RUDIMENTS, pt. 749
(swinging from the rafters)
I could never say where things
came from for me, but many
times they just seemed to appear.
I agree that such a statement is
preposterous, but I also ask for
your consideration. There are
many things that cannot be
explained. Most people
willingly go along with the
loaves and fishes tale, and,
really, that's much the same
thing. Manna from Heaven
too, and all that. No, I'm not
comparing, with myself or
any, the two but the idea is in
the sudden appearance of things
that fit the circumstance. I'm
of the opinion that life has to
be satisfied. That it's all a mental
construct. So that - using the
loaves and fishes thing - the
idea was in Jesus, also knowing
that, using those few, feeble
morsels of 'food' to feed many.
Any powerful being can entice
others into believing they are
filled : in this case, even the
suggestion of a scrap of fish -
let's face it, it couldn't be cut
and distributed around and passed
to the members of the crowd, and
anyone who believes that needs
some further education - was
enough to let people go on to the
next step : believing in the reality
of being sated. It's not that hard,
really, and such a form of
dominant complacency rules
most people's lives now anyway.
-
It's all pushback time for me now:
Memories and IOU's. I'm old
enough to do that. People give
70 year-olds lots of leeway, in
case they begin drooling or
drooping or leaning or simply
falling over. (How do you fall
over 'simply'? How is it any
different from what may be
a very complicated collapse?)...
When I was in NYC, I'd talk
to people about different things;
sometimes I'd just bring up things
only so that I'd freely get some
information from whatever
blabber-mouth I'd be addressing.
The amazing thing now is when
I realize, back then, I was 20 and
'they' were probably 60 or 65,
not even the proverbial 70 year
old I accuse of being ancient
and doddering. Oh boy, what
a mess I'm in now. It was at The
White Horse, an old-line tavern
that, back in those late 1960's was
still an adherent of tradition, some
sort of bar-decorum (like 'women
don't show their breasts; men don't
pee on the floor' - although there
have been numerous bars of that
ilk and been into). The White Horse
was the kind of place - just up a
bit from the west-side piers and
docks back when any of that
counted for real-life. Unlike now,
when everything is make-believe
gentility and oh-so-gentle prodding.
In those days you could really
get your head handed to you,
and I mean that literally. There
are books written about the old
crime-infested areas from which
places like The White Horse drew
its clientele; it wasn't all the Dylan
Thomas roustabout crap that gets
peddled. St Vincent's Hospital
was quite nearby (gone now) for
those who wished to die in its
halls. If, at The White Horse,
you were going to talk to anyone,
you sort of had to be selective.
I had a friend who lived on
Perry Street, one block down,
and another who lived on Jane
Street, 3 blocks up or so. On
the opposite corner to the bar
itself, was a W11th Street
apartment building, all still
in place, in which this older
guy 'Jack' lived. He was a total
regular, had his own spot at the
end of the bar, to the right as you
walked in, and though he was a
bit of a daily lush by the time he
got through, they fronted for him,
reserved his place and stuff, and
for all I knew fed him drinks for
atmosphere or out of a sense of
local duty. Whatever. Fair to say,
by 7pm each night he was fairly
corked. Gone. Almost incoherent,
certainly unfocused. He'd make
his way out and back across
Hudson Street, and just enter
his building. (That's how he
died, by the way0. I asked about
him one time, later on, and the
bar guy said, 'Jackie? Jackie Ryan?
Yeah, Jackie's dead. Died right
there, at home. You knew him?'
And so it all goes. He worked,
back when he did work, a truck
dock or something over in Long
Island City, which wasn't really
out in Long island though it
sounded like that, but was really
just the other end of the 59th Street
Bridge, right were it got all old
'industrial' and 'manufacture,' the
kind of stuff that had been driven
out of the city itself over the years
but had found a wonderful home
there. A lot of it now - with all
the industry long gone from there
as well - became Silvercup Studios,
a large spread of film sets and studios
for NY City movie productions, all
in the old Silvercup Bread factory.
Spike Lee, Woody Allen, all those
guys and more, film there. He'd
worked there, and claimed to
know all the ins and outs of
any waterfront crime you
could ask about, from women
to warehouses and crates to
criminality. So, yeah, I'd let him
go on. The stories were legion,
dicey, and often enough times
there were other old-timers there
to back up his tales - even if
they were often blarney from
the bottle, I listened and, hey,
who knew? Apparently, there
were days back when people
used to, evidently, just kill others
on their own volition for any
and all infractions either real
or imagined or both. His theories
were basically all based more on
some sort of Irish clan-loyalty
than anything else, but those
dock-guys didn't care. In old NYC,
if you were Irish, what you were
presented with were interesting
dichotomies - the cops were
Irishmen; the firemen were mostly
Irishmen; and the criminals who
ruled those downtown docks were
too. So the choices were myriad,
and any career-day snooping around
that anyone did was always, by its
end, a true surprise. You mostly
ended up on one side of the law
or the other, just by birthright.
And all of this was lubricated,
need I add, by booze.
-
Usually, when you need something,
it just shows up. Right? Yeah, sure.
One time, my friend Tom and
myself, right here, in Piscataway
or South Plainfield or whatever it
was, were drinking at this long,
loose-limb'd dump of a place out
on Washington Avenue (this now
has nothing to do with New York),
called the Jug House, (it's long ago
gone now, replaced by a few of
those budget-mansions real estate
goons like to peddle). We'd been
there too long, and no reason
except that it was a Saturday night,
we'd ended up there from a ride,
and only because it sure looked
steamy and interesting - turned
out all that activity was from a big
old rambling welfare kind of house
attached, but next door. They were
swinging from the rafters. God only
knows what went on in there -
but I could describe it for, maybe,
twenty bucks, postpaid. Anyway,
we were sitting there. Tom had
been out all day on this taxi-yellow
older bike he'd just gotten done
rebuilding, painting, etc. It was
in actuality a lousy, 1980's, early,
wide-glide or something. I had
been riding this pig of a dresser
I'd picked up in Monmouth Beach
for $4,000. It was tan, all bagged
out, windshield, radio, all that crap,
and I quickly realized I hated it.
Totally. It was like riding a living
room; doilies and mirrors included.
I'd gotten wasted enough to figure
what the heck did I want that for?
Tom liked it - a dresser guy. I
liked his yellow bomber. I said,
'Wanna switch?' He said, 'You
mean for the rest of the ride?' I
said, 'No, I mean like now; we can
swap titles, and just sign 'em off.'
Well, he said yes, and we each
went off on our new rides. More
drunk than a twisted snake too. We
used to call our hobby, 'recreational
drunk driving, on motorcycles'
Nobody's dead. Still. (Yeah, I
know someone will have to
change that line, someday)...
-
Now, here's where the magic
comes into play. After like 12
beers each, Tom ended up
getting what he wanted, and
I ended up getting what I
wanted. No one said, 'Hey! A
miracle! Check this out!' We
just took it all in stride. And
that's about what life is. It
just runs on over, until it
runs you down. Like I had it
in a dream, not to long ago:
some business guy I used to
know, saying to me, in that
dream, 'Life comes at you, Gar.'
The little fillip to this story
is that, soon enough I found
myself disliking the yellow
bike I'd acquired. I sold it,
and got something else that I
liked better. Tom? He crashed
what he called 'The Tuna Boat'
(dresser, tan) about two weeks
later, on the way to work. He
said some Asian lady ran him
down, the bike went under her
car, and he got bounced around,
road-rash, and some bumps and
bruises. Six months later or so,
he was awarded $35,000. See
what I mean.
No comments:
Post a Comment