12,019. RUDIMENTS, pt. 784

RUDIMENTS, pt 784

(try this on for size)

The south parts of New Jersey

have always meant a lot to me.

I guess the seminary years had

something to do with it, but,

it's not really traceable to any

one thing. Pine Barrens, the

Air Force base, the Army base,

those rings of shacks and trailers

out on the fringes. Most all of

that's gone now anyway, so that

old flavor has mostly disappeared.

At the western bottom area of

the state  - right across the

water from Delaware, and then,

in fact, Baltimore, using one's

minor imagination, there was

always amazement for me. Just

to gaze out over all that water

and Maurice River and Delaware

Bay stuff. There was no glory

there, for sure, and you can

believe me  -  flat landscapes,

elemental people, faceless

geography. But plenty of the

myths and stories and legends

that make places interesting. 

I don't mean that dumb, old

Jersey Devil stuff; that was

mostly hype and publicity. I

mean the blood and rancor

that lingered. Confederate

stuff, ideas from the Civil

War, when any of this may 

have just s much been CSA

territory than Union, Army

of the Potomac territory. The

lines down there were razor

sharp; bad attitudes went 

both ways.

-

A lot of those motorcycle guys,

from down that way, they were

sure different. They seemed soft

and pliant, unlike the rebellious

club guys up where I lived  -  who

were always tough and mean and

had given up forks and just ate

with knives. The south guys

were just as tough, but they did

it differently. It was like a

science  -  two different, formal,

procedures, each ending up

with the same conclusion to

the experiment. One fellow I

knew lived in a cool place called

'Dividing Creek.' Strange little

town, sort of hugging two sides

of a roadway and calling itself

something. It was always real

quiet; you could hear a pin drop.

That doesn't happen much in

Jersey. He had a well-drilling

company, back then  -  family 

stuff, old-line, started by his

father or grandfather. I can't 

seem to find it listed now. But

he was a real gentle character.

Another fellow, real name, John,

but he went by another 'club'

name, of a certain scary 

strangeness. Almost esoteric,

or diabolically mysterious.

The dark arts; black science.

I went to his house for something

once, not actually even knowing

if I'd be returning. At that time,

with the ankle beeper and all

that, he was under a house-arrest.

He couldn't really go anywhere,

and was awaiting his trial and

sentencing, I think. And then,

next I knew, he was imprisoned.

I remember now only his cultish

club name; nothing of his real

last name.

-

Everything was pretty weird, and

it was all done in a half-twilight.

He was one of those meeting guys

of whom we'd been so afraid, 

bringing the guns and all that. It

turned out, once you really got

to be talking with him, he was a

pussycat; just a plain, old, nice

guy, maybe caught in a vice.

No pun. It was like, if the

moon had a flat surface, with

lots of water, poorly drained,

and a watery vista, this part

of South Jersey would be it.

If there were cars, they were

still moonshine hot-rods more

than anything, and most people

just drove crappy trucks. I

soon realized, world's apart,

that these were the same people,

generally, to whom I'd been

haranguing about their lacks

of Freedom and self-reliance.

Boy, was I off, and, boy again,

was I lucky to be alive.

-

One time after all this, about 8

of us, motorcycles, went down 

there about the beginning of

August, it was, for a three-day

camp-out biker confab. I pretty

much couldn't say no; there

were new points of honor and

recognition involved; money 

factors too. We got down there

somewhere  -  into some little

12-building town  - we were

tired, hot, not sure where we

were, looking for gas, and 

some food and drink too. 

There was a lame bank in the

center of the town, with a time

and temperature gauge  -  it

read as 103 degrees. We were

sitting, remember, atop an

air-cooled, heat-throwing,

engine. It responded to 

ambient temperatures, and

then added to them. This 

was hot. 

-

We got to where we were going,

eventually. No breakdowns, no

problems. I remember riding with

a wet towel around my head and

a helmet just squeezed over it,

no chin straps, nothing. I've

always viewed helmets anyway

like seat belts. Honored in the

breach. (That means I never

used them. Unless I absolutely

had to). We arrived to a large,

green-grass, fenced in field; it

was owned by some VFW or

Legion outfit, had been retrofitted

for the camp-out with about 20

Porta-Johns, all in  a row and

all baking in the sun. It was

pretty weird; upon seeing our

arrival, a lot of those southern

guys and gals were beside 

themselves that we'd done it, 

showed up, braved all the

uncertainties, and came 120

miles to see.....them. A true

welcoming committee of

mixed chumps. We each had

to pay 20 bucks, I think it was,

per person, at the entry table.

There was food and booze

all over the place; that part was

fine. We found an area we liked,

parked the bikes, unpacked, and

just figured to be sleeping later

on the ground, beneath the

stars. Some people had tents, 

etc., but not us.

-

There were spots, bands, music.

Food, like I said. Barrels and

barrels of beer, and mugs. Regular

booze too; all sorts of hootch,

moonshine, experimental rocket

fuels, and the rest. There was

an entire contingent of rollicking

good-time black people, from

a place called Lawnside, NJ.

They had barrel-cookers, roasters,

fires and all that going. Their

chief cook, a guy I'd already

met, somewhere, was great  - 

a rotund, gregarious guy, who

also made wines and other

things from plants and flowers

I'd never heard of. He had his

entire array of drinkables there.

Two days of such refreshment

loomed! 

-

Two final points, and I'll move on.

One section of the camp area was

a campsite for the local outlaw club,

people I'd met, and known, and got

on with  -  a few not so, those yet

harboring sorts of grudges over

this whole other motorcycle rights

and organization bullshit. They little

cared for any of that, and usually

just called me out for getting 

involved with that side of things.

It was OK, and two guys I knew,

from up my way, in their club,

kept everything on the up and up.

One of the first things they did

was to start sizing up our 'women.'

Those we brought    - who mostly 

were dedicated wives and girlfriends

type. So, we had to make it clear

that, ahem, they weren't for the

choosing. OK fellas? And, lastly,

out along the entry gate there

were some vendors  -  rings,

trinkets, biker clothing, some 

parts, and all that. And a large,

giant trailer. Outside of that

trailer, curiously, were tables

loaded with sex paraphernalia.

For sale. Inside the trailer, (I

looked) it was a veritable sex-shop,

like any one of those highway

adult-boutique things you see

stretched along the highways.

Yep, it was pretty crazy  -  but

for the two 80 year old women and

one ancient guy (who was at the

sales table outside) running it.

A real scene. He was doing the

money. They were doing the

fitting and trying-on, inside.
Craziest trailside vendors
I'd ever seen.