RUDIMENTS, pt. 571
(Is it worth taking a stand?)
I probably really wouldn't
know. The thing about
childhood is that you don't
understand how strange it
is until you look back as an
adult. While you're inside
it, it's all that you know.
And then, as things transform
and you're no longer there, it
too fades, generally, but never
goes away, and like some small
craft hugging the coastline, it
stays there and you keep seeing
the flashing light that you've
almost forgotten but cannot.
That's when things get maddening
and you almost want to forget but
won't. You remember something,
anything - an old house or a place
or a porch light or the same old
shadow you'd gotten used to
seeing, or the way someone
talked, and that guy with the
old, green car or the car crash
you saw happen once right there,
on that corner. Yep, you're
strapped and you're trapped
and you're rapt. Whole lotta'
shakin' going on....
-
It's that kind of strong and
steady presence that I carried
with me; kind of a ghost rider
thing. I brought it all right with
me into New York and set about
integrating that feeling of my
past yet calling into the newer
frequency of the new present I
faced, constantly unfolding.
The two didn't actually mesh
well, at first, but I made the
extra effort to have it all come
around. My first way of doing
that was by frequenting the
old westside docks - that
was the oldest collection
of places I could find, and
it was all pretty open and
anarchic. There were still
open, working piers, and
work boats and fire barrels
and old guys. People just
stood around, waiting for
things to do or for something
to happen so they'd have
something to do - a truck
would roll in, needing loading
or unloading; or a boat would
tie up - a bunch of vegetables
and things from somewhere,
or crates of apples from upriver,
anything that could be. Guys
could get day work for that stuff,
a few bucks for more booze, a
few for food. Living was as
hard as it was easy, all mixed
together. At that level. Things
never seemed to harden up until
when someone got serious about
themselves, seeking responsibility
for something, or a career, or
whatever. That's when it got
complicated; these guys, by
contrast, their hard was really
pretty easy. Stuff abounded.
-
It was all a different world to me,
but no one ever pressed either -
none of that 'who are you, where
you from?' routine. I could have
washed up dead and come back
to life and that wouldn't have
phased them. No more than if
I went and got them coffee and
forget the stirrer or whatever.
People were often stealing just
to show they could. The thing
about stealing, though, was that
if you steal stuff you have to have
someplace to take it, or put it, and
these guys had nothing - so they
were pretty safe bets. Everything
was loose - none of that container
cargo stuff like now, no lock-crates,
not even much paperwork. All that
came in was porous; I think the
official guys working the scene,
they were probably the ones taking
stuff more than the guys I was
with. This one bruiser that was
often around, he had like an
internal reputation among this
crowd as someone with a short
fuse and not one to ask too many
questions of. I never cared; the
times I was around he was always
cool. There was some kind of
high school boat nearby, some
maritime institute stuff that ran
as a high school for the Hell's
Kitchen guys up along the w40's
who wanted to learn the maritime
trade instead of regular book learning.
I don't know how rigorous any of
that was, but I guess if it was an
official school, through the Board
of Ed NYC, which it was, they
needed the usual exams and the
curriculum stuff everybody else
got - so I never used to know
how much was going on there.
High School of Maritime Arts,
or something it was called. It
was only maybe 15 guys in there
anyway; learning inside on a boat
all day. Kind of weird. Springtime
got them out a lot more, doing
water stuff and all - they had
pipes and levers and boilers and
all the usual gauges and things
that boats had, so I guess they
learned all that over the cold
months. Anyway, this bruiser
guy used to really get on their
cases - he kind of thought it was
a real waste of time for a boy to
have to go to a boat-school like
that to learn boat stuff. I never
knew where else he thought
they should go, but he was
always on over that subject.
-
I think he had some big crime
stuff in his past; maybe even
murder. I figured that's what
kept him always so cranky and
on edge. Kind of hard to have to
see there's yet a bunch of years
ahead of you (he was like maybe
45) and still having to live them
when maybe there's horrible regrets
in your mind still floating around
over what you'd done. The murder,
or the crime. As an example of
the paradox I was in, see, this
was new to me, facing off a
guy like that right in my everyday
life; a part of me wanted to say,
'Wow, I was never close to anyone
like that before.' But then I'd think
right back to my old, crummy street
back in Avenel, how a lot of the
fathers I knew there, my friends'
Dads, how different could it
have really been if all them
were, just not so long back, war
guys themselves who probably
killed some and maimed some
too - but because it was a 'war'
scene it was all OK? That was
the sort of weird distinctions I
always got tripped up on - made
me look at this guy in a different
way. Made me look at my own
people, back home, in a different
way too.As a kid, little of that
conflict of the two sides is
rightly presented to you. But it's
there, and, really, you can't just
glide over it even though people
do just so life can be better and
more pleasant for them - all
their backyard parties and
barbecues and pools and things.
They all just wind up never
'truthing up' to what's really
gone on or what really matters
in an adult life. They need a real
super-session, but all they do
is throw up distraction instead.
Murder and death is just that,
no matter why or how or by
whom it's done. So what's so
righteous then about doing it
for wartime? That's how I
thought of it anyway and that's
why this guy never really
bothered me. I hung out there
a lot, or enough anyway - there
was a diner not that far off,
a restaurant really, called 'The
Villager' or something - real
old line and had been there
forever, probably from the
1910's when they first started
the whole thing with restaurants
and eating out publicly. It was
a cool place, and they sold art
on the walls too - local Greenwich
Village types, the same ones
who showed their work along
the sidewalks and all in the
Summer at the annual outdoor
art fairs the Village was known
for. It was a nice notch up from
the waterside diner junk, and the
only reason I ever went there was
because of the girl behind the
counter. I'd gotten to know her
a little, just from being around.
One time, after I'd gotten busted
up and kicked around by some
guys from a van doing some
thievery stuff or something
out at the docks - they whomped
me for seeing them, and then
they gave me 20 bucks to keep
quiet and stay mum or, they swore,
they'd get me again and it'd be
a lot worse. Anyway, I went in
there and, seeing me, she got
all upset and cleaned up the
scrapes and all with some soap
and water. After that we were
friends some, and I'd get also
some occasional little foods from
her. Her name, if I get it right,
was Tre; called that anyway.
I think it was actually Theresa
and people just said Tre instead
of Terry. Some Italian stuff - but
she used to joke about her father
and how she was the third kid,
and each kid was named the
number they were, so her 'three'
in his slob-guy accent just became
'Tre.' That was kind of funny, and
she was nice.
-
One time she started telling me
about why people eat out, like
in restaurants. It was just part of
her interest-bag, and she said
sometimes it was so boring there
and she wanted really to be doing
so much more and learning more,
but, there was was, for the money
mostly, slaving away - anyway,
she said way back in the old days,
like Middle Ages and Kings and
Royalty and all, there was peasants
and the was Royalty. Royalty owned
all the stuff - property and rivers
and castles and roads, and there
wasn't much else, and then slowly
people started taking to the road,
to transport their goods and things
between villages and towns and
all, and the roads too were owned
by the Royalty with fees and the
charges to pass through and all,
and if you got found out for killing
a deer, say, on Royal lands - for
food or whatever - you could be
killed for that poaching offense
and such, so that along these roads
there arose inns and rests and things
and the only thing rich people had
to show for their riches, since there
weren't many possessions and
things to really show, they'd make a
big scene out of being SEEN eating,
having others doing their bidding,
bringing them food and taking
things away, and even cleaning
up and all - like in the castles.
So it became a mark of the 'Royal'
to be able to be seen eating so
publicly - hence the aura and
mystique (all false and silly) of
the restaurant and of public dining.
I never knew really, but just did
think it made some real sense.
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