11,820. RUDIMENTS, pt.709

RUDIMENTS, pt. 709

(seeking me out)

Equations vary, things have

changed, definitions have

long ago faded. Mostly it's

such that I can't rightly get

the idea for what I'm after

any more. Like walking

into a bagel shop, one staffed

by Indians (South Asians,

not Cochise) and wanting

to sidle up and ask for a

'Day Glo Bagel, please.'

'I am veddy sorry Sir, we

do not have any day old

bagels. I would veddy much

like to have me help you

for something else?' And I

could reply, 'No, I said Day

Glo, not day old. Do you have

something in red, or green? '

'Oh. no sir, very thanks, I am

but sorry  -  could you like some

Seltzer, or maybe onion bagel?...'

-

Well, see what I mean; asking

for artificial snow in Scandinavia

would be the same task? I don't

know. But it used to be the pizza

you got was by Italians and the

tacos by Mexicans. No longer.

The United Nations has hit the

International belt-line and no one

eats Jello anymore.  In New York

City, back in '67, when I walked

along Eighth Street, or most certainly

along any of the lower east side

streets by number, it was for

certain I'd share the culture of the

person who was serving me food.

The Jewish guy would have the

bagels, bialys, blintzes and lox.

You'd see him and them, in all their

ways  -  gleaming forearms, the

oils of the ovens and the baketrays,

the varied aromas of unmistakable

Jewish cuisine; that all went just

as well for the Italians and their

pizza and spaghetti offerings.

Even back in Avenel, the harem

scarem tactics down at Napoli's

would get you fed AND an up

front exposure to the Italian

home-life right there, just behind

the curtains. These folks lived

where they ate and served. You

got to see their lives and essence.

-

Most of my life was uneventful,

and of the start/stop variety. Early

on, not much happened, all went

well; friends, street pals, baseball,

bicycles. I wasn't big, I wasn't small.

Piano lessons on Claire Avenue,

over Woodbridge way, towards

Main Street. Them because of

those piano lessons weekly, the

train wreck right there, after the

trailer court. That put me out for

a long time, and then eventually it

little mattered; I got started all

over again with another piano

teacher, up Lockwood Ave, and

the corner of Ridgedale, again 

on bicycle. Funny thing was, 

it was a right hand turn just 

after the tracks  - same one as

the scene of the accident which

I then sort of re-lived each time

I made the crossing, It was cool.

Like returning to the scene of a

crime? Or haunting a place? Or

even an arsonist wanting to

revisit the site of his best fire.

Blaze of Glory Central! Hello

Nurse! Years later, when I

had a job at St. George Press,

I used to drive an old lady named

Anne home, each week as she

came in for her few hours of

specialized, old-style work that

only she still knew  -  she lived

right around that same area, up

along Ridgedale, so I'd see all

these places yet again. This time

in a company car! It's always

seemed that my whole life has

circled around on itself, and now

bringing me right back to where

it basically began  -  that's pretty

odd, even if Thomas Wolf said

'You can't go home again.' Try

telling that to a turtle, whose 

home is on his back.

-

That Anne lady, one cold November

morning, first really cold day, she

came into work, somehow having

driven herself in  -  she had a long

Oldsmobile 98, which was a top

of that line car. She walked in

and went downstairs to her work 

station. A guy named Eddie worked

down there with her; they really

disliked one another, and Eddie

could barely tolerate her space in

his space, even if it was once a week

for a few hours. So I'd go down

there and just sort of make sure the

fires weren't blazing, between them.

This day, I asked her how she was,

etc., blah blah, and she said she was

OK but for some reason just couldn't 

get warm. Early cold weather and

all that, we figured. And then, boom!

All of a sudden, she went down! 

Dead out cold, smacking her head 

on the way down too, on the tabletop.

Just like that, her life was over!

Maybe she was 80. Maybe. The

EMT's came, and with all their

equipment tried reviving her for

some ten minutes, but she was 

gone. She had a daughter, around

somewhere, also pretty old. We 

were able to contact her for all the

rest after they took her away. But

that big Oldsmobile sat there in

the parking lot, probably for two

months before anyone came to get

it. Anne was old-line Woodbridge

stock, but I forget her last name.

-

It's all weird how things stay with

you. I used to be able to remember

every little thing  -  I don't as much

anymore, but I've found that what's

lost always comes back, in different

ways. Like Marcel Proust and and

his Madeleines  -  the call calls you

back, the real essence summons

seeks you out. Wherever you are.
-
That previous chapter, where I
wrote about that guy faking being
a cop and throwing all that fire
and fury all around, like we'd
be impressed  -  he wasn't doing
himself any favors with us by 'acting'
the jerk and then scurrying. The
faint calling of his life was in
the symbols and words and
gestures he'd adopted; poor fool.
It reminded me of that transit
worker guy again; I think I wrote
about it before  -  near a bus, MTA.
We started talking, and I asked him
if he drove one of the buses. He had
an MTA shirt on and perked right 
up. 'I used to, see. Not now, 
management, road-work
inspection, other drivers. See,
white shirt; the drivers wear
blue.' Everything is symbols,
concepts, and ideas. Probably
that fake cop had grabbed at his
symbolism all cop stuff. But
there was no 'there' there  -  the
reality was vacant. Only his
symbolism drove him on. In Penn
Station, speaking of symbols, and
Grand Central too, and, heck like
everywhere in the city how, it's
almost like armed-camp areas in
most public places, as they blare
their messages, and the signs tell
you, all that 'If you see something,
say something,' crap  -  police and
tactical guys and ladies stand around
with submachine guns and dogs, all
supposedly to keep order and maintain
whatever American sense of 'civility'
their monkey brains still possess. The
problem is, they stand around talking
to each other, blandly looking out
occasionally, or looking at phones.
(Isn't that weird now to say, 'looking'
at a phone...?') Really, it's all just
symbols, going through the motions,
until the bomb goes off or the
USA equivalent of the Israeli pizza
place gets blown to smithereens.
Raging morons, like that fake cop 
guy, they get away with it all. 
Blue shirt, white shirt, who cares?