11,604. RUDIMENTS, pt. 621

RUDIMENTS, pt. 621

('Salvation grammar, linger close.')

I spent many a night in Elmira

working past any reasonable

sense of goodness. So often,

most any thing became a strain.

We had a dog named Baretta 

back then  -  strange strain of

home-bound, large, pleasant

dog. One time  -  I forget all the

incidentals  -  but we decided

to trek up to Rutland, Vermont,

that area, to this huge old barn

that had been turned into an

oddball bookstore. Not really

a 'store' except that they sold

books  -  but it was more like

you just walked through this

barn and there were piles and

piles of half-organized books

and subjects, for sale. Probably 

a hundred years of countryside

homes and houses and libraries 

that had turned into estates to

be liquidated. We never made

it; that trip anyway.

-

You yourself can go look at a

map and see the proximate

relationship, on a diagonal, 

between Elmira, NY and 

Rutland, Vt. The name of the

place we were headed to was

the Owl Pen Books company.

You know, owls are wise, thus

book people are wise and smart;

etc., blah, blah. I was driving

a FIAT 124 wagon, some early

70's version of cheap vehicle

I'd bought. We brought the

dog along, figuring two 

nights out and back, maybe.

The car had an electric fuel

pump, in the rear, under the

rear/carpet portion of the

station wagon back-end.

It would 'click' as you were 

driving, audible if you listened,

and that was the sound then 

of the functioning fuel pump.

We got as far as Unadilla, NY

somewhere, when the clicking

stopped, as did the car. Just

quit. Pretty fortunately, we 

rolled into town as it died, 

and it came to a stop just 

about in front of this diner 

place. I figured I'd take a

look at the 'problem,' in the

rear of the car, while my

wife and small son went 

into the diner and had a 

breakfast, (it was about 

10 or 11am). The diner

had a large, glass front,

with booths and all that.

Anyone, or any of the

regulars, would sit there 

and look out as they ate,

passing the time of day,

whatever. The dog is in 

the car, and I'm in the rear,

fiddling around with the

fuel pump  - which I'd 

dismantled some, seeing a

broken connection, which 

I undertook to 'fix,' at least

enough to move on. I guess

they'd asked my wife what 

the problem was, and maybe 

she'd said 'fuel pump.' As it

was, these local country 

types, I guess never before

having experienced a 'foreign'

car (that's what they used to

be called, kiddies, if they

weren't Ford, Chevy, or

Chrysler) thought I was the

funniest fool they'd ever

seen, digging around for the

'fuel pump' in the rear of a

car as I was. I became the

butt, she said, of all their

fascinating jokes. It was 

probably a bit awkward for

the wife and son to hear

me so belittled, but at the 

time I knew nothing of it.

Let me point out, however,

and at the same time, that 

not a one of these rural

dog-pound porch-dwellers

ever came out to offer help,

ask questions, or anything 

of that sort. They probably

knew they were due home

to do the white-boy laundry 

that was piled on the porch

next to the washing machine

that was also out on the porch.

Out in that super-country area

most everything eventually 

ended up on the front porch,

conveniently out of the way of

the last 9 broken-down autos

that usually ended up all along

the lawn and side grass too.

There were generations of

dead appliances, boots and

TV's on people porches back

up there. No one cared much.
-

I kind of understood these New
York State farmer-hillbilly rednecks'
concentrations on my task. And their
befuddlement. I grant you, at that
time fuel pumps were certainly
NOT located in the rear of a car, a
front-engined car no less, and were
 also not 'supposed' to be electric.
It didn't get to their shadings of
school and barnyard-taught reality.
Who'd ever expect, snuggled up with 
some Sally-Jane in the backseat of
the old '56 Chevy that sits on the
front lawn of the farmhouse, next
to the barrel-crate where the
water-jug is kept in the Summer, 
to find the fuel pump, electric at 
that, in the rear? ('Sally, hon, you
wanna just shift us over a little bit....
yeah, yeah, that's better').....
-
Along the way, in the dark night,

I remember passing through a town

called, simply, Sheds. As in 'Sheds,

NY'   - it was a nasty roadside bar,

long and narrow, facing the road,

and a few business and yard-lots

selling, yep, sheds! And offering

to truck'em anywhere for ya' too!
I thought to myself, using that
literal town-naming logic that 
seemed so prevalent out in the
real sticks here, that just up the
road had to be 'Beat the Wife, NY' 
and that other town of 'Poke the 
Dog With a Stick, NY,' as well. 

We really wanted to stop, and 

needed a break too, but we kept

on going. But, anyway, that was

a different trip. Back now to this:

-

I did get the stupid old FIAT

going, and it got us out of town.

I didn't think twice about the

diner rats  -  they'd could all

rot in Hell for all I cared, and

anyway, I'd proved them 

wrong by getting going again 

and beating town. Well, we

got maybe 20 miles off or so,

and the whole thing blew.

Fuel was dripping down, the

car was dead, there was nothing

more to do. It was a big road,

almost an interstate kind of

thing, in the middle of nowhere,

and we were stuck. And then,

yep! twenty minutes maybe,

here comes a State Trooper

right up to us. I was expecting

all sorts of problems. We must

have really looked motley and

beleaguered over the whole 

thing. Instead of handcuffs

and chains, I'd somehow gotten

the nicest NYState Trooper

you'd probably find. He went

over the situation with me,

point by point. Saw the kid; 

the wife, and the dog too.

Heard our trip plans, aborted

by now, of course. Finances

too would have been a problem, 

but he said he'd get us time

to pay on a return trip. He

got us a tow truck and a tow

to some garage, and then offered

to take us to the bus station for

the ride home, to come back, 

and pay for the car services,

when it got fixed. That was OK,

but I pointed out the dog and

said to the effect that there

wasn't any bus back nowhere

that would take the dog.

The cop-guy then offered 

to board and hold the dog 

for us, and at his home! We

could get it when we came 

back. Pretty amazing, so far,

and it was all good. So that's

what we ended up doing, and

exactly that. We got a bus back

to Elmira, I guess we had the

fare for that, I can't remember,

and about  days later got the

call the car was ready. We 

bused back to that town,

got the car paid up, and got

the dog too. It was all so much

amazement, I was floored.

-

Just like Sheds was a sheds town,

Unadilla was, back then anyway,

a silo town. There was a large

silo brand name back then  -

Unadilla Silo Co  -  old style,

pretty simple silos, not those

newer-style Harvestores that

were just company in. They 

were Cadillac silos to Unadilla's

Ford/Chevy, rather pedestrian,

silos. This whole town was a

silo town. It was really pretty

cool. Electric fuel-pumped or

not. It made no difference.