11,153. RUDIMENTS, pt. 438

RUDIMENTS, pt. 438
(avenel's russian mafia)

One time a friend and I got 

hired to help clean out a house,

along Park Ave. Up by the

Avenel Street end. It was all

pretty simple, and more like

wrecking-crew stuff, as we

just pulled and tucked at

whatever came loose, and 

took loads of junk to the

driveway dumpster. It was

an interesting experience

for me to be able to see 

how simply things really do

fall apart; how the innards of

a house you'd thought solid

and set were really nothing

more than things in motion 

being kept in place. I guessed,

from that point on, pretty much,

that most everything was like

that too  -  families and parents

more fragile than you thought,

situations always in flux and

just hanging on. There wasn't

much one could do.

-

The families I knew all seemed

OK. A number of them had no

fathers. A few I knew were dead,

but some too had mystery involved.

Divorces and separations and the

battles of custody and money were

still kept pretty quiet back then.

None of that stuff was as open

or accepted or pronounced as it

is now. 'He comes from a broken

home,' was something like what

my grandmother would say  -  a

'broken home' concept sounded

pretty alarming, yet I knew what

she meant, instantly. The kids I

knew who were from them, I'd

have to admit, were different  -  

they seemed always sadder, dark,

and more quiet, as if a heavier

burden of some sort was tied to

their backs. It was a funny thing,

but noticeable. In school, yes,

they all seemed a bit slower.

I wonder what that effect is,

percentage wise.

-

Everything's changed now, 

and for many people life has 

become a game of musical 

beds. So, no matter. The

world has so ghettoized itself

that now, especially around 

here, the more crummy your

situation the more you can

probably get  -  assistance for

living,  places to live discounted,

counseling, food help, and the

rest. I see it all the time. People

now are often rewarded for

screwing up. It's like the

interior of that house we 

were tearing up  -  once 

you started pulling and 

yanking, the walls come 

apart, you can quickly see 

the innards and pipes and

wirings, and realize that all

of that is mostly appearances

and things covering up other

things. 

-

Back when I was young, if you

went down towards Blair Road,

which we often did, down into

the areas now called Homestead

and Omar too, there was nothing.

Old man Rhodes, and old man

Dafchik (sp), had large junkyards

there  -  amid the trees and dirt

lanes. Dafchik's was the coolest,

because it was large and unkempt.

Welding sheds, workshop awnings,

engines, cars, piles of parts and 

pieces. By contrast Rhodes' was

neat as a pin, well-fenced, with

cinder-block sheds and little

buildings holding everything.

All into the woods were dirt

lanes and oddball two-track

roads, paths for cars, more

like it. You'd stumble across

logs made into seats, felled

trees made into little shelters.

Things you could sit on, and

even remnants of campfires 

and such. I always figured it for

being Avenel's most precious 

center for making out. The

fornication factor in there was

probably pretty high-school-

high. Places to park abounded

and all these dirt lanes were

made for one thing. Also,

whenever anyone was learning

to drive, that's usually where 

they went. Myself, I went a

few times, just accompanying

a friend and his father, in their

'57 Chevy, bucking and jawing

between tree stumps as my

friend was learning to drive.

Pretty cool how we all survived.

-

One thing that struck me, in

that episode, was the calm and

collected neatness of a father and

son relationship. I'd never had

that  -  a form of reciprocation

and a doting sense of working

things out, between a father and

a son. It was interesting for me to

watch  -  again, like seeing new

innards of a different house.

-

In addition to all this, a few

people actually lived out that way.

Gasperi, and other names  -  she

was a local teacher or substitute

or something at the school, and

when I found out her and her son,

Paul, a friend of mine, lived out

there, and 'Dad-less' too, I 

was amazed. All the houses

out there were old and settled.

I won't say 'run-down' but the

upkeep factor was way different.

The houses on Inman, being new

and all the same, presented a total

and indiscreetly different format

of living : lawns, gutters, new

driveways, and the rest. It was

as if all of it was newly drawn, 

in a very neat, new, sketch book. 

These Blair Road area homes, 

by contrast, had settled in long 

ago to their spots, and proudly 

claimed them. Weeds and trees, 

growth and shade  -  the old

homes swaggered in their senses

of place and location. There

were spare sheds and spare cars,

overgrown yards with things 

around. Stuff often stayed right

where it had fallen. Not at all 

the same beating-down sense

of noon sunshine. By contrast

Inman Avenue was blearingly

oppressive. 

-

There were also a patch or two

of American-Indians, the native

kind, living there. I never knew

their stories and, actually, never

even saw the kids in school. I

don't know how all that went, 

but perhaps there was, even then, 

some form of a home-schooling,

tribal, exemption. I delivered

daily newspapers down there for

a while, and got to see a lot of it.

-

Whatever the modern world

may have then been, or Avenel's

version of it anyway, I'm sure a

lot of it went missing here. By

the middle 1950's (my time there)

the Turnpike had been blazed

through, and the rows of oil tanks,

still there now, and grown, had

fully disrupted the eastern end 

of this but the rest remained the 

shady same as always. Oil and

muck were not yet seen as dangers

and despoliation   -  in fact, they

were welcomed, as progress  -  

the way new condos and new

apartments are now. The current

pantie-waist gimcrackery of things

like 'Ernie Oros' nature preserves

and butterfly gardens (which get

all toxic-sprayed up anyway for 

bugs and comfort) would have

got the pink-ribbon and eco-crowd

laughed out of court. As it should

be, in these municipal cases. Local

government has no business

mucking up nature, spending their

inordinate sums of very liquid

and stealable monies on projects

and 'budgets' of indeterminate 

origins and conclusions. Face it, 

you can call anything whatever 

you wish : Nature, ghetto, swamp,

development or improvement, 

but it's still an open sluice. And the

girly-men (I'll use Arnold's phrase 

just once) juicing it all up, act as

fine cheerleaders for whatever the 

next project down the line will be.

It's pretty pathetic, but I guess at

least it's 'pretty,' which is their

main concern. 'Pretty' covers

up for a lot of flaws.

-

I always figured Woodbridge

Township for being a place with,

shamefully, a one-track mind. Even

in the 1960's there were w-a-y too 

many cops  -  a force half the size 

of the Zambezi Army, if one existed.

Back at NJ Appellate, we had a few

of them who hung around a lot  -

Main Street traffic cops mostly.

They'd bullshit to death, drink

coffee, stand around. Never did a

damn thing except watch others

do their damned things. One guy,

a steady regular, was as fat as a

horse, and all he ever did was

direct traffic at the Main Street

corners. I guessed his size limited

him to doing not much else and

still being valid as a cop. He

certainly couldn't run and

couldn't pursue. I used to wonder

how he fit behind the cop-car

wheel. His name was Pat. He

had some really Irish last name,

forgotten now. Monahan or

something. Anyway, he died

by the 80's. I was told they

buried him down along old

Blair Road, but I know that's 

a lie. It's all condos and fresh

immigrants newly arrived now

anyway, so who'd really know.

Me and my dog have gotten

thrown out of those little

walk-woods more then once  -

by the same two Russian guys 

who seem to patrol the area.

They say it's 'private property'

and the park's for tenants only.

Yeah, and my name's Skripal.

Got any poison for me while

I sit on this bench?