11,734. RUDIMENTS, pt. 674

RUDIMENTS, pt. 674
(a rim-rod horse on Derby day)
I never knew a lot of things;

but they were, to be truthful,

things I didn't care about at

all. Ratables. Amortization

tables. Interest rate fluctuations.

The Federal Reserve. The

Electoral College, and more.

Any of that was far out of

my range, and that was fine.

I never could believe it anyway

when people made entire careers

out of those things : insurance

guys, brokers, agents; all the

usual pencil-pushers, as they

used to be called. My own killer

point of view was like a reverse

Robin Hood  - I wanted to steal

from the poor and then jam it

down the throat of the rich, with

all their damn numbers and plans

and tables and formulas, until

they gagged to death. A useless

endeavor to be sure, but the

mental satisfaction was great.

-

When I was working at St. George

Press, the owner guy was always

reaming me out  -  for my opinions;

he took exception once to my calling

the wealthy, 'fat cats'  -  saying he

was one of them and didn't take

kindly to being called such. Oh, well.

Another time, during a period when

I was looking crummy, longish

hair (by his standards), he told me

to straighten up because the 'Town

Fathers' came in to the Press, and

I didn't present a very good image.

That was the one that really burned

me up. First off, it was like being

back in high school, 15 years or so

previous  -  same crap, some pervy

adult telling me he didn't like my

looks, based on some presumption

of his about what 'propriety' meant.

Town Fathers? This dump never

had a town father whose hand wasn't

either in the till, big time, or up

some girl's skirt, bigger time. I

heard it all. The Mayor at this

time was some buffoon Italian

fool who had been Sheriff in

New Brunswick. I got numerous

first-hand action reports of his

chasing girls around the desk,

soliciting sex and fondles, and the

rest, during his time as Sheriff.

Old habits die hard. And then he

becomes Mayor  -  one of the

'Town Fathers' I was supposedly

offending and who had given the

stillbirth of this crud joint to us.

What a croc. People just don't

think, or they never hear

themselves.

-

Another time, this girl kept

coming in, named Linda, with

printing work from her office.

Time after time she'd be in tears,

confiding in me, at my desk,

about how she needed to sit there

a while, she was upset, if she told

me some of the things her boss

did to her I wouldn't believe it.

So we made the visits last, talked

a long time, talked slowly, she'd

have tea or coffee, until she was

calmed down, more at ease again,

and willing to go back. (By the way,

my 'office' was in open space, no

closed doors, and nothing hidden).

I lost track of her, years ago, but

I do hope she's doing well.

-

Now, a hundred years later, I

walk these tired streets and think 

back on all these things : Are

they traits of the damned? Or

the lucky? I ask myself, knowing

too there are no answers. Or,

maybe that there are two answers.

Yes, they are traits of the damned.

And yes, they are traits of the

lucky; and there's no difference

really at all. But, I live within

some place now where I no

longer demand answers  -  I

just state things of my own 

and that's the way they are. 

It's a sort of gift of long living, 

something only the old can do.

-

Back in seminary school, they 

always pretended there was 

no indecision or doubt about 

anything. That's the Doctrine 

works, I suppose, you accept it 

or you die. A Spanish Inquisition 

every damned day, or some 

Savanarola cook out; one or 

the other, things stick. After a

while I got so tired of hearing

their drivel that I just turned

it off. They could have their

certainty; but if they were so

certain of it all why then could

they not leave others alone about 

it? I could never get the need

for having to go around convincing

others. I was pretty shot, by that

point, and I realized it. That 'faith'

was gone, and I was interloping

after that, in a place I no longer

did belong. What does a solitary
kid do then? From that point on,
one is just playing the shadows, like
a rim-rod horse on Derby day. Place
your bets and watch the comers.
-
Well most of my bets were placed
wrongly : I walked away with losing
hands to just about everything. The
whole world took on the color of a
Siamese cat  -  a little smog, some dirt,
a yellowish tinge, manageable and
nice. Not so bad. I went to the Studio
School to start anew, and I really
did mostly void all the parts of my
past life  -  for a good while too.
Alas, before the cock crowed some
lone time later, I'd realized all I
was doing , or had been doing, was
filling up anew with all the wrong
crud : And damn the town fathers!