11,238. RUDIMENTS, pt. 471

RUDIMENTS, pt. 471

(the lord gives mercy)

I used to tread so carefully,

very carefully, through all

my things. A situation, a

crisis, a displeasure, they

each had to be taken care

of deliberately and with no

mis-steps. For one thing, I

was stretched for funds. For

another, at any moment and

from one moment to the next,

up in those hills and later in

Elmira, I never knew what

could be creeping up on me

from the past, the recent past.

There were no forwarding

addresses or tracks left,

granted, but legal trails from

new titles/deeds, electric bills,

bank accounts and such,

were worrisome, and this

was way before the Internet

age now, when trails are left

like colored lights burning,

everywhere. It was important

I laid low and kept out

of sight some. I got pretty

friendly, through casual

schmoozing and small talk

(the local school bus station

yard was right near the bank

lot), with the bankers  -  plus

they held my mortgage on

the Columbia Crossroads

home and acreage. Each

month, after a while, I was

able to sign off quite simply

(the ease of country-farm

banks was amazing; farmers

were always floating loans

and notes) on a 30-day note,

for five or six grand. I'd bank

that, pay it back by month's

end, and roll into another one,

thus calling as 'profit' whatever

I'd have left from wages and

salaries. They never allowed

60-day notes, which was OK,

and they were only willing to

stretch to 10 grand as a limit; an

amount to which I never went.

It was weirdly as efficient and

as easy as living on cash, but

don't ask me how. As I said,

no computers or link-ups, in

the 70's, made it as practical

as living off a modified grid.

The other farmer, Willard

Brown, held a side note on

my land, for about 8 grand,

and each month I'd hike

up over the hill and pay him

his $38.03, (yes, three cents; he

never declined it) cash, hand to

hand. It was a cool existence,

in that I was working for

'milk and meat' (their phrase),

for the farmer on the other

side of me, Warren Gustin,

and also driving the local

rural, dirt-road, schoolbus

and tending the nearby

schoolhouse. That job,

at the schoolhouse was a

contract for $4200 a year,

through the school district,

the Superintendent, a guy

named Harry Glass, from

New Jersey actually; a

transplant some years

before. We never got on

much  -  he didn't take to

me, nor me to him, but I,

at the same time, never

gave him much of a

chance. Suit and tie,

gavel-pounding bureaucrats,

never did much for me.

I've always hated linear

thinking.

-

Out in the sticks like that,

sort of on the lam, laying

low, it was a weird world.

I'd walk into that bank, for

instance, (Troy National Bank),

and all the people in there

were the same as people 

most anywhere. I never 

knew where they came 

from  -  little secretarial

and teller types, the men

in cheap suits and cheaper

businessman attitudes, in

the middles of nowhere,

playing at banker. Everything

was about 20 years behind 

the times, even their cars.

The local lawyer, or my 

local lawyer anyway, I 

didn't know how many

others there were, was 

a skinny, nervous guy 

with bow-ties. He had a 

secretary who was about 

80 and seemed she could

have plopped out of a 

witch's scene from in 

the Wizard of Oz. This

lawyer fellow was one of

those who read every word

on every sheet of paper.

Any appointment with him

took at least two hours.

Sometimes there would 

be forms, basic standard 

forms, boilerplate, all the 

same, not custom in any 

way, and he'd have to 

read each one. He read

with a pencil, pointed 

and sharp, and he left

a squiggle everywhere,

from the pencil. He ran

you from pillar to post,

it seemed, and he was

both the pillar AND the

post. His crazy secretary

had but one job, apparently,

which was to keep the pencil

cup on his desk constantly

filled with about 20 well

honed, sharpened pencils.

He probably ground down

20 in a day, or in two hours.

It was crazy. The guy was

nothing but a skeleton, 

and his clothes hung on 

him as loosely as a flag

banner at a football game.

-

On one side of that Troy 

bank was a Ben Franklin 

store. They were big all

through the little towns 

of Pennsylvania back then;

sort of a five and dime of

limited proportions  -  open

racks of toys and balls, 

spinners and sundries, 

some household and

kitchen items, towels, 

socks, paints and brushes,

maybe. In addition, on 

good weather days, there 

were racks of stuff out 

front. The Ben Franklin

store was cool enough, 

and that lawyer's office 

was right across the street.

Come to think of it, they

probably did sell pencils 

too. On the other side of

the bank was the old 

Troy Hotel (gone now).

-

The Troy Hotel brings me

pause. I don't know even

how to begin covering the

subject. It was a 'gi-gantic'

old white structure, I guess

you can close your eyes and

imagine an 1900 rambling

wooden hotel; multi-leveled,

maybe 4 stories up, porch

areas, grand entry, lobby,

wood everywhere, a major

staircase, etc. Stepping into

that place was, or could be,

life-changing  -  a trance of

time, an exchange of worlds,

a dicing of all expectations.

There were men in there, 

lined up, in chairs and along 

the bar, who hadn't seen the

light of day, even Troy's day,

I'd bet, in 10 years. Snarly,

scruffy, direct. A flannel shirt

was high-dressing for cocktails.

I got 10 stitches or so from the

Troy Hotel one night  -  the

local 6-room 'Hospital' was a 

block away, walkable. But there 

was no one there, so we had 

to wait until morning. The

men in the hotel hardly 

looked up. Another weird,

but totally interesting, thing

that I did  -  and I admit to 

this a bit ashamedly, although

I did do it to alleviate the 

poor girl's poverty, therefore,

with good intentions. (You

would need to have know 

the dire economic straits

prevalent back then in 

those hills and hollows). 

One of the more beautiful, 

willowy, blond high school

seniors I'd ever seen, living

thereabouts, high up in the

hills in the most abject shack

and situation, with but a 

father and some younger 

kids, would stay on the bus

(this wasn't often but it 

happened a few times) as

we left the high school,

and softly speak to me,

saying to let her off at the

Troy Hotel, for the day.

She had to 'work,' and

it was more important

that day than school.

Distributive Ed., for sure.

-

I also made sure to make

friends with the local police guy,

or one of them. His name was

Rick, fresh back from Vietnam,

and I had to listen to all his

gory, gruesome tales  -  as if I

was his therapist  -  of his time 

and doings there. Vile stuff.

Shamefully deadly. I probably

WAS his therapist by this, come

to think of it. There were maybe

three guys on the police force,

and Rick was the newest, and the

craziest, loud-mouthed and

unpredictable one, and with a

gun and a rifle, and a fast car

too, and with rights to pretty much

patrol Rt. 6 and 14, nearby, and

the local area roads, as he pleased.

I heard all those tales too, and

believe you me, ladies, rick was

wanting for nothing. Or at least

he said. I tended to stay within

earshot of him, weekly anyway.

in case some sort of APB or

any new information was to be

dribbling in. About me, I mean.

I was still an outsider, though

you'd never know it, having 

changed myself totally into 

into a bumpkin.

-

As I said at the beginning, I was

careful and deliberate with all

that I did. I learned a long
time back never to judge the
distressed and downtrodden.
Adjudging the prideful and
those clawing their way up,
that's easy, because they
deserve it, all that they get.
The lower caste, here spoken
of, they deserve no venom, just
a hand and an understanding.
About a year and a half later,
by surprise, I ran into that blond
girl  -  working at the local 'Tops'
Supermarket, on the edge of Troy.
Like God's own daughter, she'd
grown some, was quite gracious,
almost elegant, in her ways. We
spoke, laughed a little, and went
on our separate ways. I'd seen, I 
thought, what time and heart
can do.