11,222. RUDIMENTS, pt. 464

RUDIMENTS, pt. 464

(rappaport new york)

I see the world won't make

a noise about things being

wrong. But I will. It never has,

but I always have. Sort of the

story of my life, crowding out

realities with intentions. All

else is (really now, let's come

right to it), an illusion. Nearby

here, a few miles off anyway,

there's a simple place called

Fanwood, NJ. It's nothing at

all, especially now, string

after string of new, cheesy

retail and apts., all with the

usual pretension and

clamminess. It's in no way

different, around here, than

anyplace else -  the same

discomfiting local, crap

politics, awarding developers

and builders whatever they

want, as the payoffs and

deals buckle through the

system, all with the proper

legal coverups. (The topic

here is 'Doing Well by

Stealing Well'). No, actually

I take that back because it's

not even 'politics.' It's crime

and corruption, and everyone

knows it but no one barks.

It's just the disgusting

American way, so stand

up and salute, but make

sure your fly is zipped.

After 75 years of all the

consolidation and local

geographic modification

of municipalities and all,

there's the reverse,

fragmenting, effect now

taking place. For years

it's been 'Fanwood' and

nothing more. Couldn't

be. All the local past was

buried. Now, all of a

sudden, in the face of

all that, someone opens

a tavern and starts calling

the location by an old name

of 'Sheelen's Crossing. That

was the name of a little

bridge there, owned by a

guy named Sheelen, that

once allowed people the

crossing over the new

railroad tracks which had

separated their town in

two at ground level. Yep,

that's the way things used

to go, and for over a hundred

years, as everything changed

and was accepted, the old

name never saw the light

of day, until now, when all

is lost anyway. It's indicative

of the sort of breakdown

and fragmentation that will

eventually set in to all of

these dumb sorts of places,

like Fanwood, Avenel (even

though there's really 'nothing'

there I'm sure some council

idiot will make something up).

Remember my story of Maurer

and Ferrar, the two lost towns

between Sewaren and Perth

Amboy, ghosted off the map

by oil companies long ago?

Watch out for some smug

airhead to resuscitate those

names with some deal of

bs-local blather.

-

Now, you start using a name

that hasn't been in use, that

you've never used for a

hundred years  -  under the

guise of 'going along' with

the neutralization and gutting

of any sort of local vibrancy

and color, so that you can

end up with any of the usual

local police-state efficiencies

we call towns these days, and

you're for certain going to have

a crisis of identity on your

hands. 'Rectification of Names'

was one of Confucius' prime

tenets. A ruler HAD to get

that right, or be damned. It's

all been so long out of control

here, that no one grasps the

concept in any way. The only

format it's being given now,

by dowager hipsters, is for

bars and taverns  -  to push

beer and booze and, frankly,

lets face it, the continued

sexual domination and

dirty pursuit of bar drunks

hoping to get laid. That's

what all this has come

down to? All least in

Avenel, they leave the

girls out of it and let guys

named Wilkinson chase

guys named whatever.

(You pick).I guess that's

an improvement.

-

W. B. Yeats, in one of

his works, 'The King Of

the Great Clock Tower,'

has one of his characters

exclaim, 'O, what is life

but a mouthful of air?

-

There wasn't anything

frivolous about the world

once I landed in NYC. All

the silliness and froth of

whatever I'd grown up 

with was immediately 

drained away by the

immediate necessities

of street-living, wariness,

and thoughts of any

future to be, if any was

to be. I had to get in

sync immediately and

get right to it. The streets

were hot and baking; the

pennies of August, like

bottlecaps, sank in the

tar of each crosswalk.

People slammed by in

half-dress or distress,

both amounting to 

about the same thing,

someone always wanting

to tell you 'their' story of 

woe, as if it was maybe

unlike anyone else's. I

had ears, but wanted to

hear little or nothing of 

any of it until I'd first

learned what these 'New

Yorkers' were about, and

by comparison to me 

they were a rude bunch

of thieves and shysters. 

I'd never had such exposure

before  -  there was a heavy

and preponderant lower east

side Jewish-Merchant thing

going on. Everywhere I went, 

seeking some cheap part-time 

work, someone would say, along

1st and 2nd Ave. by 5th to 9th 

street, 'Go see Sy.' This guy

named Sy Rappaport (yeah, 

check my spelling), he owned

the entire string of storefronts,

or so it seemed. There was

'Rappaport's Children's Furniture'

and he owned the clothier, the 

toy store, a few eatery places, 

and more. It was all like a 

1920's Jew kingdom of local

mercantile skill, Seymour had

it all. I finally was told WHERE

to see Sy, and I went. He was

holed up in the really lousy

rear office, in a long, thin

laundromat ('Rappaport's

Laundry-Wash'), at the

rear, with about 40 washers

and dryers in the front. Ten

or so ladies and ancient 

people milled about, 

staring or awaiting their 

laundry completion. I 

waltzed, a complete

novice and a nobody to

Sy, and said I was looking

for some small, any, job.

Sy was about 45, a small

man, wore a tie, cheap 

clothes, pens, paperwork, 

etc. He said something like,

'Well, whatya wanna' do, 

kid?' I said I'd do anything.

He set me up, long haired,

hippie jerk, as I've reported

before, in the small ice cream 

and hamburger joint next to 

what became the Fillmore

East. It was horrible but I did

it. Like 10pm to maybe 4am,

or whatever it took. All the

stoned, maniac kids would

come pouring out of the place,

munchies and hungries going

wild. I never served food at all.

I was just the clean-up jerk,

kind of the behind-the-scenes

fool. None of it ever amounted

to much, but boy did see a lot.

Trying to close the place up,

at the supposed end of the day,

(after which clean up and

proper cleansing and washing

of all the dairy equipment was

like at least another hour), was

like a shoot-out at the Alamo

every night I did it. (Which

wasn't that long). 
-
O what is life
but a mouthful of air?