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.