RUDIMENTS, pt. 753
(trouble to find, trouble to have)
-The Troy Hotel, pt. One-
The difference between
mythology and reality is
vast; everyone wants to
believe it, but no one does.
Two-headed monsters, the
fire-breathing God-creatures,
the multi-headed avengers.
Those Gods fought and
loved : Mount Olympus
or the deep unknown. They
looked upon us as their
own. Now? We're lost and
squandered in a dead-man's
sky.
-
Much of my time was spent
dwelling within mythology,
but it was my own, of my
creation - which is about
as useful as a bucket with
holes in the bottom. There's
kind of a thing called 'Solipsism'
which is akin to thinking it's
'all about you,' and that every
little thing has come filtered
through just and only for
your use. Maybe it's OK for
writing and the creative arts
and all but - let's face it -
when you live amongst others
it surely doesn't work and isn't
the nicest way to get along
either. It bears remaining
conscious of this factor, for
instance, in reviewing that
police episode I related in the
previous chapter. Viewed one
way, that was the most devilish
and sly approach to a form of
mad egotism that can be done.
-
Anyway I was pretty humble
then, even about my egotism.
If you can figure that; you may.
The difference, which I started
to mention between, say, NY
'Route 17' - which acts basically
as the border out there too,
between Pennsylvania and
New York - and the nearby
sort of purely rural living that
was being done up in the small
hamlets and hollows too of the
adjoining lands was pretty vast,
from a cop's point of view. We
all basically lived as renegades
and the only law there was
when something bad happened.
There was no marauding or
patrolling kind of police, and
down in Troy, along Rt. Six,
they had a few local bozo cops
for speeders, pullovers, and
occasional wrecks, The in-town
stuff was, if anything, family
disputes, wife-beatings, the
usual domestics, store theft,
shoplifting groceries and stuff
like that. I don't even know if
they cared about parking meters,
but I guess they would, for the
free income aspect. Two anchors
in downtown Troy, which was
hardly a town, were the police
station/hospital shared building,
the Troy Bank, and the Troy
Hotel. Of course, there was also
a liquor store, library, hardware,
appliances, washer/dryer stuff,
ad the fuel supply company, for
home heating oils and all way
out into the hinters, like we were.
That was all the 'center' of town,
with a law office and a Ben Franklin
Store - which was like their old
version of Woolworths. (Obviously,
that's more than 'two anchors,' but
I get carried away).
-
The Troy Hotel is gone now.
The Troy Bank has replaced itself
to somewhere else. That was, for
me, a constant - a good money
source to get by with. Out there,
and in the farmer country, everyone
was always short, and the bank was
necessary - even for me, a pauper
there and someone they knew
nothing about. They put me right
on board : people used to live on
successions of 30-day notes, or
60-day notes, or 90-day notes; and
I guess they had longer terms too.
I usually stayed with 30-day, maybe
60 day for the Winter. Any amount
I ever applied for, I always got; and
they always got re-paid, and you could
just roll it over into the next one, few
questions asked as long as you kept
up. It was a lifeline. And it was
also the extent of my banking.
-
The Troy Hotel, now that was
another story. I never knew who
owned it, what kind of family
enterprise it might once have
been, how and why it got started,
etc. It was a large, rambling, old
white building, tall, ringed with
porches, white wood, large doorways
and sitting rooms inside, and an
old, long, bar to the left. Things
were carpeted, in that old hotel
lobby style of old movies, a large
stairway, multiple floors and
landings, large stand-up ashtrays,
all the sorts of old services and
bellhop kind of stuff of old.
Except there were no bellhops,
and no staff to speak of. I stayed
there once or twice with strange
consequences each time, but it
was worth surviving. The whole
thing was like dark. Dark red.
Like deep wine and somber
intentions. Anyone going in
there was better off just going
into the bar - that's where the
service came from anyway. Once
you rang the little bell, chances
were that within 15 minutes
someone would come out to
conduct your room-arranging.
Same person that tended bar,
mostly, so why bother. Like I
said, just go to the bar. It was
easier, and you could scope
out the place and the people.
-
Far be it from me to know the
workings of the hotel business,
but in a far-off place like this was,
I could never figure it out. The
days of traveling salesmen were
gone, for the most part. There
was no rail or rail station. Rts.
6 and 14 came by here, yes, but
by the same token all real services
and things along these roads
were headed Elmira-ways. There
was a baseball bat factory, but
that wasn't worth much. The
Sylvania plant, which made and
trucked light-bulbs, was an
employer, but that was closer
to Towanda, which was a larger
place anyway. Around Troy parts,
most everything was dead farm
and agriculture stuff, just hanging
in. Destitution and Despair played
a larger part than most anything
else, and, I guess, they both
lodged there; or it seemed like
it. Everything inside that hotel
was 'dogged.' Like dogged
drinkers, dogged drunks, cheats,
bums, and even a few fornicators.
I knew about that; had my own
way of knowing. It was always
quiet in the hotel, only grumbling
ever heard was when some jerk
started arguing with another
about the size of the deer he'd
shot, or how far they tracked
it until it dropped dead. All
tactless stories and tales from
the devil's belly to be sure.
Shooting and killing, and then
telling about it over whiskey. If
you ever went out back, the only
thing parked was large Chevys
and Fords, all about 5 or 6 years
old; the big stuff, later model
Impalas and big Fords. SUV's and
all that hadn't been invented yet.
Nobody drove anything foreign.
My farmer friend Willard Brown
had a fleet of three 1960 Dodges,
that style year with the big,
windswept reverse kind of fin
on the rear, and some strange
headlamps. Three of them. He
used them all too. At the Troy
Hotel, you get some pickup
trucks too, of course, it being
farm country, people carting
things around and all, but they
never lingered. It was all just
big sedans, of the sort you knew
were only driven and kept by the
sorts of lushes in there. Not farmers,
no longer family men, no real
employment to speak of, maybe
welfare money, maybe some
other kind of relief, maybe they
even had some little pension.
This is where it got spent and
where they stayed. In a 'til death
do us part' kind of way too.
-
Going in there was always dicey
for me. I stuck out like a skunk
in a kindergarten. I wasn't born
there, wasn't from there, and
anyhow no one wanted to hear
about it all anyway, which was
perfect for me. These guys wheezed
and growled, and I bet they didn't
even celebrate holidays! And
that was good too, because I
myself hated them, holidays I'm
saying. I liked people, but I
just always stood back. A
stranger, in a strange land,
like Robert Heinlein said. I
didn't wish for no trouble to
find, and no trouble to have.
After all, it was already
nearing 1974, and other
things were shaking.
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