11,729. RUDIMENTS, pt. 673

RUDIMENTS, pt. 673

(sub-group, the lingo)

I've always had a huge streak

of compassion for others  -

not that it ever did me any

good, but one is not supposed

to think that way. All it ever

got me was people on my

porch, others wanting

something, or any action

in any case that ended up

causing me trouble. Like

beatings too. You mess with

the wrong guys, you're going

to, eventually, light the fuse.

Maybe it's then better just to

leave things be. It was never a

testimonial to my own actions

when I did things for others.

Like wars and nation-states,

and alliances; all pretty much

the same.

-

One time, and this is true, I was

never able to figure it out. Maybe

it was just payback, nice or not.

We were living in Metuchen,

motorcycle days, drinking at

the Maple Tree, or maybe it

was the Pioneer then, in Iselin.

Whatever closing time is, I forget,

2am? We were pretty blitzed,

and rode out by ourselves, hoping

not to meet any Federales along

the way, maybe 6 or 7 miles. I

got up to the top of old Oak Tree

Road, and of course the whole

world was closed. There's a

7-11 at that corner. It too was

closed. I ran out of gas. Not

knowing what to do, nor

thinking very clearly, I rolled

the bike over to the far side of

the buildings, mostly out of

of sight, locked it up, and we

started walking home. It was

doable, and we did it, intending

go back, with gas, in the morning

and ride out of there. Lo and

behold, about 5:30am there's a

loud knock on the front door. It's

an Edison cop. He had ID'd the

'abandoned' motorcycle, by the

plate, and came to the house

wanting to know why, or if I

even knew, that my motorcycle

was on the side of some building

up the road some, with money

taped to it. Huh? He wanted to

know if it had been stolen from

me, or if I'd planted it there, if

it was part of some deal, drugs,

guns, money, or stolen. It took

me ten minutes to fully realize

what the deal was, and he then,

after interrogation, told me to

get dressed and come with him.

He was actually OK with my

'out of gas until the morning'

story, etc. but still wanted to

know what the money meant,

and wanted to see my registration

and stuff (Which was actually

in a lock-pouch on the side of

the frame. Pretty weird). It all

worked out, strange as it was,

but dammit to hell when we got

there if there wasn't about 10

bucks, as a five and some singles,

taped along the gas tank. Beats

me what had occurred, and still

does. I took the money, after he

said go ahead. His biggest concern,

funny as it was, was that in the

morning, when the nearby kids

start coming for school (there's a

Catholic High School at the

corner), someone was apt to see

it and take the money. I really

had to laugh. Thank you, Officer

Friendly, for sure.

-

It's a wacky world sometimes

when you think about it. No one

ever came forward to tell me

they'd left money, (taped?) or knew

of the episode, or that I'd been there

stranded and out of gas (and drunk

too, and in a perilous state). I can

just blame Heaven, or I can blame

Hell. But that's the story, straight.

-

A person can be as straight-up

honest as ever, but still some times

things come up screwy. There's a

weirdly intuitive, gray area, in life

wherein any book learning  or

knowledge or wisdom and degrees

and all that are of no value. It's

an area of fog where you enter

strange other-lands that cannot

quite be explained correctly, or

even re-told. Just oddities, where

things fall apart, and then fall in.

Some people count all that as

failure. I always called it charm.

I did often wonder though, about

that cop, and what sort of report

or paperwork he'd had to turn

in that night to account for his

time and whereabouts. Did he

too count it as an hour in some

strange netherland?

-

I spent not that much time, really,

in a fog. Alcohol, if I did anything,

amounted to it, and that was just

beer anyway. People may have,

and some did for sure, think of

a me as one of the drug-infested

powder-moonies of the time, but,

sorry to burst their bubble, I was

a very normal guy that way. I

drank when the occasion called

for it, and, yes, unfortunately,

most of the occasions did, but

 -  at the same time  -  I knew I

had responsibilities, and for others

too, so I kept to it. The little group

we kept, kept itself pretty tight,

covered each other's bases, best

we could, and  -  yeah  -  we often

had back-up too. There were

problems, and we often enough

ended up probably picking some

one or the other up from off the

ground. Visiting hospitals. And

going to services and funerals

too. It sucked. But. At that level

what didn't, and where else are

magic dollars going to fall from

the skies and land taped to the

tank of your motorcycle?

-

A lot of it was just like learning

a new kind of play-act, as if, in

the old days, I'd been handed a 

script and told to read for the part.

Left-Hand Johnny Mobe, biker

from somewhere, doting his way

through the battlements of the fury

and temptations of the road. Take

the mouthed script, use all the

appropriate words  -  even if not

always clearly understood. Maybe

here talk with a sneer. Look the

girl over three times, not just

twice. Learn to leer and snicker.

Know where you're standing, 

and where you're going next. 

Talk to the others on the stage, 

yes, but always remember too 

that you're talking the the crowd.

I could always tell when I'd 

gotten it right; I could see it

in their eyes. When I was off,

it was trouble. I tried and I tried,

and I did NOT always get

the part. The hammer was

hard, and it did sometimes

come down. I met many types
too  -  I think there are more
character types within that
(earlier) motorcycle world than
you'd think  -  they ran the gamut
from thugs and he-men to whiners
and babies. Everyone was slightly
different, saying and doing differently
to explain their actions  -  tending
to, doting on, their dogs, or
mothers (yes, that too); addicted
to some football or sports thing
that they just had to see; others
wanted nothing more than to stare
at babes all day, watching skin
develop, checking out the curves;
a real man's world, you'd think  -  
but it wasn't. A large number of
these guys were just as concerned
about how they looked to each other.
It was funny, in a way, the unspoken
codes and meanings you'd see.
Daring not ever to call the words
'homo-erotic' to the fore, I did often
chuckle at the bandanas and the
leathers I saw. The strategic chap
wearers, the guys in the right
coats and jackets. Much as I do now,
I had basically one 'outfit' to ride in :
a busted-up old scraped and accident
veteran leather, and flannel shirts.
My helmet? It was mostly for
flipping over to piss in, if needed.
Not much else ever affected me,
and it was the size of a teaspoon
anyway. If I hadn't HAD to wear it.
believe me, I wouldn't have.
-
Oh, and did I mention,
dollars would fall from Heaven?