RUDIMENTS, pt. 475
Jim Watkins' tough cookies
Do you know how some
people 'coach' themselves -
I coaxed myself. Like a fool,
walking streets and forcing
myself to try, try, try, to be
believing in things : The
formula of the status quo.
Far better, I thought, to just
chuck all that and do it over
my own way; which I've
been doing ever since; lo,
to little avail. I am more
reminded than ever of
Margaret Anderson's
(Chicago editor of the
'Little Review'), words
about her first seeing
Ulysses, by James Joyce -
"I shall never forget the
day in February, 1928
when Ezra Pound , as
foreign editor of the Little
Review, sent us a package
from London. It contained
the manuscript of Ulysses.
I read straight through to
Episode III. When I came
upon 'Ineluctable modality
of the visible: at least that
if no more, thought through
my eyes. Signatures of all
things I am here to read,
seaspawn and seawrack, the
morning tide,' I remember
calling out to James Heap,
'This is the most beautiful
thing we'll ever have to
publish. We're going to
present a masterpiece to
America.'" The Little Review
began publishing Ulysses
in its March, 1918 issue.
It was a fateful move.
-
I'd set out, on my own Day
One, to construct a new world,
and by now I've mostly done it.
So, from then to now, I sum
up my present day simply by
saying (you can quote me),
'There are a lot of shits around.'
Especially right here. People
intent on ignorance and their
own fealty to lip-smacking
ignorance, irrectitude, con,
and thievery. And they live
by that, all, as neighbors.
-
Probably the worst, or
oddest cracker, of a guy I
had to deal with, once I got
to Pennsylvania, was this
fellow named Jim Watkins.
I didn't know him at all; he
'found' me. I'd been laying
low that entire first Winter,
with not much choice in the
matter since each day was
like 12 degrees with snow
in the air. When Spring did
finally break, and the days
grew longer, I took to just
walking around, checking
out my property, tree-lines,
lay of the land, water-sources,
etc. It was all new to me, and
there's a certain feeling (most
definitely there was for me,
as an Avenel guy) about the
feeling that comes from
walking acres that, by some
silly twist of exchanging
money for some papers, are
yours. Like owning a piece
of the Earth; with Adam.
With Eve. (Note to self in
Spring, 'Beware the Fall.')...
-
I was out there one day,
walking the dirt road, and
this tight-wound looking
guy I'd not seen before pulls
up in a Plymouth Valiant.
He parks the car and starts
walking towards me, as I
had already edged over to
the area by the pond. All
these Pennsylvania people,
I'd already figured, had
been watching my every
move, as an 'outside' since
I'd gotten there in early
January; now with the
Spring they probably wanted
to come out and see what
I smelled like too. To be
truthful, I already didn't
too much like the guy's
looks. He looked like a
1950's card-player, a dumb
shit (that word again) quick
on the draw. I figured I'd
stay close in, and deal with
it. (Notice all those card
metaphors?)....It began
with the usual niceties, the
get-to-know-you crap, where
ya' from, etc. Feeling me out,
I guessed. Though he also
appeared a bit like a lecher,
so it had to be better than
getting felt up, I went along.
By the conversation's and,
it turned out he'd learned
that I had son too, inside,
(7 months old?), and would
I be interested that Spring
in helping him coach the
local Little League teams
from the area? Four teams.
Actually, I immediately
begged off, saying I had
new responsibilities, had
to settle in, tend to the
house and home, etc. Hr
grimaced a bit, seemed
disappointed but didn't
press the point. Upon
parting, he explained
carefully to me about how
all the local boys around,
with baseball, were strong
and all, but as 'farmers'
they had all the wrong
muscles making that
strength. Baseball muscles,
he said, were different.
Interesting point,
-
He drove off. Something
about him kept me unsettled.
That Spring came and went.
I'd see him around, here and
there, found where he worked
and lived, and though he did
always seem an aimless fob,
there was a wife and 2 kids
around, a house. Eventually,
being glad I stayed away, I'd
learn more about him from
the kids and locals who'd
taken to coming around :
we'd be fixing cars, working
on junk, shooting guns at
bottles and stuff, in the
back woods. Remember, I
did tell you how everyone
around there was slightly
nuts, just a little bit off.
Turned out, Jim had a
life-long reputation in
those parts as trouble -
he'd recently been released
from the 'nuthouse' and
been cleared as a 'rehab'
success, up in Montrose,
PA, which had a large and
reputable mental-health
facility to which many
people were sent as part
of their 'crime' sentencing
in those parts, back then.
It ran from deprivation
and electro-shock treatments,
to full-blown strait-jacket
stuff and lobotomies too.
Supposedly, Jim had been
'shocked' back into a sort
of reality, though to me
he seemed demented in
the eyes, sly and scurrilous,
and zombie-like. I really
should'a known.
-
As particular and as careful
as I was, wary and suspicious
of all things at first, up there,
still trying to lay low, remain
unseen and off the radar, in
6 months or so I made the
fatal mistake of coming to
terms with Jim. He hung
around some, I learned his
weird, and sly. humor, and
saw his ways. His wife and
kids, in the house that used
to be his, and with the Valiant
too, had jettisoned him. It was
an angry and bad scene, and
I didn't know where Jim was
staying. A few months into
this, my wife was hospitalized
over in Sayre, PA, 20 miles or
so off, for a procedure. It was
cold out, I was staying alone,
and some church-neighbor
lady from Rev. McKnight's
place was watching the 8
month-old kid, in her house
about a mile away. It was
all going OK. Jim came
over one day and we were
hanging about - again as
I said, the other guys were
out in the rear barn, working
on cars (we'd started some
half-assed car repair deal
out there). We all ended up
in the barn, working on a
67 Ford truck that needed a
new flywheel. (I remember
this so well because Jim took
the foam-protection rubber
that had been packed around
the new flywheel for shipping
and was prancing around with
it on his head, shaped as a
vagina-hat, in his funny
opinion. Be all that as it
may, in a few hours some
of the local girls started
coming over. High-school
age, some of them, and
others just late-teens
post-high school girls.
Unbeknownst to me, and
the others, I was told, Jim
had arranged a 19th birthday
party, for one of the girls,
at my house, right then,
that night, and here they
were. I was freaking, but
stayed very cool, got everyone
eventually into the house. The
girls had baked two cakes, had
brought potato chips and such.
The problem was, really the only
problem, that they'd all dressed
like camps or whores, and beats
me why. I'd enjoy the scenery,
to be sure, but needed to make
sure that NOTHING else was
to occur. Mr. Outsider, me, and
getting one put over on me, as
well.A test? And what if I failed.
In the freaking middle of nowhere
too. It went on OK; raucous, rude,
but no sex, no body parts. And
then, (thanks, Jim) the alcohol
comes out. No one had told me
that Jim had a fierce weakness
as well for Mr. Booze. In about
15 minutes, he was gone, over
the top, sloe-eyed, wobbly. I
could soon be in deep shit,
myself. So, I stepped up, and
for myself - and thankfully
with the three other guys too.
The girls had to leave, please,
thank you, and it was going
good until Jim snapped! In an
instant, he was on me. He
decked me, I went down,
he put a hole in the wall,
I guess with his fist, and in
one more instant, I was
under a chair that he'd
lobbed over me. An
armchair, thanks, not a
folding chair or deckchair.
Crunch. The place was a
mess, he stormed it, heaving
things, they did somehow
wrestle him out - and that
was the last I saw of Jim
Watkins. For a really long
time anyway. Wrong muscles
I'd suppose. Wrong sport too.
...Not done yet, but that's for
next chapter.
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