RUDIMENTS pt. 527
(high flyin' bird, flyin' way up the sky)
Well, I don't know but I
never thought that 'intention'
to commit was committing.
I've seen so many things
top to bottom that there
isn't really any sense with
me to discuss right and
wrong - right and wrong
is a feeling, ether way, and
it's on your blood, or damn
well better be, from right
when you're born. If you
have to 'think' about it,
then you're not running
on intuition - which is
the best human trait there
is - and I really don't
want to talk to you then
anyway. In my life, I've
been up half-heartedly or
not, with so many things
that even right now I sit
here half of each night
recollecting and thinking
what to say about. And
long ago having outgrown
any ready references,
I just go at it. I have no
words to make any of this
right or proper, the kind
of junk you Avenel guys
would want around a
barbecue, or maybe even
a campfire. Anyway, and
you might not believe this,
but I'm awkward, and
scared of everybody. So,
what do you want to talk
about? Dead bodies?
Violence? Bad intentions?
Yeah, I can fill you in.
-
There used to be a big
diner - I think it's still
there, in some format or
another - down about
Hamilton or one of them
east of Princeton towns
on Rt. 130, called The
Americana Diner. Usual
meatloaf crap fare - I
was never big on diners
nor any dime-a-dozen
eat and go places. But
I was on my way, one
night, down to deep South
Jersey for some 'negotiations'
with the Philly and South
Jersey motorcycle club
boys, and I was with two
other guys, Burlington
County dudes, running
a bit scared. We were
headed down to Wrightstown,
I think it was, to some
dumb-ass Legion Club
barroom, to hash some bad
shit out. We didn't know what
to expect, weren't even sure
we'd be left alone, not get
ambushed, beat up, followed
or killed. Yeah, it was like
that some, back then.
Wrightstown was an Army
town, the playpen for Ft.
Dix and MacGuire Air Force
Base too - titty bars and the
usual panoply of horseflesh
in skirts playing out the
itinerant soldier boy locals
for all they can give. It's
easy enough, and if you're
born a girl (in that old
sense; Jeepers God
almighty modern day,
forgive me please),
there's little overhead;
you're already born with
all the equipment needed.
Now that sounds bad, but
that used to be how the
military thought, in the same
way they used to hand out
a thousand free cigarettes a
week to any soldier who
wanted them. It's all much
different now. You could,
and still can, go down there
and stand out in the Pine Barrens
nearby and watch the massive
military planes, cargo transports,
and fighter jets too, on their
training mission in the sky
overhead - I mean overhead
but so low too you can see
that pimple on the kid-pilot's
chain, the one in training.
When the military takes 'em,
they take 'em young. (One
time my wife was girl-peeing
in the woods by a stream
and, damn if one didn't
swoop down, and real low
too. She was sorta' frozen
in place, as it were. Oh
well. The real enemy
never freezes.
-
These two guys I was with,
they were, as Lyndon Johnson
used to say about those people
worrying and fretting over
the Vietnam War he was
getting deeper and deeper
into, 'Nervous Nellies.' Yeah,
OK, sure - 58,000 dead
bodies for nothing later.
By listening to them, the
whole night had already
been blown up into the
worst proportions one
would imagine, with a
trail of motorcycle blood
and daring leading from
Wrightstown back to
Philadelphia. That trail
being our maimed and
wounded bodies, leaking.
It was all crap, and sort of
sensed it. Intuitively. But,
maybe I could have been
wrong too.
-
Anyway, we got near to
this diner, approaching it
in the other lane, and the
decision was, because of
some urgent problem, that
we'd stop in there, have
some junk to eat, and hash
this crisis out before going
any farther. OK, cool. I had
no real idea what the heck
was up. So, we sat down and,
low and behold, these two
are armed, and the debate
raging was whether they
should enter the room,
when we got there, with
the guns already loaded,
or, at the point of trouble,
have to load them there.
Just losing valuable time.
Well, fuck aye, I should
think! The decision was
made to remain unloaded,
until dire necessity would
force the hand. (Actually, I
opposed that decision, figuring
what was the use of firepower
if you're to walk in with it NOT
at the ready?). Whatever; that's
how it went - they weren't
my guns, and I really didn't
think it would get that far.
-
Sometimes expectations fail
because they're just wrong.
Like in this case. If anyone
was going to do us harm,
they'd do it the first second
they saw us. There'd be no
second chances, nor time to
either 'return fire,' (DUH!)
or load up either. How crazy
was that - sort of liking
buying a car, with no air
in the tires. Anyway, I
didn't much care, and I
really hated that lousy
diner. It was like being
in Florida, with fat, old
ugly people stuffing their
faces. We got there, to
Wrightstown, and they
were real pains in the
asses to us, but the little
meeting went off OK,
a sort of 'agreement'
was made, which in
Biker terms, meant
nothing, perhaps until
tomorrow afternoon,
(everything's always in
flux when you live on
two wheels and ride hard)
if you're lucky, and
everyone went off
on their little ways.
And even then, half the
way home, these guys fully
expected the unmarked
Biker van to come up
behind us and blow us
all away, a la a bit of
Easy Rider, maybe.
-
You know how it goes
with garbled messages -
like when it starts out as
'the brown cow jumped over
the moon,' and by the time
it gets back to you the cow
is yellow and the moon is
Jupiter and that same cow
has killed fourteen people
in the meadow who were
trying to steal its milk.'
Well it was like that with
a lot of this stuff, (and
you wonder why people
even bother to talk).
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