11,173. RUDIMENTS, pt. 446

RUDIMENTS, pt. 446

(high times at the high hill garage)

Armed disengagement? Unarmed

engagement. I'm migrant, as in

Immigrant? How's this all go. I

used to walk around wondering.

My whole world was a funny

place, and I got nothing, as far

as input, except for what I

myself put in. It took very

little time adjusting to that

and I soon realized I'd mostly

be on my own for the rest of

time. Which is where the 'young

kid and books' connection came

in. I devoured in those years

most anything I could find  -  

and that wasn't much  -  in 

the library, Avenel, I mean; 

Mrs. Muccilli in particular.

She'd make sure the quirky

little 1960 poetry books kept

coming in  - I don't really know

how she defended or managed

all that, but I kept reading  -  

Rexroth, Lowell, Berryman,

Ashbery, O'Hara. There was 

a bunch of them  - they were

odd and oddly-sized volumes.

When you got a dump of a place,

all you've got is a dump of a
place? Well, not exactly : (the 
funniest thing  -  back then there

were two guys from Bunn's 

Lane, mind you, Bunn's Lane,

which made Avenel probably 

look like Scarsdale by 

comparison. Polish teens,

who were in the local Sea 

Scouts contingent which met 

at the Woodbridge Armory  - 

out at the clay pits adjacent

to the Turnpike. They always

said, 'Avenel? Avenel  -  that's

a meatball town.' Yeah, and

I'm John D. Rockefeller, 

fellows). This all makes me

sound archaic, by using this

reference, because the claypits

are long-gone, the Turnpike

thrives, and though the 'Armory'

still stands, the entire acreage

all around has become real 

estate speculation central  -

office towers, a shopping mall,

(High Hill Garage too long 

gone), and some pride of the

local corruption racket 

'community center' with a

newly installed $340,000 

light-board sign, as if it

was the Meadowlands

Arena. And, lest we forget, 

the crooked Zirpolo empire

building which the town 

thieves are in the process of 

buying for 10 million dollars,

(with my tax money : yours 

too, if you're sad enough to 

live here). My view backwards

in time does not include these

rancorous, foul, endeavors,

brought to you as they are by

the likes of an Al Capone

residuary crooked fiefdom

led by a short-pants ghoul

who thinks he's running a 

shit-version of Cleveland.

As I look out over that land  -

the expanse runs from the old

old Centric Clutch location,
and the old town garage,

right across to the Armory  -

I can realize what's going on,

and what's not being said, 

and who's buying (secretly)

the other parcels : this entire

stretch is being set-up, right

now, on paper and CAD 

diagrams somewhere, 

probably in the 'ONYX 

Building' right now (formerly

the Hess Building)  -  Onyx

is a company that buys out

towns (pays-off?) master-plans

them with ten-year timelines, 

destroys and rebuilds them  -
for FULL corridor development.
If you're in the know, now and
early, there's gold in them
there hills, ten years off.

 You watch that corridor, and

if I'm still alive in 10 years,

you come tell ME what's 

been done there by the 

canker-sore bastards we

have in office now. Keep
an eye, in the same fashion,
on that Inman Sports Club
and Driving Range land.
Same people involved.

-

Yep, I learned all that from 

reading poetry. (Thanks! 

Avenel. And thanks, Mrs.

Muccilli). You see, the stuff

they don't want you to know 

is always right there at the 

end of your nose. All you've

got to do is put your eyes

close-in and focus a little

better. You can see it.

-

I used to examine almost 

each street around me, by

bicycle or walking. I knew

the porches and the alcoves,

the cool yards and the cleansed

yards. You could tell a lot

about a person just by viewing

where they lived. Probably 

even today. Sterile, pot-shed

thinking? Just check out 

Guernsey, in Colonia. A 

sadder, more un-infested

place you'll never see. Even

what trees there are are 

ashamed to grow. The 

coolest place I ever saw, and

this went until very recently too,

when  -  of course  -  one of the

'churches' decided to make the

house their Saturday Spring

Clean-up project house. The

old Cermayan joint, on 'Fifth

Avenue,' as Avenel puts it.

As I've written about, my father

was an upholsterer, doing a lot

of work in the basement, right

there on Inman Ave., and, along

with the Cermayan guys, who 

were his cushion and pillow 

crafters and all that  -  an old

guy, his son and some needle

trades woman  -  (this is all

through the 60's and 70's). 

They'd work in the rear 

garage/shed area. There was 

little concern for much else, 

and the house just sat there, 

year after year, until maybe 

two Summers ago when the

local Presbyters (yeah, the ones

with the free-paved parking lot)

made it their project house and

cut the guts right out of it. Not

mindful of pride or character,

the house now sits, looking

stupid, and as bland as a

reformed hooker in church.

But, that's the kind of 

progress that closed-thinking 

brings you. Just like the 

moon-expanse of Guernsey.

-

So, if I say things are out 

of control, are you gonna'

spit at me? Is that the sort

of reaction to be expected 

from a choice, prime-cut 

steer, meatball town like 

this one? When the pot calls

the kettle black, I just get

up and leave. And, hell,

I'm part North African.

-

When it came down to the

rubber meeting the road,

Avenel always lost out, and

thought and better-glory won.

I was on a quest for that and

made sure of that quest, turning

all things my way. The guy,

the old guy, from High-Hill

Garage, when I was at St. George

Press, took me aside one day

to show me the bullet holes still

in his building from when that

all had been, into the late 1940's

anyway, hunting lands. He said,

working the garage, certain times

of year he'd have to be careful

himself, about stepping outside, 
watching not to be shot, making

sure he wore orange, and trying

first to be sure no walking hunters

were pouting about, hungry for

the kill. Funny stuff. Nowadays

you're more apt to be run over

by a gleeful carload of chubby

local shoppers roaring out of

Woodbridge Center or Sharon

Gardens. Ain't life grand?