RUDIMENTS, pt. 600
(the night roy orbison died)
It's always a little bit quirky
how I've, most of the time,
been so bold. I'm not really
a bold person, actually more
a kind of a background one.
I liked being left alone, to
work on my own things, to
study - and to generally
remain away from the muck
that mostly sucks in others.
I'm not an issues guy, in the
sense that I don't pick and
choose and then take sides.
I have ONE stance, and I
stay with it - it's always
been that way. I speak it,
and I defend it, and mostly
it's not about this world. I
try to do good, and remain
wholesome in the eyes of
other people. As long as
I'm making my work, I'd
rather have that work speak
for me. Words fail, and life
anyway has about it a general
air of sadness and turmoil
that I can never either shake,
or deal with, really.
-
Frankly, I can't remember the
year, or the day either, when
Roy Orbison died, and it's too
distracting and not worth much,
right now, for me to go look up.
But I do remember a few facets
of what occurred. It's a detour
here, of sorts, not taking place
in Elmira, or anywhere else
for that matter, except right
here where I am now : environs
of between old Metuchen, and
Colts Neck and Freehold. Back
in these days, I had a motley
collection of junk cars, small
stuff, I was trying to unload.
Two MG's, and a FIAT 124
sports car. They were all fun,
had been, in working order
enough, but no longer passing
inspection, needing work, etc.
I put them up for sale. One guy
from over by the Edison Light
Tower, he came over a few times,
taking MG parts and stripping
down the two of them, and then
finally carted the hulks away.
I was sorry to see them go, but,
no matter. One of them had a
good story with it; perhaps I'll
get to it. The other car, the FIAT
124, was of a different sort; it
was a sports car, but had and
held a far better power quotient,
and was a stronger car all around,
when it ran. I was unhappy
about something with it, once,
and took it to a foreign car
mechanic gut who sat me, and
himself, down next to the car.
Running. He told me to listen
carefully to what I heard (an
odd rapping sound, deep in
the noise of the running
engine. I had taken it to be
the bearings on the crank,
lower-end bearings or
whatever, that were bad,
or going to be). Was I right?
Was it worth having fixed?
I asked him. We listened to
the car, and he leaned over
and said, 'You hear that sound
too? Yes, you hear that sound?
You know what that sound is?
Money. That my friend is the
sound of money. Is it worth
fixing? If you've got money,
sure. Otherwise, I advise,
get rid of it.' Case closed.
(I've always liked truthful
and direct people.
-
So, I put an ad in the local
paper; I can't recall exactly,
six or eight hundred bucks.
It no longer had insurance,
the registration had lapsed,
and the plates which I'd
thrown on were meaningless,
from some other vehicle I'd
had. Eventually, some days
later, I get a phone call from
some guy. He wants the car.
Period. Just like that, He's
willing to fork over the money
I've asked. Sight unseen, in
fact he said he didn't care
about the car at all. He lived
in Colts Neck, Freehold, he
said, worked in NYCity,
stocks and bonds, etc. Then
he says, 'Where can we meet
you, to see the car and pay?'
For some reason he didn't
wish to come to my house,
just wanted it to run, and to
have his son, maybe 9 or 10
years old ! see the car.
-
I played it cool, and I gave him
the address, along Route One
in Edison, where I knew there
was an abandoned gas station,
with a driveway both on the
highway and also from the
rear roads - the small streets
leading out from Metuchen.
Next to the Roosevelt Motel,
kind of where Rt. 287 there
has an entry ramp. The car
was atrociously illegal, and I
knew it, but figured I could
snake my way along side streets,
and sneak in from Metuchen,
so these two lunks could see
the car. Hopefully it wouldn't
stall or die on me. (By the way,
if I'd not done and lived this,
I'd hardly expect you, as the
reader, to believe this, but it's
true). The two of them showed
up, treating me like their chore
boy, and dirt. The kid was a
young-boy creep; dark-eyed
and dewy, strange and odd.
The Dad here was a total
money-dweeb, short and
stubby, intense and stern,
tight black hair, commanding
but nervous about it all too.
He talked in authoritative
tones. I started going on
about the car - mechanical
things, maintenance stuff, etc.
He shut me right down. 'Look,
I really don't care about this
car; it'll never hit the road. It's
for my son - just to have in
the driveway; he wants a
playcar, something he can
fool around in. It's really just
going to be a lawn ornament.
Now, when can you get the car
to me; I'll pay you upon receipt
of the car. Here's the address.'
-
I was flabbergasted. I kind of
gulped and said, 'What?' - as
if to be sure I'd gotten that right.
He'd upped the ante on me, and
now wanted the car delivered
before payment. Real chicken-shit
quandary that put me in; but I
was immediately so disgusted
by the entire act (I hate business,
I hate deals, I hate people who
think they're so slick as to always
get the better end of something,
and I hate smooth operators, and
I hate those confident dweeb-types
who somehow always win). I'm
such a jerk, on the other hand,
that I simply said, OK, whatever,
it'll be there Tuesday, after dark.
(Or whatever day I'd said, I do
forget). They left - the little
brat kid and his big-brat Dad.
I got back home, successfully.
Then I needed to go over the
car, check the battery, and
headlamps, making sure it
would all get me down along
Rt. 18 into the boonies of
Freehold and Colts Neck.
I had like 2 days left, so I
went at it with care. I made
sure the fake plates were on
just so, looked dirty, from use,
had the little license plate light
on correctly, no taillights out,
brake lights OK, etc. I wanted,
nay had to, look completely
invisible and normal - under
the cover of darkness I figured
I'd be OK. Plus, my wife was
going to follow behind me in
her car, staying close at my
tail so that no other car, police
or otherwise, could slide in
behind me. At first I was
really nervous, but then I was
committed and fell into it well.
I imagine even bank robbers
get to that point once the heist
is underway. All I had was
some weak headlights on, and
a radio that played. One of'
those rock n' roll stations was
on, 102.7, WNEW. Danno
on the radio, or something.
We're cruising along, all good;
Rt. 18, in the country areas
after you leave East Brunswick,
etc., was wide open, not that
well lit, and easy going. Then
they announce the death of
Roy Orbison, on the radio.
All that long-winded, over
the top rock deity mourning
crap they used to do. I was
kind of shocked - the Wilburys
had just hit big, and he was
part of that too. Roy Orbison,
dead. Damn.
-
We got to the creepy guy's
house. I pulled into the
driveway, knocked, and he
was there - no kid, just the
Dad guy. Wasn't even a wife
or a mother around. Just him.
We traded, keys for money,
shook hands quick, and I
went back to my wife's car,
and we left. And Roy Orbison,
apparently, was still dead.
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