11,132. RUDIMENTS, pt. 429

RUDIMENTS, pt. 429

(avenel hits the big city, pt. one)

One time I got hit by a

car, slightly, at the top

of the underpass, coming

up that side on the right,

NOT the sidewalk side,

headed towards Rahway

Ave. The other guy driving

was veering in, like where

to Mike's Sub Shop was,

from the other direction,

crossing over the lane

from in front of the

Roxbury, and there

wasn't much I could do

in that few seconds of

response time. He was

headed right at me, so

I bailed, the bike went

flying into his car, and

I got tangled around

on the ground. He stopped,

started wailing about it all,

and drove me home with

the bent bike in the trunk.

The next few days were

miserable, as my ankles

and feet got real sore, and

swelled up, and my wrist,

where I landed on it, did

too. At first I thought it

was broken, but I guess it

wasn't. I was OK, though  -
hadn't smacked my head
or anything  -  long before
ideas like helmets took
hold. Two things I never
took to were helmets and
seat belts. This guy, a young

driver, kid, of about maybe

20 or 21, some big-deal

student type somewhere,

came every evening to sit

next to my bed, during the

10 or so days I 'recuperated.'

He was a nervous, skinny

wreck, thinking I was going

to die or something. The first

visit-night he brought his father

with him, and the parents all

worked it out, whatever they

worked out. I never heard any

more, but all this kid did was

sit there and stare at me, each

night, for about two hours. Not

even small-talk or cool stuff

about anything. You'd think he
wanted to talk about something, 
anything. But, nope; he just sat

there, near to crying. And

then one day, no more him.
I guess his vigil time was over.

I figure that was late Summer

'66. My parents got all mad

at me, saying I was too old

for a bicycle anyway

and should start driving

a car. I didn't do that,

since I knew, in time, I'd

be city-bound on all that.

Last thing I cared about

was driving right then.

At my friend's Bill Zellner's

house, one day they had

an old French 6-speed

Gitane or Motobecane

or something, out on

the curb, for trash. I took

it. The derailleur was all

smashed and broken, for

for shifting and all, but

I made a decent one-speed

out of it, and a year later,

after I'd left to NYC and

finally found the apartment

at 509 e11th, and my father

and sister came in with

my few boxes of  personal

junk, they also brought

that bicycle  -   so then I

had real wheels with which

to get around! It was the

bike I used for all those

overnight and late night

forays around the city,

up to the UN, the music

club up there where I sat

in on drums for the 'Fallen

Angels' that one night

(written of elsewhere in

a way-earlier chapter),

and all over the westside

piers and wharves, you may

recall too, with Judy, my

friend from the Studio

School. We would endlessly

just mosey around, on

two bicycles, seeing all

of post-midnight New York

- which was when all the cool

stuff and the 'weirds' all come

out to play. (That's 'weirds,'

like 'spiritual demons of the

night'  -  Not weirdos). Judy

was pretty cool, a year or two

older than me, and well-traveled,

unlike me : all that Paris and

London stuff under her belt, a

regular world-class art type. In

fact, right now, with a different

last name from when I knew her,

she's a big-deal gallery-level

artist, fist-cups of money from

it all. She always made fun of

me for being 'provincial.' Of

course, that was Euro-talk too

for her, because we don't really

have 'provinces' here. But when

I'd go back to NJ for something,

or take a weekend and go out

to Hacklebarney or somewhere,

she'd always berate me for dealing

again with the 'provinces.' 'Why

do you like the provinces?' she'd

say. Funny thing was, during the

time I knew her she'd Summer 

a few weeks each year at a then

famous art-camp, named 'Skohegan,' 

up in Maine. Talk about provinces!

-

My father always came across as

Mr. Avenel : stern and cross, as

straight as they come, by the book

stuff. There wasn't anything that

could slide by him. One day, after

I'd gotten my apartment at 509

e11th, he and my little sister, came

in, by car, with those few boxes

of my stuff, packed from home,

and along with them, in the car,

was that bicycle, which is how 

it got to me. That was to be a 

good thing. But, first  -  upstairs 

from my little tenement apartment 

lived two major hippie types, a 

young couple from somewhere 

far off : Billie-Joe and Holly. Each

of them, separate and as a pair,

both, were perfect, poster-child

hippies. They could have made

the cover of Life Magazine and

sold a billion copies  -  just for,

imagistically, what they seemed

to represent. Billie-Joe looked

like Buffalo Bill or Wild Bill

Hickok  -  one of those western

show guys. Long silky hair, worn

buckskin vests, boots, leather

stuff, and a large, western hat.

Hollie was the prototype, the

beauteous hippie babe  -  loose,

happy, skin showing everywhere,

bands and ribbons, flowers tied

into her hair, flowing hippie-girl

clothes and underneath it all be

damned. My teeth ached for her.

The two of them, together, came,

off, as I said, perfectly. Billie-Joe 

wasn't large, or tall either, but 

it all worked. Their biggest life

endeavor was smoking pot. I

knew about that, but anything 

past that  -  hallucinogens or

whatever  -  I didn't know. My

hands were full enough with my

own pharmaceutical magnate

Andy Bonamo, sharing the 

apartment with me. He was

running a veritable drug fair,

supplying the neighborhood and

streets around like a warehouse

and, in fact, he'd beaten both

Drug Fair and Rite Aid and

anything else, to the punch.

He was them before they even

had thought of being themselves.

It was, generally, that kind of 

world. The two of them, once

my father arrived, sized him

up immediately. Clowns that

they were, they went back 

upstairs and concocted their

scheme of the day. They were

going to stage a fake drug buy,

in the presence of my father.

It included a small bag of pot

for Dad to purchase, plus a

lit, already smoldering, joint

for his free toking. All this 

frolic went down around the

presence, as well, of my poor 

little 10 or 11 year old sister

Andrea. I don't know what she

got from it, aware or not. Well,

that was, of course, all my

Mr. Avenel-muscle dad needed.

He went ballistic, and thankfully

the actual pharmacy-master Andy

Bonamo never showed up, because

I'm sure he'd have been dead. 

My father took the whole thing 

fiery-serious, and even accused 

me of having turned fiendish 

enough to do 'this stuff!' Hollie

and Billie-Joe quickly retreated.

I finally calmed my father down,

sort of explained the asshole factor

to him, which was quite high

in those parts, and managed to 

both survive and sedate him. 

Every so often, even years later,

he'd still bring this up to me,

asking if I remembered that day,

and what exactly had been the

sequence of what went on.

-

As wonderful as that bicycle

was, and as much use as I

gave it, from my plenitude of

my poverty, it didn't last. After 

I'd left the apartment myself

because of just too much crap

and over-my-head serious stuff

taking place, 509 was raided 

and police-taped by NY's 

finest, 1968 version anyway. 

I lost everything there, bicycle

and all else. Why I'd parked it

there, that time, I never know. 
I'd moved, by this moment, 
into the basement of the 
Studio School, thankfully, and 
with due caution,  saving myself 
and my Avenel  innocence, from 
this scathing scrape.
-

I also lost my cat, Blake, which

I'd given over to two girls on

Avenue A to hold for me. They

too were gone, as was Blake. 

Somewhere there must be a

1968 police blotter with all

the names and info of this

infamous date. The place's

criminology had started to 

get too deep for my taste,

and I'm glad I squirreled

myself away, though I still 

miss what I lost.

-

None of this, not any of it.

remember, had been in my 

original equation, a mere year

and some earlier. That poor

nervous fellow had my bedside,

expecting my death any moment,

had he only known what was to

soon be. Hello big city, it's me!