RUDIMENTS, pt. 525
(just running like crazy)
I never saw a tattooed
person - out of the
circus - until about
1985. All of a sudden
they began showing up.
Bikers, yeah, that was
first - club insignias
and any of that 'dilligaf'
stuff - which was fairly
prevalent. Bikers never
cared. (Dilligaf was a
favored ornamental tattoo
standing for 'does it look
like I give a fuck.' A pure,
cavalier insouciance. A
nonchalance about things).
A bit later than that, the
mid-nineties maybe, in a
strange combination of
hipster and naivete, they
began showing up on the
otherwise nicest little
people. Barnes & Noble,
for instance, and as but
one example, was suddenly
flooded with lots of
otherwise attractive
people floating scads
and color-sleeves of
sometimes overly-dense
and way too concentrated
and complicated, tattoos.
Some to be read almost
as chapters. It was all
pretty funny, and it
still goes on. Half the
people hadn't a clue; just
wanted the decoration for
barrooms and drinking
nights. Others were far
more serious.
-
In the Biker world, I learned
quickly the coded meaning
of many of them. Forgetting
the incidentals, and I'm not
pressing my point, many of
the tattoos were 'tells.' No
longer sure of myself, I
seem to remember like,
a blue teardrop tattooed
near the right eye meant
you had killed someone.
Things like that - all
sometimes more than
I cared to know. Much of
this came from a bar
in the port section of
Elizabeth, called 'Ajax.'
I guess it was actually
'Ajax's' but no one ever
finished that possessive.
Anyway, a real lot of
marker-tattoos hung out
there.
-
Thirty years ago the Port
section of Elizabeth was
another world - an entire
other world. I had friends
there, some lived and some
died. The old places are all
gone now, the 'Port' as
it was called, has been
completely made over -
subsidized housing, nothing
made of red brick anymore,
except maybe the old hulk
of the Singer Factory. My
Cuban friend used to excuse
everything by saying, 'Hey,
I don't know. I'm from the
Port.' That was a good,
blanket reason for anything.
I spent a few years really
thinking his last name was
Castro. It wasn't. I found
out only later that everyone
just called him Tony Castro
as their joke. Anyway, that
old Port scene now is long
gone away - Tony at one
point, married and with a
son, bought a house near
the corner of North Avenue
and Route One. I'd see him,
or his blue Chevy truck, there
often. That was a long time
back. No idea now. Right
near there too was a liquor
store, with a funny story
attached. About 10 of us
were motorcycling in, one
Friday or Saturday night,
to the city, getting ready
for the crazy blast along
the Skyway and out to
the Holland Tunnel -
that stretch, on a good
traffic night, was usually
worth a fun 90-100 mph.
One of the guys, while
we sat at the light, saw the
liquor store, and wanted to
stock up, in his saddlebags,
for the night. So we all
veered over. He got inside
the liquor store there and
comes out with some mope
who had just given him a
hundred bucks for a motorcycle
ride straight down to Atlantic
City. For his grand night of
gambling and the rest. He
was so sure of his winnings
to come that he didn't want
a ride back. So my friend says
'Sure, get on,' and took the
money (I forget what we did
about a helmet). But before
he left too he made the guy
also take responsibility for
gasoline. Off they went.
We just continued on,
without him.
-
This same guy, one night in
late February, 27th or 28th,
crazy as a loon and all fired
up, was going to Daytona on
some motorcycle he'd just
finished up with. Building it.
He was so wired that I think
if you'd touched his flesh
with a lit match, he'd not
have noticed. There was no
stopping him. It was about 28
degrees out, yeah, but where
he was going was about 80,
which is all he needed to
know. He tore off on his
motorcycle, in shirtsleeves.
Believe me, shirtsleeves.
Never flinched. And he did
somehow make it there.
About 18 hours later. I
think maybe he had a
tattoo of 'heat' on his
back; or I hoped. I also
always wondered how
far down he got before
the weather actually
changed enough to make
his shirtsleeves sensible.
Richmond? Roanoke?
-
Along St. George Avenue,
for years, there was a
restaurant and bar kind
of place, called The
Spread Eagle. It had a
logo of an eagle, full
wingspan, so I don't
think it was a double
entendre, but who knows.
Business luncheons,
Kiwanis meetings, all that
junk, plus the usual bar
sorts, always boozing. By
the 80's it had become
Oliver's or something.
A different name, and a
lower class of ranking
for the type of drinker
who frequented. We used
to use it for meeting places,
the parking lot, to meet
and leave from, sometimes.
Actually, we used a few
different places for that, as
long as they had beer. But
anyway, at some point we'd
become fixture enough there,
with motorcycles, to become
regulars at their NYC comedy
nights. They were trying that
for a while - New York comedy
club guys, out here, 20 miles
from home, trying out their
acts. We were merciless, brutal.
We were the world's toughest
(drunken) comedy critics. Some
of these NY people withstood
it, others weren't so cool. At
this point we could have all
had forehead tattoos that said
'dilligaf', with a WE instead of
an I - dillwegaf, I suppose.
The owner finally broke, and
one night put a few of us up
on the little stage. We were
pretty good (I killed!), just
making junk up on the spot,
rehashing some of our old
and trashy biker jokes. The
next week was Easter Eve
and - with the holiday
looming and having no
one scheduled - he gave
us the night. The whole
night. As headliners -
except there was no
publicity, no anything.
It just came down to us
ripping up the bunch
of Easter Eve creeps who
were sitting there drinking -
of course, to us that meant,
as well, their ladies. We
were outlandish, and could
have beat the Marx Brothers
that night. But, it was over
as quick as it began, and
we all staggered away,
basically floating on free
beer - and some angry
glares of the guys left
behind with the babes
left behind. Whose stares
at us had become less
glaring and more curiously
'interested' shall we say,
as the night wore on. These
days Oliver's is a Phillipino
restaurant. No joke.
-
I look back in fondness, but
only occasionally, at the
fine, criminal element my
friends and I brought to the
Avenel area, back in those
two-wheeled days. B&D
Motorcycles, on Rt. One,
at Rahway, was the sleazebag
oasis back then. Best place
in the world for us. And
dealers like that were few
and far between back then.
We were often up to no good,
and often drinking while we
talked, and rode too. Heck,
I remember my friend John
riding around with a
beer-ball in his top ride-pack
on his dresser. Pretty much
with a tap on it too. We never
cared. We never cared about
anything. Did it look like we
gave a flying fickle finger of
fate about anything, tattoo or
not? Dilligaffofaa? We were
just running like crazy, my
friends, and 'that' was Avenel.
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