RUDIMENTS, pt. 740
(somehow, rubble)
Somehow, rubble; and all
the cards in the world don't
add up to nothing but rubbish.
Shakespeare would have it,
Aye, there's the rub?/!" Well,
maybe. Out back of the seminary
was a long, sandy road; more like
a one-lane car path than anything.
Room for one car traveling. Two
not invited. If a body meet a
body, comin' thru that rye, well
a body better watch, 'cause one
of them's gonna' fly. No one here
didn't nothing but 70mph; and
they were mostly kids - crazy
locals who'd think nothing of
hanging their girlfriend's panties
from a tree. We'd see them there,
next morning, flying like flags
of trophy and conquest. 'Yep,
them local boys,' it was said,
'got it made. Them sand girls
was easy, and always getting
laid.' Poetry. That's how it all
was, in 1963. (Maybe for them,
though not for me)...
-
Long ways back through there,
a couple of cinder block houses
would pop up - nothing to them
much either, 'cept that rubble again.
We figured no one ever did much
out there, living like that was way
out in the sticks. But they had to
get groceries, we figured, and the
cars all about - those that ran
anyway - must have been used
for something (other than tearing
ass at 70 along the sand). Maybe
they were the guys, too, with the
dainties hanging from the branches.
Maybe they put 'em there, lucky
stiffs. Except we didn't know if
we could or should say that, or,
heck, even think it. Catholic guilt
is some heavy shit, and it's pressed
on you from every angle, even the
things you imagine about.
We were sure sunk.
-
When I say we, I mostly mean
Leo Benjamin and me. Leo was
a fast friend that first year; a little
older than me, from Bangor, Maine,
and he had that unmistakable
accent that goes with all that;
like lobstah, and cah, stuff like
that. We were in the seminary,
yeah, and we were young enough
too, but Leo, being country-Maine,
had been around the ringer a few
times already - anything we ever
saw, he knew all about the ins and
outs of already - if you get my gist,
with the panties and all. In fact,
thanks to Leo, there wasn't much I
didn't learn, in theory, about sex.
From him. A real font of knowledge.
Once I put aside, a few years later,
the theory ends of it, and began the
'hands on' (shall we say?) practical
aspects with the presence of the fairer
sex included, I realized, yeah, he'd
had it mostly right - even though, as
I saw it, he had a few things way
wrong too. Maybe it was just Maine
applications that were different than
Jersey ones. I guess I hope so. 'Cause
some of it, whew, was way wrong.
But I never had any follow-up; after
that first full year, old Leo went
home, and just never came back.
Later years, I kept running across,
in reading, this weird German guy
who died escaping the Nazis,
across Germany, with all his
manuscripts and books and
papers. He was famous and all,
but he was dead. His name was
Walter Benjamin. You could look
it up. Except his name gets to be
pronounced German, and more
like Valter Ben-YA-Mean.
Weird. I often wondered if they
were in any way related.
Leo and 'Valter.'
-
It's funny, years later, when I
was with Barnes & Noble, we
had 7am Monday morning
Manager Meetings, to go over
the next week's promotions,
new releases, features and
showcase books. It was all
lame stuff, like selling jellybeans
or something, all tied into holidays
and celebrations, gifts and all that
crud. The other managers were
no better than their promotions -
all fluffheads, concerned with
corporate, getting ahead, kissing
ass. At the end of each meeting,
they'd go around the room, 8 people
maybe, and you'd have to tell
what you're reading. It was so
bogus. Most everyone read idiot
stuff, zombie serials, easily
merchandised books, 'Johnny
Grows His Daisy', 'The Ways
and Means Club', 'Hilda and Her
New Brown Boyfriend.' The kind
of things I'd gag over. There were
two guys in there, used to make me
puke - everything they said or that
happened, the other one would reply
to with 'Sweet!,' almost singsong,
like a girl. The one guy was about
six-foot-seven, but not in any
way coordinated, like for sports,
and his biggest interest was in new
footwear. He'd come in on Mondays
with some new 150 dollar sneaker
or soft shoe. They all looked like
stupid blue boats. He was the first
person I ever saw with those sneaker
things that have a blig flap or
something to cover over the
laces. He freaking always looked
handicapped. They'd get to me and
and I'd have something horrid to
report. 'No Exit,' by Sartre. 'The
'Idiot', by Dostoevsky. One time
I was about so disgusted, I said,
'Listen, I'm reading 'The Arcades
Project,' by Walter Benjamin,
and there's just really nothing
to say.' No matter where I ever
went, I never went over too big.
-
Leo was a passing friend, but at
that age often even a passing
friend leaves a mark for life. Back
in those early 60's there was always
some stupid song or another about
passing romances, Summertime loves,
all that 'When will I see you again?'
stuff. Not that there was some boy
romance going on, there wasn't, but
Leo became a part of that entire,
new, eye-opening seminary life
I was experiencing - young,
cloistered and far from home. Those
songs get written because there really
is something to all that emotion,
and, much like the entire NYC
experience would be just four
short years into the future, all
was new and fresh and raw. I just
blustered my way into everything.
Once Leo was gone, I was sad.
He was fun; or at least different.
Blunt. Sarcastic. Foul. Rude.
I don't know how they grow
them up in Maine, but there
wasn't much to phase him.
Verbally, much like Trump, he
was always 'grabbing' something
or pawing something else, in his
dreams, I guess, twisting nipples
and singing filthy ditties. He once
took me off into the woods (I
have no idea how he learned of
this), and brought me to a spot
where, once he cleared some brush,
there was a box, dug unto the ground
and secure, which, upon opening,
contained a large stash of what were
considered 'dirty' magazines - kept
there by the upper-classmen. For
their use, or perusal, or whatever.
I was green, and a complete novice,
I'll admit. Flabbergasted, once more.
The place wasn't the same without
Leo, those next few years.
-
It's funny to look back now on all
the crap I learned, sort of while
'flying.' Like at the seminary,
getting one's clothes laundered,
(we had to dress like prep-school
twerps, businessmen stuff), cost
money; not much, but it cost. And
those 1960's gabardine slacks or
whatever they were, after a while
if not laundered, got shiny. It was
obvious - seat of the pants, front
of the high legs, etc. Leo was a
shiny pants guy, for sure, always.
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