11,301. RUDIMENTS, pt. 495

RUDIMENTS, pt. 495
(montclair)

I met Rairliebourne one other

time, about 1982, or at least I

think it was him. In Montclair,

NJ, we were sitting at some

lame diner, just sitting there

having lunch; my son was with

us too, about 12 then. He was

down the other end of the counter,

about 6 seats off. It was the

second of January, as I recall,

right after New Year's junk and

all that. He comes over (no

recognition, I don't swear it

was him but it was; he was

playing some incognito game

with my consciousness; intuitively

that's the sort of junk one feels

but cannot prove. It happens).

He slides over to a stool by us

and starts asking questions,

working first through my kid,

and eventually making it to me.

The takeaway was that this was

to be an very 'auspicious' year 

for me, quite special, that he

sensed me to be an exceptional

person, one with purpose and

a meaning, and it was all soon

to begin turning. He spoke of

momentum and drive as if it

were to be almost an automatic

thing now, from that point,

as once time and purpose 

conjoin and the entire process

begins it is unstoppable and

directed. He was really nice

about it. He even gave my son

a quarter for the new year.

And then, like that, he was

gone. The quarter wasn't 

glowing. The place where

he'd been sitting was clean,

and the sudden silence was

overwhelming. Montclair, I

should point out, at this time

was still a dung-heap of a

place, pretty much. The main

road was the downtown. It

was a secondary highway

really, with lights, that cut

the place in two, with, up the

road a bit, a gigantic old rail

depot and station that was

then mostly relic. Now it's all

fancy and shops, and shiny 

people park all their funny

Lexus, and the like, vehicles.

The fancy 'Plaza' section, or

'Commons' had not yet been

built  -  that's now filled with 

futzy, gay shops, small eateries, 

coffee pits and the rest of 

that stuff. Anyway, the fellow

had nothing to do with any

of that, and neither did we.

We were operating timelessly,

almost illusory; the entire

schema. Had there been 

flowers on the countertop

at that point, in a vase, they

would have frozen, and been

suddenly coated in a block 

of ice, and as he left, the

frozen, dead, petals would

have fallen off, one at a time,

making their ice-tap noise

on the counter. That's how

it happens. Some people

are not just presences; they

are also tunnels, through 

which other forces come, 

and go.

-

The reason we were in 

Montclair was twofold. It

was not, otherwise, a place

we'd ever frequent, then. 

The ostensible 'college' 

they claimed for themselves 

'Montclair State' was a 

ghetto joke, more like just

repeating 12th grade once

or twice over again. Now

it's a university, somehow.

Claim to fame : Yogi Berra?

In town, oddly enough,

there was a Rolls Royce

dealership. In the early 80's

that was a pretty big deal.

It was a remnant of some 

older, 1930's glory, when 

this Newark and New York 

suburb had some class, or

class enough for commuting

bankers and stockbrokers, 

and maybe some manufacturing

honchos, who kept the estates

and mansions out here, between

Montclair and West Orange 

anyway. As in any for of the

usual Jersey shit-hole rankness,

by the 1960's it all had been

allowed to fester and die. 

Ruination Park should have 

been the new name. The usual

sleazeball dick politics had

taken it all away from the

'people' (for whom we 

stand, remember?) and the

real estate and re-zoning deals

and payoffs only resulted in

apartments, ghetto strips of

black people and other low

class types taking over those

grand old homes, turned into

multi-family housing until they

crumbled (both the houses and

the families too). The rest of

the bums just got subsidized

and dumped into these horrid

apartment places, with the

local politics types taking the

deal-money and the pay-offs

for re-zoning, sewers and

building contracts (into which 

they each were cut). 'Let it all

fall to Hell, we've got our

money.' (That's how they 

open council meetings, I've

noticed; even in Woodbridge).

It's pretty cool, really if 

you're a crook, because you

make money, at one end, on 

the downslide from all the

stuff rotting away with pigs

living inside and paying

for it, and then on the upside

too, with all the replacement

stuff that gets built while you're

on the take as well.

-

I've seen all that crap a 

hundred times, in my early

printing career at New Jersey

Apellate. I'd see, and get to

read, all those briefs and

appeals and transcripts of

all sorts of crooks and 

dodgers who'd fallen off 

the municipal greasepoles 

and gotten bagged. All

of a sudden, in their little

whimpering, bullshit 

testimonies, they were 

saints, doing only good,

and seeking God behind 

the municipal flagpole.

They should all rot in Hell.

-

Back to this, the reason we

were there was for a bookstore

visit and a cigar store stop.

There was, at this, time, in

the old style of things, a 

massive, sloppy, dripping 

with words, old used-book 

store  -  it was rambling, fat

with books, crazy, and grand.

I forget the name, and I forget

the operation, but I know the

spot. In addition to that, my

wife's father's birthday was like

Jan. 6 or something, and there

was a cigar shop around there

that we were buying gift cigars

from, for his birthday. (Too bad,

actually, his whole intense habit

of cigar-smoking. Lung cancer

killed him by about 2005). But,

no matter. That's how we got

it all together, and how this

flowing, ethereal Fishbeine

apparition had returned, I 

never knew. Once again, 

nothing came from it; he 

was full of crap, round two.

-

That whole area had been

serious native lands, once.

It's a geography, with places

called Great Notch and

Little Notch, and all the

usual Valley Roads and

this or that  -   the real 

geographic and topographic

names  -  not like now where

developers name their new

streets after their kids and

you wind up living on 

Wendy Way. Whoever 

wiped all that reference 

and reverence from the

Jersey maps should have

been soiled and shot. All

those places, the notches 

and the valleys, are all rail

lines now or paved roadways

to somewhere. Everything's

been played with and we live

in the final aftermath.

-

I could talk about this stuff

all day long. Coming from a

double line of killers, (see

previous chapter), I need to

remain restrained from taking

the truer actions of my soul.

So I just use words : it's been

a tough burden of a life to live,

for me, knowing all that. 

Bloodline stuff doesn't often

lie; it just eventually bubbles

up somewhere. My plenitude,

and my bullets, have been 

words. Thankfully, I guess.
-
This much for Rairlebourne :
He had said, 'The only prison
is the prison of your mind.'