11,941. RUDIMENTS, pt. 758

RUDIMENTS, pt 758

(wearing my fright wig): pt.One

I always figured that unless

someone was attacking me,

or defending me, for that

matter, I'd just stay out

of it. Once it appeared

that I myself was involved,

in one way or the other,

I'd still just stay far away

from the issue, as much

as I could, lest I become

the issue. I learned that

once, early on, and it's

all now a foggy memory,

but it had to do with the

local church, St. Andrew's,

in Avenel, and a local priest

there  -  (favored young

boys way too much)  -  a

friend of mine I'll call Al,

another friend I'll call Jim.

We were all hanging around

there too much that one

Summer, and had gotten a

sort of small cash job painting

the interior of the old church

which by then had been turned

into a sweaty basketball court

and gymnasium. Kind of one

of those lame 'youth-center'

things they used to pawn off

on kids in the old juvenile

delinquent days. No one

was really doing much,

between us I mean, except

painting those interior walls

and then goofing off some too.

Over in the other building,

the new 'real' church (or the

one not yet a basketball court),

there was a huge shipment of

Coca Cola, both empties and

new, with which we kept the

Coke machines (vending)

filled, and maintained the

order and storage of the

empties for the Coke guy's

return truck, and the new

shipment. It was really a

bore. This one time, or

week, (we used to switch off)

Jim was in charge of the Coke

closet (ah, such innocent days),

and he was neglectful. One

day the entire pile-up of empties

and new bottles too, improperly

stacked or whatever, toppled

over. It wasn't broken bottles

or anything (those old Coke

bottles were tough, and this

was before cans; when Coke

was still vended in bottles).

We knew about it, Al and I,

but said nothing. It was a sort

of combination of not wanting

to squeal, and also not wanting

to have to pick it all up. The

bottles had rolled all over the

place in that closet room, and

even somewhat had blocked

the door from being opened.

I forget but I guess it opened

in. (Come to think of it, I

wonder how that works or by

what judgment; some doors

open out, some open in). The

matter here rested, for a day

or two. We, or I was anyway,

were sort of paralyzed, and

there was no move on Jim's

part to do anything about it.

In a day or two the priest

fellow found out  -  he also

had, I should add, a wiry

temper when rattled  -  and

he went off pretty bad on Jim,

ripping him a new butt-hole

(oops! I probably shouldn't

say that. Priests), in the process.

After that, frankly, I don't

remember what occurred

and how it was rectified

except I do remember getting

a phone call and a scolding for

letting something like that occur.

Of course, it had not been my

responsibility, so I couldn't

figure that out  -  I was the

same sort of slouch they were,

just milking a bunch of Summer

days for some church-free cash.

Jim got like some solitary-

confinement prison detail to

stay there and clean it up and

not leave until it was done!

-

For me, this was all a formative

moment and all it did was reinforce

the idea of the world and its rules

and processes as nothing more than

a huge pile of junk. People were

stupid and crazy  - even this priest

guy who was supposed to, at the

least, have some guiding-smarts.

Wailing like an old grandma over

some messy Coke bottles. I was

sorry but I was never able to

equate Jesus to Coca-Cola. The

other facet of this, as well, was

how poorly it reflected back on

adult thinking. It's hard to explain

now but back then, at the turn

of the 60's, before any assassinations

or Vietnam or hippies, the biggest

fright-fest that could be turned

against kids was this whole gangs

and juvenile delinquency parade.

You never hear of it now, and kids

now are stupid enough (but smarter

for that too) to keep their heads and

minds buried in some electronic

and screen stuff rather than get

involved hanging out on street

corners in leather jackets and

combing their hair and gouging

down after 'Chicks.' Right? In

the days I'm talking about, with

early TV stuff, and things like

West Side Story and all that, every

parent was in dubious fear of

losing their kid to delinquency.

Leathers, cars, tight girl sweaters,

promiscuity, group dynamics,

and anti-social behavior. Sal

Mineo, James Dean, Marlon

Brando, Lee Marvin, and all

that 'Wild One' stuff. You had

to be there; it swept the country

like a Twilight Zone episode.

In 15 short years, essentially,

the entire scenario went from

the schlock and sentimentality

of The Wild One to the pathetic

reactionary dross of Easy Rider.

'Death On a Pale Horse' indeed

-

There just wasn't much 'out there'

to be offered. The adult world

sucked and should have been

pelted with stones, right then,

and before 58,000 more of boys

like me (but not) were slaughtered,

for no good reason except the

vanity of more adult fools in

suits.

-

I took all this in, all these

observations, and they became

part of the clay of my make-up.

I went through all my New York

years with all this still drumming

around in my head  -  seminary

days included : a massive pulp

of raw material that had become

engrained within me, and which

I then held  -  as if it were a dousing

stick  -  over places of perceived

local water. Purportedly places

from which I would gain. At

the same time things perplexed

me. Elmira, for instance. I've

written here, about the blacks

that I saw, ghettoized and

placed in their own environs.

That always amazed me, about

the place. My Geology professor

lived right up the hill, at the

entrance to the old Woodlawn

cemetery there, where Mark

Twain is buried  -  and in that

same cemetery now there's a

small 'Negro' section, with

some slave names and stories,

days of bondage and service

to the 'Masters' in the big houses.

All done respectfully, yes. But

in the 1970's there was none of

that, and it all went unmentioned

and with little of the common

knowledge that there is today.

In this case, the more things

change, the less they are the

same. Just beyond that area,

the land leads down into the

military-graves section; which

dates back to the Civil War,

when the very famous Elmira

Prison Camp housed thousands

of Confederate prisoners, often

in horrific and quite miserable

conditions. As they died, they

were carted off, and buried here.

It only later then became a

formalized,  'military' memorial

ground, with rows of graves and

crosses from each succeeding war.

It was progressively more and

more crazy for me to be exposed

to. The black people of Elmira,

unlike so many, say, Manhattan

people now who are of a direct

and obvious African lineage,

were just 'Southern' blacks. The

kind of almost cliched 'old'

American blacks, the people

of whom you just KNEW were

descended from old-line slaves.

It was incredibly curious to me,

and rich and vital too, bespeaking

as it did some old, American

dedication to brute subservience

and power against others. In

that context, even Elmira must

have seemed as a great relief to

those coming North and ending

here. Good things come, perhaps,

in bad packages? I was reading

once about that old, black, shuffling

character type, the sort of cliched

and cartoon'd black person you

used to see (no more), 'Step'n Fetchit'

my mother used to call it. I think

that was a real person too; not

sure. Anyway, in this reading I

found a remarkable thing, and

it applied perfectly to the sort of

displaced, lazy-seeming black

people held by Elmira : All 

through the 1840's, etc., that 

entire period up through the 

Civil War era and some, in the

northern population of escaped

slaves and Fugitive Slave Law

abscondees, NYC, Philadelphia

and the rest, runaway'd blacks,

and ALL blacks (NYC had 

about 4,000 regular, legal

'freeman' blacks too) they were

in constant danger of being

picked up off the street, slave

history or not, had taken by

fugitive slave agents, back to

the South, labeled as runaways,

even if they'd never been, and

'sold' at auction market back

into slavery, and then transported

again to the deep south of Alabama

and Mississippi, where all this

was common. That fearsome, 

shuffling, stooped, dumb and

quietly furtive gait they projected,

in reality, was a means of caution

for them; constantly watching and in

fear of agents and white collectors.

-Part Two next-