RUDIMENTS, pt. 660
(under the skin.....)
I never liked being a kid; I found
it boring and inconsequential the
way people took you for granted
or seemed always to be working
around your presence or hearing
or awareness. Of course, I was
a bit of a jerk too, and probably
added to my own woes in that
aspect. I remember one time, at
one of my aunt's houses, they had
letters and things from Italy, strewn
about on the kitchen table, in a
little bin they kept - the letters
were on that cool light-blue
airmail-envelope paper that used
to fold over on itself and make
its own envelope, and it said
'Par Avion' on it which is French
or something for 'Air Mail.' As a
stamp collector kid too, the foreign
stamps intrigued me, even though
most of the time they were always
the same. Or so it seemed. In
any case, these were Italian letters,
written in Italian too - some
relative or pen pal or whatever.
I picked up one or two of them,
for my interest, etc., and started
looking them over - my aunt went
nuts on me, and it became a big
topic of conversation how out
of line I was for reading other
people's mail, or whatever their
point was. Jeez! Like it was all
top secret and I was a deadly
spy or something - I was family,
if nothing else, or so I thought.
A stupid 10 year old nosing
around. It was a foreign language
too. It was a female thing; the
aunts seemed to care (another
one was also there) and not the
uncles. They kind of laughed it
off, like 'you silly ladies, get
over it!' Really I didn't much
care in either case - I didn't
even want to be there. Being a
kid however, I had no choice in
the matter about being dragged
around to these stupid house
visits all the time to other aunts
and uncles in houses all stuffy
and different than mine. (I
think it was economics). The
point was, as a kid, you're
captive to all the jerky junk
adults do. I'd have much rather
had some big firecracker and
just blown it off right there,
at the table, in their faces.
-
Like most other people, I guess,
my own family people were
pretty tight on close-cropping
and staying loyal to the line.
I never quite knew why; blood
was one thing that didn't concern
me. My father was always pushing
that honor and loyalty stuff, to the
name and the family line and
kinship. Even if there wasn't any,
really. Just more of the same sort
of balderdash that came through
in everything else - school,
church, and the rest. Whatever
it was they I deemed 'supposed'
to be concerned with, it all meant
nothing to me. I felt I wasn't
one of 'nobody' and if I had
any lineage it certainly wasn't
from any of that which was
presented to me. I could never
have cared less about that stuff,
and it did used to drive me nuts
to have to listen to my father
go on so about it. All this old
world malarkey - like he'd just
set foot back in this country or
something, after 10 years on the
old home turf. Unfortunately
for us, for me, on both sides, the
old home turf was prison. Each
of my grandfathers, neither of
whom I'd ever met, were cons,
prisoners, and died that way.
I present to you, respectively,
Dannemora and Sing Sing.
I least they were bi-lingual.
-
I couldn't much walk around
without thinking of all this stuff.
I've had psychology and shrink
stuff telling me that the wise
person puts all this aside, works
out of it and doesn't become
the 'what' of his past. But, in
my own mix, I was and wasn't
at the same time, so carrying
it all around with me kept me
limber. I never explained anything
to anyone. Nor did I ever know
to what I was leading myself;
that whole horse-to-water thing
never did work. I was always
willing to drink, and there were
streams a'plenty. There was a
simpler time when I took in
all that I could of all that
Huckleberry Finn stuff. I
hated Tom Sawyer; little
conniving creep. Even Becky
Thatcher couldn't hold my
attention outside of her being a
girl. I always had a sweet spot
for girls. Huck was my guy -
cussing and hollering back,
hiding and stealth, and then
just heaving it all and then
high-tailin' out of all that
wasn't any longer setting
right with him. That sure
seemed the way to do it.
-
A person could have all
the riches in the world,
I figured, and still be a
squirmy bastard, and to
others too - which in
my book figured to be
the worst sin of all. I could
never bring myself to make
low of others; always kept
everyone in higher esteem
than I ever did myself. You
can still see that in me,
always, the way I talk,
and always getting oddly
mixed up with others, and
their conversations and
curiosities. That waitress
girl I wrote about, Tre,
many chapters back, she
used to say I could charm
a rabbit out of its fur - one
of the first things, she said,
she noticed about me. That,
and that I was funny too.
Just to prove that point (ha)
I told her in my best 1968
dumb-bell boy drawl that:
'Rabbit out of its fur? Heck,
I was hoping to charm you
out of better stuff than that.'
She laughed. That was how
we broke the ice.
-
I still walk past that old place
now, and really do miss it.
It's closed and gone. The
Villager Restaurant. It was
really something to see, when
it was there, and it had a
movieplex thing right across
from it - all those NYU kids
and dates and all, watching
movies and then coming over;
food and coffee and all. All the
while just figuring or hoping
to get laid with whatever
him or her creature they'd
just fed. It was real funny
times back then, and all that
openness stuff was just starting.
Now people don't think twice
about none of it, and they
probably film and post half
of what they do anyway, but
back then, 50 years now or
whatever it is (I hate to date
my writing like that), most
all of that stuff was real
mind-bending and still
groundbreaking matter, even
if it wasn't. All those street
protesters and revolutionary
types were always just in it for
the huddling and squeezing
anyway. No one really knew
shit about what they were
talking. Groups of 20-year-old
revolutionaries; my ass.
-
It was a long sideways drift
from being a disgruntled kid
reading Eyetalian letters in
air mail envelopes at some
aunt's house to spending
furtive time with proto-
revolutionary dudes from
local colleges, mostly with
Jewish last names too, spouting
rhetoric and cant about crap
they didn't even know. It was
all nutso. I realized only later
that that entire hippie movement
had its real base in Jewish
discontent, from the boroughs,
with their home lives and the
traditional mores that had been
foisted on them. Much like me!
All they were going too, I
understood instantly. It was
just that my letters were in
Italian, and they'd all gotten
their heavier and deeper lessons
in Hebrew. And taken it all to
heart. There's some real drive
to justice in some of those
old words. Under the brothers,
we're all skin. No, no, that isn't
it at all! Under the skin, we're
all brothers. That's better.
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