11,307. RUDIMENTS, pt. 498

RUDIMENTS, pt. 498

(adios adita, hello sharona)

1001 Auto Parts was one

of my father's normal haunts.

I went with him any number

of times, as a young kid,

when I could -  it seemed

an autocratic and fairly by

the numbers kind of place 

-  at the same time as being

oddly anarchic. Apparently

it was run by a few High

School guys who'd graduated

to their own version of

Hot Rod University and

turned it into a business.

I guess it worked for them;

it always seemed successful.

It was a really funny place :

white, for sure. Usually tall,

skinny, funny haired white

guys, at first anyway, with

cool cars and Elvis hair
and such,  and then it broke

down to the everyday Joe's

and guys like my father,

savage and determined,

intent on keeping the old

lady's Ford running. Any

black guys, you knew right

off, were from up the road

some in Rahway; they

lurked, stayed back some,

remained super-courteous,

and if their place in line

got jumped by one of the

skinny, white car-punks,

they stayed quiet. The place

eventually got a deli-number

kind of machine; that was

a help in alleviating those

sorts of (racial) situations  -

you entered, took a number,

and milled around. Strategically,

actually, the milling around

probably advanced sales, as

mostly you'd ending up

buying some crap or polish

or something you never

intended on. They had all

these sucker-punch things

too  -  creams and pastes for

clear-coat repair, clean mirrors

and windshields and lights,

interior scents and sprays,

(probably to get that 'love'

smell out of the '63 Chevy

you and your babe were

in last night over at the

Sewaren lover's lane

rocking-car derby). Any

in-town newcomers, like

when the Spanish started

showing up, and some

Indians too, once Cloverleaf

Gardens got rolling, they

eventually got merged in.

Everything was still cash

back then. The check-out

counter kept it moving, but

a lot of the guys did like

to talk, and it could get

divergent and lengthy. It

was, in a way, church-like,

reverential, as people just

stayed in place, bided their

time, or dwelled on their

sacrosanct vehicle and what

it needed. The really big pop

of the time, Summertime

anyway, good weather,

warm, was when any of

these car-hip guys came in

with a girlfriend. Without a

doubt the eroticism quotient

in the entire place bolted

upward. Had their been the

emo-equivalent of a Geiger

Counter or metal detector,

the noise would have been

deafening. These car-girls,

with their car-guys, were

representative of a total

sex-assault  -  tight clothing,

seams stretched to the limit,

open buttons, and, most

often, teased-hair that kept

the ceilings clean. I don't

know how they did it  -  and

I mean the guys, in their

little Corvairs.

-

Mostly, people would buy their

stuff  -  brackets, points, plugs,

filters, and go right out to the

parking lot and work on their 

car. They'd have their families

with them too  -  the Hispanics

were cool, 5 or 6 kids and a

cranky wife, waiting it all out.

The black guys, it always

seemed, 'team-worked' their 

cars 3 or 4 at a time, cars 

AND guys, all working 

together. It was not in any

way like the way things 

are today. 1001 wasn't

hooked up or affiliated with

any garage, service station,

towing operation, tire shop,

or any of that. Nor did they

care what you did with the

purchase you just made.

The way it is now, you're 

only good until you pay,

then you see signs : 'No

Working On Cars In Lot.'

Signs such as that  -  

everybody's a fussy pain

in the ass about everything.

They might as well say :

'Look, you bought your crap

for your shitty, stupid car, now

get the hell out of here with it, 

and get lost.' Well, what kind

of thanks is that?

-

Back then there were still a

lot of really cool vehicles

around, and, at the same time,

auto-inspection was more like

the enemy than anything else.

'56 Chevies and '61 Caddies,

on their long-life extension plans,

often needed as much help as

possible to get past the Nazi SS

car inspectors in Rahway.

Guys would be leaning out

their mixtures (I know, I did 

it too) so as to beat emissions.

There were sprays and fluids

to 'fool' the machines (so they

claimed), and a hundred other

things. Including just switching

Inspection locations. There used 

to be a much easier one out

on Rt. One down by North

Brunswick. The one in Westfield

was useless. The one in Perth

Amboy was marginal, but

better than Rahway. The one

in Amboy, you'd wait in the

inspection line, and it ran right

along the shoulder of the 

highway, and a circle that was

there too. It was crazy. A

hundred or so cars in traffic, 

just farting around in line 

along the shoulder. It was 

fun, and usually worth it.

That circle's gone now, as is

the inspection station too; 

all subsumed by Route 440 

there, before it turns into 287.

For my money (and 1001's

too, I guess), the best inspection

station around was in Newark.

It's still there, on Frelinghuysen

Avenue. It was so ghetto, so poor

and so marginal that if you'd

gotten the damned car started

and to them, that was good 

enough. Blam! You passed.

The trick there was not to get

knifed to death in your glee,

from some mean dudes at the

Seth Boyden apartment project.

(Gone now too. The place got

so bad, so violent so lethal, 

that even the walls would 

no longer stay in the rooms).

-

I had many an adventure with

the inspection guys. Bastards

all, back then. I'm one of the few 

people (claim to fame!) who have

received, from an angry agent,

a 48-hour sticker! The car was

so bad they gave me 48-hours

to get repairs and bring it back,

or  -  better yet  -  just get the 

piece of junk off the road. Their

main claim, simple actually, was

that the car had no emergency

brake. Which it didn't. It was

French; I guess they never had

them in their late 50's cars.

Get over it, sir, and who uses

that thing anyway.

-

One last point, you could tell 

how cool the guys who ran 1001

Auto Parts were: without a

blamed care in the world, they

didn't even properly punctuate

their 1001 to 1,001. And neither

did they ever give a hoot about

whether or not anyone would

ever challenge them on the

count they claimed; and did

that mean 1001 separate items,

or just an overall count of

same by repetitions. And,

come to think of it, having 

1,000 items of anything, in a

joint like that, was ridiculously

easy and simple to achieve.