RUDIMENTS, pt. 441
invasion of the low-life
Further talk on that junkyard
stuff down along Blair Road
led me to thinking about the
other end of Avenel, also
ringed by junkyards. With
the highway also there (Route
One), that higher end was
the terminus of the street I
lived on. 'Indeedy-you-me,'
the highway was a hotbed
of by-the-hour motels and
mis-sheeted coupling joints.
What are now called 'hook-ups'
I guess : the parking lots were
usually busy, the upkeeps
were minimal, and the ins
and outs, (no puns) just
kept coming. At St. George
Press every so often the
motel people would sashay
in for printing - billheads
and receipts, housekeeping
checklists, and 'rules of the
house' stuff. The most steady
of the customers was the Post
Road Inn. It made only the
most feeble attempts at
presenting itself as classy
and spiff, but the guy was
pretty cool, and I got to
know him casually enough,
from these dealings. He
was very quiet and reserved.
Funny thing was, once the
roadside sex industry took
off, it mostly slowed down
the places like Post Road
and the 'Americana' - just
down the road. The new
places were splashy and
had panache - things like
'jungle-rooms, themed
play-rooms, fountains
and massage. The parking
areas were always discreetly
hid, behind walls, etc. No
snooping and all that, for any
detectives or caseworkers
checking out one's sleeping
arrangements. La Mirage.
The Loop Inn. They all
arrived with a sort of
splash and became the
top-end of the Avenel
roadside entertainment
strip. As I went out to
places like Newark and
Clifton, etc., all I had to
do was mention 'Avenel'
and the words came out -
'Oh, yeah, all the motels
and stuff; I know the place.'
I felt like I lived on the corner
of Coitus and Interruptus.
But, ah, to be young again.
-
So, you grow up in a town
ringed by junkyards and
scrap metal yards, and
transversed by a raging
highway and all it brings,
and what can you expect.
Or, what do you expect?
You're lucky, for sure, if the
library gets budgeted for
twelve dollars a week. Over
at Hirams, I wanted to buy
two trailers just to keep
books in, but they wouldn't
let me. Fire hazard. But,
then again, they wouldn't
allow a trampoline in the
bedroom either. My sex
swing; another story.
-
Up in Fort Lee there's also a
place called Hiram's - but it's
a cool, roadside, hot dog place.
I'd go there when I could. In
fact, that day I skipped out
with my mother's old Ford,
that was one of my destinations.
I found the people in there to
be cooler - and way tougher
anyway. There's a certain
something that comes from
living right there, at the palisades,
at the end of the GW Bridge, all
those miserable roads and views
out - as if you already know
you're somewhere, but the
somewhere is also a nowhere
because its right next to the
biggest somewhere else. Do
you know what I mean? That
Hiram's was cool - their hot
dogs were huge and really
thick, a little pricey but worth
it, and all the condiments and
stuff was your own for the
dispensing. They kept this
really large vat of good
sauerkraut always going,
and with a giant ladle and
fork too, so you could just
keep dishing it out as you
went along. If you liked
sauerkraut. I did, so it was
always a bonus for me. The
guys were always tough, as
I said, but also always as dumb
as oxen. You could tell. One
look, and certainly one listen.
All they ever did was shout
back and forth to one another
and to all the regulars who
came in; and it seemed like a
hundred of them an hour, even
tough the place was small and
cramped. Unfortunately, there
were two or three TV's around
too, and it was all NY Sports
team stuff or nothing. It was
boring as all get out, and stupid
too, having to listen to all that
dunderhead-crap from a bunch
of hot dog know nothings. A
lot times though, those local
girls, or Fort Lee or Bergen
County lasses, they were
pretty hot. Lots of tight,
white jeans and scanty
tops. You had to be there;
it all had a different flavor
back then.
-
One time, when I was about
10, my mother got a phone
call - some guy named
'Bill Sutor' called, asking if
he and his son Robert could
take me along with them on
a trip upcoming, the next
Saturday, to Palisades Park.
He lived on the next block,
at the end of Monica Court.
(Palisades Amusement Park,
back then , was like the 'Six
Flags, Great Adventure' thing of
its day). She said sure, OK, and
they made the arrangements.
(Nice of them to ask ME). As
it went, this Ronnie Sutor kid
was a mere and casual school
chum, but it was his birthday
and his parents had asked him
what he wanted for his birthday.
That would be me, weirdly
enough - his request was for
a Palisades Park day out with
me. Yes, I was as surprised as
you probably are right now.
Free of charge, the run of the
place. We had fun. They
picked me up (no mother
along) early, and we had the
entire day. It was cool. After
that, maybe I saw him 5 or 6
more times, and then they
moved away. No contact.
-
The one thing I always
do remember, and it was
crummy, was that, along
the way up there, (right
by Hiram's, as it turned
out years later), while
driving, the Dad got a
little lost. We were in the
midst of some expensive
homes and some futsy
looking guy was out
working his lawn. Should'a
known - the Dad guy asked
for directions to 'Palisades
Park' and, of course, that's
all the guy had to here. The
town was Palisades Park, yes,
so he said 'You're in it, yes. This
IS Palisades Park.' And then,
in a sneering manner, the old
snot-ass looks us over and says,
'But I'm sure what you mean is
Palisades 'Amusement' Park.' He
almost spit it out,as if we were
dog dirt unfortunately passing
through his town to get to the
slumfest that would keep us serfs
entertained. Talk about class-bullshit.
Even as a ten-year-old I wanted to
punch that guy. And I felt really
bad for Mr. Sutor too, getting
treated that way.
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