RUDIMENTS, pt. 562
(hate to be you on that fateful day)
One time my car fell off the
jack, a long time ago, way
past midnight on some
decrepit hill outside of
Nyack NY. There used
to be a Vincent Motorcycle
shop there, named 'Sal's' -
Sal was a cool guy, kind of
real aberrational for those
days, and he'd often just let
us sit around and talk and
watch things - watch the
bikes leak oil, in fact. It
was a Vincent trait, and it
all puddled up pretty good
eventually. It was funny.
Those things were pure
brawn, and real beauties
once running. Wasn't nothing
else like them, though many
tried. In the late 1980's, maybe
it was, actually, Honda had
maybe the best and closest
approximation of one, but I
forget the name of that model.
They didn't stay long into
production. If I ever had the
cash, I might have bought one,
either a Vincent or, hell, even
the Honda. Anyway, this big,
heavy Jaguar I had fell off
the jack. The jack rolled
backwards into the angle of
the steep hill; my own stupid
fault. Just my best luck, at
about the same time two drunks
in an old Chevy came blinkering
up out of some low driveway
which - unbeknownst to me -
led down to some workingman's
railroad bar. With lots of guys
in it. These two were toasted but
good, and I first I was ready
for anything, tire iron to hand
and all that - protecting the
beastly beauty of the girlfriend
you know - for whom I
immediately feared. But it
all worked out - these two
guys were 'drunked' over into
the happyland-drunk world
instead of that nasty one that
some guys entered. After
they got done laughing their
asses off at my predicament,
they opened their trunk (I was
still nonetheless fretting an
ambush) and came out with
not one but two jacks (and
their own tire iron, damn),
But, no matter, we tasked
ourselves using the cover
of night (which had enough
local street and factory
illumination to be good
enough for what we needed).
We got the job done as the
silly small talk ensued - odd
comments about 'wherethefuck
didyougetthisjagwire' and
such. They actually did say
'Jagwire.' I told them that
regular tools didn't work on
it, you had to buy your own set
of Whitworth tools for it.
British-made, specialty stuff.
They thought that was an
outrage but liked the car
anyway so's to decide it just
might'a been worthwhile.
'Boys, I didn't say Woolworth,
I said 'Whitworth', and a full
set runs about 400 bucks -
so convince yourself you
don't need no stupid Jagwire.'
-
They said goodbye. We said
goodbye. But first they cracked
open a six-pack they had cold
on the rear seat. So I had a
beer in thanks. Least I could do.
On them too! Figure that; they
were thanking me. Turnabout
is fair play.
-
Now Nyack's got nothing to
do with Millwood; wrong side
of the river and about 50 miles
shy; yet in many respects they
could have exchanged notes.
We'd been going to Nyack
pretty regularly, the girlfriend
and me, over those last few years.
This goes way back. Besides
Sal, there used to be another guy,
and his fanciful building, who
sold exquisite, classic cars. The
place always had 6 or 7 real
beautiful British salon cars
and all that, for sale. And he
had this motor-mount thing,
all fancy and polished, in the
middle of the showroom floor,
onto which was bolted and
shimmeringly clean and
beautiful, a Rolls Royce
airplane engine. When I found
out how airplane engines can be
round, I was amazed. I can't
remember too much about it,
except it was round, or rotary
anyway, all the pistons, maybe
16, and cylinders in a circular
layout around what I guessed
was the central drive core
mainshaft or whatever. I don't
as I said, remember all of that
so much. Just how startling
it all was to see.
-
I was, of course, a much different
person then too. Back then I'd
steer clear of places like that
tavern and those guys. In the
intervening 40 years however,
I've seen the insides-out of
most all these things and could
probably tell those two dolts a
few things too. I'd probably
belly right up now and say
hi. All it takes, in a wise and
professional manner, is to
start making shit up; talk good,
and people like that will bite.
It's what kingdoms and
fortunes are made of.
-
Funniest part of it all? It seems
a person spends half their lives
in abject fear of going wrong,
and the other half regretting
having gone straight. That's kind
of weird. There's this place in
Sloatsburg, it used to be near a
joint I'd go to called The Red
Apple Rest. That too is long
gone now, but along the road
there, whatever road it was, etc.,
in the half woods, grubby and
weeded, on a siding off to the
side, was always this really
cruddy shack, with a sign or
two in the small windows, for
beer - those cheap neons that
the beer distributor supplies,
Budweiser, or Pabst, whatever.
This place looked like a shack
where you'd work on cars and
then go to sleep, or, whatever.
Outside, it advertised itself as
a bar AND a 'Go Go' place -
dancers daily. That always
baffled me, totally, and I could
never figure out where they'd
get these coyotes to be dancing,
and what in the world they must
have looked like - let alone
the quality of the place, and
the sound system inside. It
baffled me, though I never,
ever did get the real guts to
venture in, nor even (never,
ever) find out more - 3 cars in
a graveled lot was a crowd,
and I figured one or two of
those cars had to be the (a)
dancer, and another a bar-keep;
unless maybe she/it did both.
Whooey, what a question!
Country people are such
rugged types.
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