11,356. RUDIMENTS, pt. 519

RUDIMENTS, pt. 519

(live and learn)

A simple, fragmentary type,

that's always been me. Anyone

else who makes something

more, or less, out of that

stands only to lose. Messing

with an old shit like me is a

bit of a gamble: I have little

to lose, care for nothing much,

and am able to shoot well from

the proverbial hip, if need be.

I'm at the end of a long rope

now, and the only thing left to

hang onto is that knot at the

end; that's me.

-

I was thinking today, and

realized I'd come up with

a perfect example of a joke,

or whatever it is, that only

works as you 'hear' it, and

does not work visually, if

typed: (A doctor walks into a

bankruptcy court, and nervously

says 'I have no patience left.')

The thing is, when you SAY

it, it works. (I tried it out). But

if you type it, the difference

between patience and patients

kills it. The point too is the 

'bankruptcy' reference, which just

has to slide in. 'Oh well; just an

aside, something that I was

thinking of. Some things are like

that. Another time I was in 

Brighton Beach, NY  -  it's an

old enclave, now very Russian.

Outside of one of those large

blocks of apartment buildings,

I was walking along the street

there at the sidewalk and this

woman, maybe 30-35, was at

the building, begging. She'd

swarm the sidewalk and get

right up into people's faces, for

money. Everyone I saw had

ignored her. I saw it all coming

at me, so I gave her whatever

I could quickly grab from my

pocket - 4 quarters, some dimes

and nickels. She took it, but at

that instant, as well, she went

off. I don't know what caused

the effort, or if it was recurrent

or what; but in half-Russian

and half-English she began to

scream and harangue me, loud

and mean. Freaked me out, so

I just retreated. But I often think

of that moment, still trying to figure

out, 10 years later, what the heck

was up with her. How it's really

impossible to judge people, and

how  -  maybe too  -  no one's

worth giving 10 cents to, there

seemingly always being a risk

of something. Certainly, no

gratitude. But then the giver

(me) has to ask himself, 'what

did you expect? Something back?

That's not true giving, is it?' It

all goes into making he world

a real mess of a confabulation

to have to try and deal with.

If I'd bought her a meal, and

brought it over on a tray, she'd

have probably stabbed me

with the knife. I always liked

that old, Latin phrase  -  used

mostly in legal situations, law

and courts, and all  -  'Cui Bono?'

Who stands to gain? To whose

good is this?

-

I was certainly, speaking of

cui bono, never the beneficiary

of much of anything. If the

Lazy Susan ever got to me,

by the time it came around the

the gravy bowl would be flying

off right into my lap anyway

because some fool had spun

it too fast.

-

Phew! some people have

always simply made me

too nervous : those hi-falutin'

types always ready to snap.

One time, at St. George Press,

I had a customer, mentioned

here previous, who had a

really swank, Fifth Avenue,

second-floor hair salon  - 

windows looking down on

the street, all things very

well-appointed and expensive.

Two guys ran it; swoosh.

I'd known them a while, and

in turn every so often some

strangely high-attired type

from some other NYC or

Fifth Avenue business would

want me to do their work too.

One of them one day, to my

surprise, calls me up, and she

says she's taking a train out,

to St. George Press, to see

me and get started with me

setting up her new business

for printing: Billheads,

letterheads, envelopes,

cards, flyers; all that. I

said, (gulp!) OK, and we

made arrangements for me

to pick her up at Metropark,

(the large, corporate train

depot about 2 miles off).

In the interim, just knowing

what was about to happen

was enough to unsettle me.

I could already tell she was

the haughty type, nose a bit

in the air. Working with the

lowly likes of me was surely

going to be a comedown for

her. I got ready. (I actually

do forget her name now).

-

She arrived : all six-feet of

her, impeccably attired, nice

cloth everything, perfect

threads, expensive leathers,

million dollar hair and eyes.

She'd not even blinked (nor

winced) upon seeing me,

just said I'd come with the

highest of recommendations,

from those hair guys. She

was all perfect in like a

Jackie Kennedy kind of way,

except, (face it) she was

working for a living so she

wasn't THAT grand. Not like

Cos Cobb, CT. independently

wealthy and all. We actually

did hit it off; she made repeated

visits, and I went there too. Her

business name was Ivy Vacance,

the store. It had to be pronounced

perfectly (they're always this

way) 'E V Vakahnce'  -  no other

way, and not certainly with any

of the gross American tongue,

like ivy vacancy or anything.

I never even knew what it meant,

actually, or what she was trying

to say by it as a store name. No

matter -   she was punctilious

about all the usual stuff : paper

selection, ink colors, logo design.

Maddeningly so, but we never

quarreled and she always paid.

Compared to Fifth Avenue

prices, we were probably a

printing steal to her anyway.

She had been the Lord & Taylor

Window Display Manager or

somesuch title, for some years,

along Fifth Ave., down below

the Library. Now she was

going to be uptown, in the 

Fifth Ave. 50's  -  an entire 

other clientele  -  chattering

tourist types, holiday shoppers,

rich dowagers and all that.

Fabrics, clothing lines, boots,

gloves, scarves, etc. She

always kept me on the edge

of my seat  -  nerves and

anxiety. My little cubby-hole

of an office area was as

marginal as could be, 

crummy and not really 

'designed.' I had some of 

my paintings up around,

on the walls, so that helped 

a bit, but the rest was all 

printer's crap, job samples, 

reference notebooks,

and files. A real junk-heap.

Once or twice I had these

ladies come in, again New 

York people, who'd get all

aghast at the state of the 

office and waiting area  - 

they'd be wanting, or 

looking for coffee service,

or donuts or something,

and there'd be remarks on

how little money was

obviously spent on office

and amenities. I'd just

sit there, and my boss 

guy, the owner, would 

come in babbling to 

them (he hated these 

sorts of customers,

fancy or fussy was NOT

him in any way) about

'that's how we keep our

prices so low for you!'

It was OK, but sometimes

got awkward. Especially

after the times I'd go to

them, at their NYC 

location and see how 

they did things. It was 

like a catered-lunch 

feedbag just walking in 

these places : bowls of 

this or that, tea and 

coffee. People sitting

around waiting, on 

expensive furniture, 

and with glass tables

too. Whew.

-

Outside of church places,

the big NYC church coat

drives and mission places,

the most expensively (that's

funny actually) done-up

place I ever went to was,

along Fifth Ave, the offices

of Air France. I was doing

their printing for a while.

It was all very nice -  high

and mighty French girl types,

and the rest. One time, I

drove in with a station 

wagon-rear full of boxes of

completed letterheads and

envelopes and all. It was

crowded, I was running late.

Rather than bother, I parked

out on the west side, in the

40's, far-off, where it got

pretty barren. I had a hand

truck, and I loaded it up

with maybe 1/3 of the

order, and figured I'd make

a few trips, etc. The first

trip went fine (this was in

the mid 1980's). I was 

coming back with the 

empty hand cart, (I forgot 

to mention it was a 

windy day), and I started

seeing all this crap blowing 

around everywhere, along

the gutter, along the street.

I bent down to pick one up

and  -  holy shit!  -  it was

my stuff. As it turned out,

someone had popped the 

vent window, (I saw it on 

the ground), opened the car,

and went at the boxes, probably

thinking it was jewels or some

good stuff left off by a Jersey

jerk thinking it was safe. They'd

gone through everything, just

throwing it all around, probably

in anger when they saw it

was just paper stuff. Anyway,

envelopes and letterheads and

things were everywhere. I was

totally frustrated, but not angry,

just in realizing I'd been beat. I

had made a completely, dumb

mistake, without even thinking

about it. I closed up shop, not

even trying to retrieve things.

I eventually (big traffic) got

back to the office (had re-affixed

the popped-out vent window)

and said everything had gone 

fine, they loved it so much they'd

entered, already, a re-order. The

entire mess was done over in a

week or two, and properly UPS

shipped in. I buried the billing

and the paperwork, and no one

ever knew the difference. Us

cheap guys know how to 

live and learn.

11,355. HELIX AIR TO REYKJAVIK

HELIX AIR TO REYKJAVIK

Before I landed our feet touched

down : together in something of

a foretold jumble. No reason for

this season of parachute and glide.

Maybe you wished one window

seat too many  -  for something

to look down at? Supairairity?

Perhaps that's how it's said. The

air of being superior to another.

-

So, that worked until the screaming

crash, and then you were just like

me : a pulp of mash and one squished

face. I hardly knew you then, and

now there's not a trace.

11,354. MR. RUMINATION

MR. RUMINATION

Well, once more. Highway

jambix and an open box.

'Cartell's Poultry Farm.'

The truck rolls by me 

doing a clean 80. 'Our

eggs are the finest.' 

-

Ovals all oval the world?

The yokes on you? The 

cracked shell of the 

broken world? Tikkun

too, to you. All that 

sacred stuff going 

nowhere. But that's

how the light gets in.

-

My pension has been

broken on the vice of

love and war. I have

no sense of nothing

anymore.

11,353. RUDIMENTS, pt. 518

RUDIMENTS, pt. 518

(fuel for the taking)

My stevedore friend, Jimeny -

he and I used to stand around

under the old West Side Highway,

called, on papers and maps, the

'Miller Elevated Highway,' but

no one really ever said that.

If we peered out, across west 

from where we stood, the river

could be seen ramping by :

swirls and eddies, sometimes

large enough too be making

noise, and then the slap of

tugboats and the roar of their

heavy and delirious diesel

engines, smoke, rope, and 

the wakes they all made. In

Winter, instead of all that it

was the rarer iceberg-slapping

of huge slabs of upriver ice

ripping down. I always 

imagined Garrison or West 

Point and the ice-clogs I'd 

see there  -  in the deep of 

Winter, and then a thaw,

the breakup could be pretty 

loud and sudden  -  a few 

creaks, a crack, and then 

the breakaway with ice 

suddenly rolling everywhere.

I guess that would have been

January, 1968, my first Winter

there. September and October

had still been warm; my friend

Judy and I would bicycle all

around, whenever and wherever

we pleased. In the warmer air

things were open; I guess they

seemed happier too. I don't

know, but by the end of 

November it all had changed.

Judy was a pro at stealing

fruits and vegetables  -  yep,

riding by the open stalls as

we went, she'd always manage 

to have swiped something we

could eat. I'd never eaten raw

cauliflower before, but she'd

eat it like an apple. A large

apple, I guess. It was OK.

Nothing tasty to write home

about, but good for the gut and

the nutrients needed, she said.

I mostly just liked regular fruit.

-

Once the real cold set in, that

all changed. I still saw Judy

around, in the school elevator

(Studio School), or passing

the front desk (I was the night

attendant often, which meant

just sitting there, for questions,

and to make sure no crazies

entered or clambered about

making trouble). I mostly

just read, or drew, and often

had some sort of Bach or

harpsichord music going,

softly, but loud enough that

the small lobby and entry

heard it all. Claudia Stone

or somebody rich had recently

died in some terrible way, and 

here her wealthy father (an

art-world guy or dealer, I

think), had paid for and had

installed this sculptural 

memorial to her at the entry

stairway. Sometimes people

would come to look at it  -

wealthy types, furs and pearls

and all that. He'd also given

some big endowment to the

school. Judy's little painting

area was upstairs, as was my

own studio  -  but in different

sections. The elevator was

a cranky, dark red, metal

contraption  -  the kind you'd

see installed in old buildings 

of this sort; probably from 

1924 when the 3 brownstones

had been combined to make

the original Whitney Museum.

Old Gloria Payne Vanderbilt 

Whitney or whatever her 

name was, had been another 

wealthy art  patron  -  with 

a lot of money, pre-tax, and 

little to do with it. Plus, after

the 1913 Armory show, America

had just begun to realize it

could have an Art movement

of its own and no longer needed

to rely so much on the stodgy,

fear-driven remnants of the

mimicry of old masters or the

current fashions of European

school painting. So, all of New

York was then off and running

to make its own name and way

in the signature styles of Art 

that soon became New York 

School and its precursors.

-

Judy, or the rich art people

and all, had little or nothing

to do with Jimeny and me.

It was all polar opposite,

(especially when it was cold

out). [joke, there]. All I was

saying was how Judy and 

I had gone our own ways.

Everything was good. Over

at the Studio School itself,

I'd found this other person

that I went head over heels 

with too. I won't mention

the name; she's still around

NY. Back then, Rudolph 

Serkin was still alive, and 

she'd come around with his 

son, Peter  -  a famous 

pianist himself now, with 

a long and varied career  -  

and we'd sit around talking.

just weird stuff  -  he was

otherwise quiet quiet. Tall,

thin, looking a lot like the

Peter Fonda of Easy Rider, 

the movie, too  -  but longer

hair, as I recall. He'd sit on 

the floor with his girlfriend, 

(damn how I wish to say her

name), back straight up and

against the wall, almost rigid.

Lots of cigarettes going around

too, I remember. (Everyone

smoked). She had a studio

upstairs somewhere too, but

I never frequented it and

don't remember a thing 

about it, nor her art. We did

finally one night  -  way too

long into the wine and talk  -

just collapse, the three of us,

in some little ante-room 

nearby and just sleep it 

all off. Seems like just

yesterday, and I sorta'

wish it was too.

-

Jimeny was a stevedore, 

or so he said. I never 

really saw him work, 

or go off on a boat or

freighter or cargo-ship, 

if that's what stevedores 

do. Mostly he just lurked 

around, watching out for 

things and seeing, or 

telling me, what he could

steal. I never really saw

him steal either. He just 

talked. I don't know, but 

there are some people 

that are just like that.

You can never get to the

bottom of them, because

they just keep weaving the

hints, but you never get

the sweater. If you follow 

me  -  it's like guys I knew,

union guys, they'd say

weird things, like 'I'm a

steelworker.' Or, 'Me? I'm

a union carpenter.' But I

never knew what any of 

that meant. I knew what

scholars and professors 

and writers did, and that was

all intangible, but it always

made better sense to me 

than any of these coarse 

and heavy-duty guys never

really saying what they 

did, except steelworker, 

or mason. Whatever. 

Mysteries abounded

everywhere. Jimeny 

was one of those Hispanic 

guys who lived uptown. 

Washington Heights or 

something - the 160's 

maybe; the 'high numbers' 

I used to call it. Uptown 

was pretty beleaguered 

and poor, and ethnic. 

The higher up the

numbers got, the more 

ethnic and diverse the 

mix  -  Puerto Rican, 

black, Dominican, Cuban, 

all that stuff. He was cool

and all  -  he'd take the

subway, or even the bus,

back uptown, to home, of

whatever sort of home he 

had. High number people

were mysteries too. And

they always seemed to be

just on the edge, this side

anyway, of criminal.
-
There was also a boat there,
an old ship, in the water, and it
was in daily use as the 'Maritime
High School.' Really, it was like a 
vocational-ed school for the likes
of younger people like Jimeny.
Kids, I guess, who didn't care
much about reading and writing, 
facts and history and all, and who
just wanted to be, and learn about,
boat guys, ship-men, sailors. It
was pretty cool, and it stayed there
a long time; I think they finally
hauled it away and shit down 
in the later 70's, maybe like '82.
Or maybe they just moved it all,
out to Hunt's Point or somewhere.
I may remember that too.

-

I never knew what I came

across like to these guys.

I didn't much think about it.

The cigarette thing was

easy, back then; like 80 cents

a pack, maybe $1.25 or so

for the French jobs, Gitanes

or Galouise. The idea seemed 

to be that you just ambled 

around with some sort of

serious butt in your lips,

talking and puffing and

all that, at the same time.

Everyone wanted to look 

like their own version of 

Marlon Brando or something,

I guess, and it was easy, what

with all the tugboat whistles

and foghorns and boat lamps

and everything bobbing around.

I always liked the riversides,

anywhere. The booze aspect

was a little different, but

I got used to that too. Little

bottles in all sorts of places.

I never had seen people drink

before like that, to that extent.

They kept bottles under the

shelves, behind baskets, in

cars. Someone was always

pulling down a swig. The

same edge of 'criminal' was

the same edge of 'drunk'

that kept everything going.

Stuff got done. It was just

fuel for the taking.