11,774.RUDIMENTS, pt.692

RUDIMENTS, pt. 692

(dad lessons)

Ten thousand crossroads and

I think I crossed them all.

I know my father used to say

whatever you do do it the best

you can, and that's all that

matters. When your own father

tells you something like that, 

and you have the 'results' of 

that sort of corndog, ragged,

and hornswaggled experience

right in front of you, as 'Dad,'

the most simple expedient that

comes to mind is to think that 

'this can't be happening to me, 

I can't really be hearing this.'

The idea that such a bit of

advice would pass for philosophy,

something to be handed down

from father to son, was plain

out and out ludicrous. People

simply don't do that. No one 

in this world does their very 

best, even if they say they do.

There are too many interdictions,

interruptions and distractions

in the short course of time for

anyone to do that -  and those 

that DO, (if there are any,

as I said), because it is so 

exceptional and demands 

complete eccentricity,

just wind up getting called 

an ass, or weird, or bizarre, or 

crazy. You can't peddle extreme 

dedication in the midst of a 

carnival. The only efforts of

complete dedication that the 

history books record are, when

you come right down to it, all

bad things  -  the Crusades, the

Manhattan Project (atomic bomb),

Nazi Germany, the slaughter of

some 6 million, and  -  lest we

forget  -  the industrial determination

of doing the very best to manufacture,

produce and destroy three-fourths

already of the natural world. But,

I guess, the Scots make good Scotch,

and Kentucky distillers make good

Bourbon. Goes to show.

-

There's a guy on my block here that

makes moonshine. Good stuff, a real

fire-in-the-brain sort of chest-fever

that rips. He never ceases to be

willing to tell me more about his 

craft  -  how he does it, what

he does, what he's looking

forward to be doing, and then he

gives me some. Yeah, baby. Back 

in my NY days, '67 and all, the

poor guys on the Bowery were

drinking turpentine if they had to

to die, oops, I mean, get drunk.

If they had, at the time, the sort

of hootch I handle here, a steady

supply, there'd, I swear to it, have

been a line at my door, marked

'Heaven.' At first, when I began

to hear of and see what these guys

did  -  barrel-fires, sleeping in  

a pile of sidewalk rags, dirty and

smelly, I could hardly believe it.

They drank fire-waters from

bottles, at maybe 75 cents a pop

for the high and expensive ones,

the whole bottle, and maybe kept 

a spare too in the worn suit-jacket

side pocket they wore. Back then,

the destitute and the bums still

wore business clothes, a lot of

good it did them. There was a

stylistic-nationalism to all that,

as if it was patriotic to show that

you weren't just any lush, but a

rock-solid, all-American USA

drunk bum  -  living on the street

right there real close to Wall Street,

if and when your drunk wander

got you over to that area  -  south

and west, sort of, on a swaying

path to another sort of oblivion

where they burned dollars instead

newspapers and wooden pallets.

Yes sir, America had class back

then. There used to be a string

of Bowery 'Missions'  -  that's 

what they were called. For a dime

or whatever, back then, the guy

(it was always guys, for the most

part. For women, that sort of 'bum'

life, in-extremis, was just too much,

what with the hygiene and general

sense of threat and danger women

faced) would get a bed, fenced in

a cage actually, even over the top,

so that others, during the course of

the night, couldn't get into things and

steal, whatever there would have been

that was stealable; but for these guys

you never new. The only problem

these bum-hotels, or 'Alky-traz' places,

as they were sometimes referred to,

was that in order to eat their food

or get their bedding (paltry at best)

you first had to, not even agree to,

just had to, submit to maybe an

hour's worth of prayer, song, and

preaching. The presence of religion

was a heavy-given. They all just

put up with it, sleeping through

what they could. Nipping from a

bottle was a no-no, it all having

supposedly been turned in and/or

confiscated. But, you know, like

in prison  -  no sex, no special

foods or goods, etc. Sure. Right.

-

Guys died, after passing out on

the street, well, not really ON 

the street. Back in those days, 

among the ways that buildings

were built  -  buildings of the

smaller, Bowery scale, much of

which dated to the Civil War era 

anyway  -  was that each store

had a recessed area in the front.

For the doorway, the entry, some

glass, display-space areas for

goods and product. It was often

tiled, in fact; not just concrete.

Into those resources drunks 

went. To poop, to sleep, to puke, 

anything  that ended up mattering

as necessity. Life, of course, at that

level, being entirely different, the

necessities too were seen as entirely

different. Defecation being one.

As a matter of course, sleep often

turned into passing out, alcoholic

coma, death. There were cops on

this beat whose specialty and

training (you'd never think it

was needed, but it was) was in

finding these people, determining 

death' or resusitatability, etc.

Mostly, medical assistance was

an afterthought. Mostly, it was

up to the determination of said 

cop to decide, instead of all else,

to just finish you off. Labored

breathing, foaming, rattle, being

aggressive and hostile, undertaking

a 'crime'  -  any of those things

ended up  as categories in the

reasonings of Death, whose

mighty club was two-fold : The

club would smash you to death,

and then Death would be the

club you'd joined. Pretty clever,

those men in blue  -  or whatever 

color it is; blue being also the

color you turn when being

suffocated. 'Only a hobo,

but one more is gone.'

-

My craft was a silent craft. I

made little noise and wanted 

nothing from anyone. Which 

didn't mean I didn't get stuff. 

People always seemed to be 

taking mercy upon me  -  

sandwiches, leftovers, small 

change, anything they could

do to feel they'd done something.

Something good, for a fellow 

human. I guess. I never sought 

mercy or aid. Nor ever wanted

any. I felt that nothing ever came 

to you clean and unfettered; it

always had a catch, and someone

would always end up wanting

something from you in turn.

There's a line between graciously

accepting something given, and

harshly refusing assistance. Very

often, even today, you run across

people in real need who are crass

and angry. That just ends up ruining

the entire idea of help and alleviation, 

and they end up propagating their

own misery. Maybe there's some

form of connection there with

what my father said about doing

your best at whatever it is you do.

Maybe there's not. I can't decide.