RUDIMENTS, pt. 454
(russ the dane)
Never sticking your neck out,
as they say, means never getting
your head cut off at the neck.
I guess there's a nice, quiet
complacency to something
like that, but I don't know
why a real man would want
it. It seems to me that we're
now surrounded by fake men;
little guys who hide behind
the scenes and set off their
incendiaries while taking no
initiative ever to own up to
the things they're doing. That
goes for women too, I think
that's what they're called. As
I was a novice, coming up
through the dank folds of the
cloak of Avenel, I remember
people who would just punch
people. They were the best,
just getting right to the point.
There's so much conflict around
anyway - I remember, in about
1961, this guy Clifford Gary, a
real pain in the ass kind of kid,
and he had a sister too, name
forgotten. In Catechism or
Confirmation class, one of
those, one after-school day
when we had to walk over and
attend that crap, mandatory, his
father came stumbling into the
church, about 5:30, drunk or not
I don't know, loudly demanding
his kids and verbally cutting up
this Sister Josephus troglodyte
nun we always had to put up
with. He verbally berated her,
the church, the sanctuary, the
entire operation, real good;
letting her have it right between
the eyes, saying it was dinnertime
and he wanted his kids home, not
at some overdone church seance.
He got his kids and stormed out.
All the while she was babbling
some drivel about whatever. See,
all she ever had done before was
lord it over 10 year old kids,
with her clicker and her screechy
voice and that fat face she had
the bulbed-out over the sides of
that white nun thing that she
wore. I don't think she'd ever
had to take it in the face before
by a regular, crazed, normal
guy. Good for him. I almost
cheered! Boy, she was a wretch.
-
That's what's good about a
comeuppance. The deserving
always get it. It was a good
lesson for me and - even though
I fell back into the well of the
same church idiocy in a year
or two - the lesson always
stayed with me. Nuns were
pretty useless anyway, and
this episode simply had
underscored that for me
too. I always wished the
world really was flat so that
those sorts of people would
have somewhere to fall off
from, or be pushed!
-
Municipal and government
types are the same sorts of
people. You can't just demand
allegiance, and you certainly
shouldn't be 'buying' it with
stolen funds in the guise of
graft, corruption and influence,
but it goes on and that how
it does go on. That's why
Avenel stinks. Go ahead,
look at for yourself, don't
take my word for it. I ask
you. And then I also ask, as
I would ask of those who
purport to be running the
social-site the town has -
(whoever would have thought,
35 years ago, that a place like
this would produce a thing like
that or a bunch like those
running it) - to answer to
themselves what in the hell
they think they're doing.
That was before spines and
backbones, I keep forgetting,
went out of style. Nobody's
home, because nobody
apparently lives here any
more. The razor is sharp,
and Kelso belongs to me.
-
In Avenel, this Father Egan
guy - he of the speed-process,
17-minute Mass - had a brother
named Ben. Ben was the erstwhile
church organist, and he lived in
Metuchen. Right out through the
mid-80's maybe it was. I lived
in Metuchen for 37 years, mostly
because of the train station, its
proximity to Princeton and NY
by rail, and the rather, back then,
strange, old, southern and tribal
feel the place once had. It's all
gone now, but when I first lived
there my end of Center Street
was like the deep south. Across
from me lived a guy named 'Russ.'
He was referred to by everyone as
Russ the Dane. He was an old
drunken Biker guy, about 55 or
60 then, back in the late 70's.
He came over one late afternoon
and introduced himself, just like
that - 'Hi, I'm Russ, the Dane.'
His house was cool, adjacent to
the park that fronted my house,
and back then many a warm
Summer night went by with he
and his brother (perhaps 'Don
the Dane? We never met),
played banjo and/or guitar,
and harmonica, all sorts of
really neat old Appalachian type
tunes with one or the other of
them on vocals. (Their family
originally came from Tennessee.
It lived on). Usually there'd
be a late night fire going, in the
the pit they had. I never went over
there, the guy used to creep me
out, I admit. A little too drunk
and friendly, one of those in
your face confessional guys,
when drunk. I never liked that.
He'd go on about his own
motorcycle days, the Indian
motorcycle he used to ride, the
stunts and the mishaps. And,
of course, the tales of ladies.
One night, here's the sort of
terror he was, a family had
moved in at the end of the
block, unfortunately for them
right across the street from
him. The Clyburns; nice
people, and I knew the
family. They were black.
Russ went out, gasolined
their lawn, and set it afire.
It burned out quick enough,
but oh what a glow it made.
-
Just a little ways off from us,
over Rt. 287, which was a
relatively new road at the
time, the little bridge (Durham
Ave, back then still unpaved
until paved a year or so later),
was the Danish Home For the
Aged. Russ claimed it as his
own, saying it had previously
been the clubhouse for his
motorcycle club, in the
1950's. He being Danish
and all, I just believed him
and let it all go. Metuchen
had lots of unsolved tales
back then. This one I left
alone. Near that bridge also
lived an odd family, the Pepe
family. It's still there, at 287
on the Metuchen side, last
house at the highway, a large
sprawling 1950's split-level.
The matriarch of that family,
(she was the only one left)
drank often at Cryan's, when
it was nearby. She'd tell me
bunches of stories from those
old days - though she never
mentioned Russ the Dane.
-
This Ben Egan guy had a
decent enough house, and
Father Egan, from Avenel,
was often there. For R&R,
as they say, just kicking
back a little, rest and all.
It was weird, but my father
often drove him back and
forth to these visits. The
funny thing was all this was
before my time there, but it
did converge, and my father
hated Metuchen, because, as
he put it, the streets were too
narrow and everything was
congested. He liked Inman
Avenue because it was extra
wide. (He should see it now.
Drag-strip speed-lines, lined
and pumiced, one in each
direction, with a sign at each
end that reads, 'Welcome,
Speeders.' But, that's another
story for the lip-synch crowd.
They probably love it. You
would believe what these
folks put their lips around.
Guys too!).
-
It doesn't take much to stay
calm. The funny thing, for me,
now, at this later stage of my
life - well, two things actually -
are knowing what day of the
week it is, and realizing how
in the world I ever got to
this point. I remember my
father-in-law, before he died,
just grinning at me and saying,
'How'd I ever get to be 84?'
I'm not there yet, and I doubt
I'll ever see that decade, but
I know exactly what he meant.
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