
pick up on these variations
and traits of people I'd see
- I was, let's say, 'learning
on the job'). No matter what
occurred, both good and bad
actually, his response was
always, 'Christmas is coming.'
Even in January or February,
it having just been Christmas,
he'd say it. I think it was his
way of staying cool, distanced
from things, for a moment
anyway; the moment it
afforded him to get his
thoughts in order, muse
over what to say and do.
By it, he seemed to chuck
all that emotional clouding
that makes men start yelling
and hollering. I could say,
'Bill, I just backed into your
truck, and I took out the front
quarter panel and the passenger
door is dented too.' He'd look
over and thoughtfully say, (this
is all conjecture, mind you),
'Christmas is coming.' The
trouble was, usually, 'after'
that moment. Things got
sketchy.
-
Bill's sister was in 'airline
stewardess school.' It was a
real big deal, back then, to
fly, and being a stewardess
had some cachet and also some
fancy rules. Rules about looks
and weight and poise and dress
Eastern Airlines, when its world
headquarters were (at that time)
in the Metropark Office Campus,
ran this training school for
perspective and accepted girls
to be stewardesses. He was
pretty happy for her. And her
mother was too - there as no
Dad in that family then. I never
knew what had happened. But,
anyway, Bill took care with his
sister, making sure all stayed
right and she got along. Having
her become a bona fide career
'Stewardess' was a big feather
for his cap. I guess it worked
out OK, but I wasn't around
to find out. It's different now;
airline stuff is old hat, guys
can be stewards instead of
there just being Stewardesses,
and a lot of those guys have
become like girls anyway. I
think, the whole mess of it is
now called 'Flight Attendants.'
So who cares, and Christmas
still comes.
-
When I first met Bill he had
a really rough but nicely
serviced 1960 Chevy Pickup,
in plain gray primer. Just a
regular truck. Then he bought
a new Ford Ranchero in
some deep maroon shade. It
was weird for me to see him
in that, but he liked it. Out
behind what is now Bitting's
Brewery (some restaurant and
beer joint) at the bottom of
Main Street, it was all gravel
and dirt, way out along the
rail-tracks and siding for what
use to be the old Woodbrdge
Granary. (Bitting's now).
There were some few large
old trees, shady spots to sit,
etc., and we'd hang out there
on lunches and such, smoking
and passing time while he
tinkered. The new Ranchero
used to drive him nuts because,
as he drove it, there'd be, to
his hearing (never mine), little
squeaks and rattles that drove
him crazy - door handle and
window molding noises, he'd
claim. He wanted total silence
in a new car, no squeaks. So
he'd pore over things trying
to find noise-culprits. And
then we'd drive around the
block again to see if it was and
better. It was pretty crazy.
Then the company moved
up the street to the old bank,
and we then had different
rear-parking arrangements.
Out behind Bitting's now is
all paved anyway, parking
lot macadam crap. One thing
about Bitting's, and no one
would ever know it hereabouts,
being it's a fancy-eatery and
brew-pub now, and everyone
else is like an 18-year flyboy
table server with no history or
brains to show, but at the rear
of the old granary, the high
part, still there, it was all filled
with pigeons. They'd roost, and
there were some holes in bricks
they'd go in and out of. Maybe
200 pigeons, in that high-loft
area, never used by us. Every
so often, maybe every few
months, the owner guy Ron,
would let some Spanish guys
in, from Perth Amboy. Yep, it
was pretty horrible; they'd bring
guns and shoot to kill, right in
the place, with all those pigeons
scurrying and flapping to get
out. They walk away with
maybe 60, dead ones. 'From
roosting to roasting,' I used
to say. I never liked it much
at all, and it was smelly too,
and a mess. That old pigeon
loft was bad news. Go into
Bitting's someday; have a few
beers and then try ordering
'pigeon under glass.' See what
the fool 18-year old twerp
serving you does about that.
And then you can tell them
my story.
-
You see, that's the trouble with
a dump like Woodbridge. They
have all this 1680-dated historic
crap they could really be talking
about, but instead the crime-moguls
and short-pants guys in Town Hall
want to pave and build and eat
in grease-huts (unvented by the
way. Who do you pay off in Code
Enforcement for something like
that I wonder?), and line the streets
with a million apartment zombies
from that great town called
'Someplace Else.' You trade off
chubby people for history-stories,
and then, to ice the cake, you
keep paying for fifth-tier
bad music groups (very open
budgeting there too. Anyone
ever see the numbers?) to sound
maybe something like their
old-music namesakes while the
goofballs show up to shimmy
and dive. 'Hey, Bill, light me
up a Swisher Sweet, will ya.'
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