RUDIMENTS, pt. 551
('get back on the bus, gus, and make a new plan')
In the previous chapter,
as I finished writing about
the leather and wood of the
lawyer's office, etc., it came
to me that I'd read something
of that sort before, perhaps
in some James Joyce entry.
So, I went and looked back
and, sure enough, there, right
before me, jumped out a good,
nay, better, version of what
I'd put across, or at least
hoped to have put across.
In the Nestor chapter of
Ulysses, Joyce has Stephen
enter Mr. Deasy's office, to
get his pay for the school
teaching he'd been doing,
which is distasteful to him
- the work at the school and
and the students. Deasy
himself has become equally
distasteful. Yet, here in this
office, Stephen catalogues
what he sees - the items,
the photos of horses on the
wall, etc. Then, this one
description arises, of the
room itself. So fitting :
"Stale smoky air hung in
the study with the smell of
the drab, abraded leather
of its chairs. As on the first
day he bargained with me here.
As it was in the beginning, is
now. On the sideboard the
tray of Stuart coins, base
treasure of a bog : and ever
shall be. And sung in their
spooncase of purple plush,
faded, the twelve apostles
having preached to all the
gentiles: world without end."
-
Well use some consideration
there anyway; I find there to
be a connection, though it may
just be me. As in so many other
Al-things, I guess, deftly wrong.
(I notice the typing of this makes
little distinction between 'A-1,'
and Al. Whichever I have used,
you may name it).
-
As I move along in my life, this
day, of age and all its adjuncts,
creeps up on me. Around me,
people are dying; it happens
all the time. A person lags
behind and events suddenly
push from the rear. Friends
die, or - in my case - people
show up telling me of one who
died. I knew the sister, the
uncle was a judge, my father
went to the racetrack with
her father back when....and
it goes on. Do you know
people? Are we all supposed
to know everyone? Joanne
Miskinis Awad, poor dear,
now joins the limitless dead,
at 71; and I'm saddened.
Mark off one more, but,
hey, leave the space there
for me too, OK?
-
What's the use of youth, if
it just dies in old age? When
I was about 9, we had a bus
trip, some group I was in, a
small, creepy, marching band
troupe out of the old Woodbridge
VFW, on Pearl Street. I had
a trumpet at the time, and I
used to like playing it; I
enjoyed the 3-little presses
it had, buttons, whatever
they're called. Stops? It
was good for tunes and
changing notes. There's also
trombones, but I don't know
the difference - nor do I
care now - one has the
button keys and one doesn't.
This did. Maybe that's the
difference. I joined because I
wished to play that instrument
in the march-parades that the
legion band played in. I was
accepted, BUT, they quickly
handed me a snare drum of
sorts and a strap for my neck:
Some canvas contraption to
hold the drum in place as we
marched, and I simply became
one of 5 or 6 drummers. It
was equally as much fun for
me. A budding Buddy Rich!
-
Whatever Winter and Spring
that was, a lot of it was spent,
Weds. nights, I think, at what
was maliciously called 'Band
Practice.' It was more like a
screwed-over musical anarchy.
The meeting room was tiny to
begin with, maybe 20 feet,
rectangle, not square. Some
form of dimensions. The noise.
of course, resounded, and the
acoustics were maddening, and
would be, even to the deaf.
In some idea of formation,
we'd simply march around this
pathetic room, wall to corner,
practising, well, whatever it
was. Let's say 'Patriotic Goon
Songs' done by the inhabitants
of a young-mens' madhouse.
I don't know about 'for the
criminally insane,' but, yeah,
maybe that too. Cacophony.
Sounds a bit like a chocolate
drink, but it ain't. (What's it all
about with chocolate anyway?
I never knew - have never liked
the stuff in any case, and - go to
find out, in Arabic there's no word
for chocolate. No, I made that
up. But the word for coffee,
in Arabic, means wine).
-
So - back to the track here -
boys being boys (it's universal.
It's maddening, and it's usually
sexual too) all I got from that
wayward stint as a seasonal
snare drummer is a very weird
memory. I won't mention names,
because they're not important.
Yet, I guess I mention mine, since
I'm writing this recollection.
Inman Avenue chaps! We had
a bus trip for some parade or
another, to a place by Weehawken
called West New York, NJ. We all
gathered at the hall there, on
Pearl Street, for the bus ride.
Equipment, snacks, jackets, all
that. Puberty hits boys like a
rocket; one way or another it
worms its way into the young
man's system until the poor kid
starts babbling to himself over
pictures in a damned magazine
ad for socks, or such. We're in
our high-back bus seats, and
the kid next to me, a friend,
maybe almost a year older, is
kneeling up on the seat, facing
backwards, instead of sitting.
He's eagerly awaiting the bus
trip to begin. I say why? What's
with that? I should have known
(and here, dear reader, so should
you have). He proceeds to instruct
me on how the motion of the bus
ride, if you press and remain just
right, in place, will advance the
'boy' to that heightened state of
bliss that comes and goes, let's
say. Put succinctly, instead of
'going' to West New York, you'll
be 'coming' to West New York!
For this I played a snare drum in
a local, crummy, marching band?
Heavens, let's do that again.
-
Of course, maniac that I myself
am, I could go on and on over this,
and, in keeping with the initial
theme of 'aging' say how we
meet the dead coming, and
going. Yet, I shan't. We were
all children once.
-
I read a book once, about
such things, and the chapter -
speaking of one-upping boys -
about girls in these same
situations, and in tribal settings,
the African savannas, etc.,
would make a man, let alone a
boy, blush. Menarche, Desire,
Menstruation, Coitus. There's a
period in a female's maturation,
it is said, where she can start
fires with her eyes. Only a shaman
can sense these times and ferret
out the needed impulses. Other
periods of time, she is cast with
the matron, or she-witch of the
tribe, to be coached through it
all; but at the specific and most
major moment, she is assigned
to the shaman, and remains with
Him for a few days, until either
the 'fire-power' goes away, or
something else passes off.
And here I am, worrying about
the seats on a drummer-boy's bus?
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