RUDIMENTS, pt. 468
Making Cars
I'd guess there are always
alternatives : Like a gambler,
you can win quick cleanly,
or lose slow, badly. Maybe
it's all part of a person's
constitution or personal
makeup. From where I
always stood, it seemed
to most always be the
bottom, the crummy end,
the lose slow, badly, part
of the deal. It goes along
with poverty and need.
Not much ever really did
work for me, or for mine.
We never lost a house, or
anything like that. My
parents somehow always
provided, and even in the
early days when things were
tough, we never had any
situations forced on us, by
bill collectors or mortgage
people and such. It was a
level of comfort that always
brought us food and shelter,
things to do, and a fine level
of smiling comfort. In a way,
the less you know about the
higher stuff, of course, the
less you miss it.
-
It wasn't until later that I did
begin seeing the stratification
of society - mostly from in the
seminary, where we had a few
tiers of people. As I've mentioned,
the top tier was mostly rich kids
whose fathers worked in Trenton;
Commissioners of this or that
(Public Utility Commissioner,
to name one). Those kids, beneath
it all, had actually been dumped
there for the private school rigor
and character regimentation, and
private-school education, it all
afforded; priest-stuff be damned.
It kept the sons out of trouble.
No wayward teen crap. That was
cool, as I watched and learned
from them of their habits and
outlooks. Things that seemed
important to them were things
that remained meaningless to
me; like the 'weave' of a shirt,
and tabs and collars, the leather
of shoes. Coats, collars, buttons
and snaps. Then we had an
entire middle-core of stable
money family kids : fancier
than usual home towns, heavy
with family traditions and all
that. (Those are the ones I used
to like to watch their sisters
come visit on 'family' days.
Some of those girls had a real
poise and a breathtaking beauty.
It was often captivating to see).
Then, people like Leo Benjamin
and myself - your basic bottom
slummers from nowhere - we just
blew in and in any ad-hoc manner
we had - of cheap clothes, less
laundry, more overuse of tacky
shirts and pants. There were no
uniforms or anything, but having
to dress each day, almost formally,
became a real pain in the butt.
The toiletries and communal
bathroom counters and sinks,
by themselves, were horrid -
guys preening, shavers, cologne.
I won't even get started with
the showers, and the peacocks.
And there were any number of
them. Believe you me, it ain't
fun being in the midst of a group
of 35 bare-naked shower kids,
trying to remain unobtrusive,
while having always that certain
few who took an inordinate
amount of interest in body
changes and 'guy' stuff. Gay
creeps, even at 13, always
filtered up - in the lingo of
the church, precious, selected,
and holy. Yeah, right, and this
tastes a lot like bread too.
Transubstantiate this.
-
I always had more in common
anyway with the kitchen workers
and janitor-type people - they
were mostly southern blacks,
somehow transplanted up to
Blackwood (close as ever to
'Backwoods'). Most of them
lived in a large, Spanish-style,
tiled-roof home, wherein the
kitchen people stayed. I never
knew the sleeping or rooming
arrangements. The guy who
ran the entire food and cooking
and serving operation was a
swarthy, startling Spanish or
Italian guy, always smoking,
in cook's garb. He ruled all
those people like a captain
rules a ship at sea when 300
hungry sailors want their
steady meals. As I remember,
his name was Sal. There was
some kind of tawdry thing
going on too, with a woman
within that group. But it was
all kept quiet of specifics.
No one ever had babies, so
I guess they knew well enough
what they were doing.
-
I did find out though that down
there somewhere was a town
with the name of 'Lawnside,'
to which a number of them
went back and forth, on
weekends or off their shift
days. Years later I visited
Lawnside - because at a
Biker run way down there.
In the 1990's, camping over
in the pine-forest, we met this
little crew of amazing black
folk, happy, and chubby, and
glorious, cooking pork and
stuff over an open fire pit, all
out in the middle of the pines.
It was very cool, and they had,
as well, their own, home-made
whatever it was, that they were
drinking, for two days and two
nights. They all hailed from
Lawnside, and invited us there
any old time. In those days
Lawnside was a black community.
Insulated and isolated, kept to
itself, southern slave heritage
family people. I don't know
where they got the name
Lawnside from, but it kind of
worked : Shacks and sheds
and hovels, in the grass. There
was even a small, almost
non-descript building that
house an Underground Railway
Museum - small scale but
cool as hell. Weird little
artifacts and tools and things,
with a little narrative story on
the walls. The whole town
was maybe 200 people, I'm
guessing, and for all I knew
they were each related - all
that 'Uncle Dad and Aunt
Sister' stuff. Who knows.
Whatever cars there were
were 15 years old at least,
and they weren't too plentiful
anyway. There was no store
or commerce that I could see,
It certainly wasn't any commuter
town. The spirits and stories
and general ghouls of the place,
after midnight, must have groaned
with the sorrowful tales and
stories of escaped and runaway
slaves, arriving (finally) to what
seemed like the 'North' but
probably wasn't. I think the
place still exists, but it needs
a map for sure. That weird, old
America is surely out there yet.
-
The cool thing about life is that
no one tells you about any of this
in the normal run of things (except,
of course, that I did just now tell
you), so that if you wish to find
out the real stories of things, and
behind things, you have to dig,
and search, ask and seek. Most
importantly, I find, wherever you
are - Avenel, Perth Amboy,
Camden or Philadelphia - you
have to ask, you have to engage
others. In the most light fashion
you can come up with, sometimes
a few simple, opening words can
bring you a wealth of information.
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