12,093. RUDIMENTS, pt. 804

RUDIMENTS, pt. 804

(dealing from a deck of one)

I was always waiting for the

rest, or the the break, that

never came, Some days all

I wanted was a calm spot to

get lost in. Maybe a series

of invisible moments of my

own. It always seemed that

the more active the life was,

the less it afforded rest, yet

when there was nothing

going on and rest arrived

someone would start

whining about being

bored and having

nothing to do. All

nature was was

paradoxical.

-

At least there was no

chance of a group of wiry

Jehovah's coming along

my fine dirt road with

their collections of pablum

and trite. It wasn't until I'd

gotten back into New Jersey

that I began seeing that

practice in earnest. The

house we bought was

about three blocks away

from an active Kingdom

Hall of Jehovah's Witnesses.

Now I didn't much care

about any of that either

way, but it soon became

annoying how, Saturday

after Saturday, we'd get

another group of dunderheads

traipsing down the street,

knocking, mostly, door to

door, in order to repeat the

same non-offensive, almost

'happy about the Lord' spiel.

They were possessed, I'd

guess, of the thickest skulls

God ever made, since every

week they got the same

refusal and demurral. It

never mattered. I suppose

I'm not even supposed to

say this, but they constantly

looked like a group of

sweltering, overweight,

ostentatiously, cheaply-dressed

black fluffs, walking the streets

in local training groups, honing

their Jesus spiel. Why they

insisted on looking like dour

businessmen dressed in

bad taste, or Sunday

go-to-meeting Mamas,

always escaped me. What

were they mimicking, and

why? A dress-for-success

version of Heaven, while

handing out a 4th-grade

level propaganda booklet?

Did that have a meaning

of its own? A pretend  at

success while peddling only

a cheap version of a God's

kiddie religion. I always

figured if anyone had a

surefire way into Heaven,

as  they proclaimed to have,

they should by God take it

and get the  heck out of

my hair. Or, as I most

often put it, 'Jumpin'

Jehovafats, begone

with ya!' At least if

they would have looked

more normal to me, or came

by in jeans and flannels, or

wearing overalls, with dirty

hands, I would have given

them a chance.

-

I felt like every boy had a

chance for something, (I say

boy because that's the only

experience I had). My friend

had an apartment in New

Brunswick, right by the

railroad tracks, about a

block from the train station.

There was a milkman's dairy

station across the way, five

or six daily milk-trucks. The

trucks would be getting loaded

up through the night,for their

5:30am delivery routes. It was,

therefore very most often lit up.

Down the street was some

old-style church. Always

picturesque. I made stories up

about it being in the French

countryside. I don't know why,

but back then whenever this

was  -  a small period of time

tucked between others  -  I

was just learning things I

wanted to hone in on, and we'd

walk the area, talking away,

or we'd sit on the rooftop (one

doorway over from his top

floor apartment), watching

the trains come and go. I

felt that New Brunswick was

somehow a large city and I was

in the midst of it. I don't know

how that image took hold; I

see it now, it's a small, closed-in

dump of a place, riddled with

Government and County office

crap, courthouses, etc. Filled

with crummy people in a small

and undignified way. So 'Jersey.'

-

At this point, whatever August

or September it was, my friend

had just finished a season as

camp counselor, teaching English,

in fact, in the camp setting, and

was returned home, to try and

get back into the swing of a

more, and regular, married life,

with a small baby girl too. His

wife, and the young daughter,

had been fending for themselves

in the apartment while he was

away. This whole homecoming

thing was pretty awkward to

be near. They weren't getting

on too well, the close-fit was

gone, or needed some re-adhesion.

One of the problems was  -  for

me  -  much of what he talked

about was about some other

camp-counselor there. He'd

evidently been banging her

the entire Summer, and truly

enjoying it. Now the season

of cold turkey, withdrawal, was

upon him. It wasn't good. So,

needless to say, I faded away,

we saw less and less of each

other, and that was that. It had

become too much of a hot

situation for us to be sitting

around while their relationship

fumed and boiled around us.

It all fell apart soon after. I

was kind of glad I was out of

that scene, because for sure

it wasn't going to be doing me

any good. Other friends were

involved, trading physical

alliances there too, let's say.

I knew, even back then, that I

wasn't real good with people. 
-
New Brunswick just never fell
into place for me; a real nowhere. It
was a pretty theme-less place, and I 
could never get anything from it  -  
neither a feel for good, nor bad. We
broke in, one night, that same
friend and myself, into the Douglas
College music studio room. It was 
all set-up, microphone, amps,
speakers. He had a guitar, I forget
if it was there or he brought it along;
anyway, he knew where the doors
and entryways were, and how to get
in. Which we did, And long and late
into that distant Saturday night of
time, I took the piano and he the
guitar, and we had a rollicking
good old time jamfest for ourselves.
Couldn't do that stuff today if you
tried  -  pass cards and ID's, etc.
Along with my printing job, I
had a die-cutter up along French
Street, 225 French, I recall. Ducane
Die Cutting. The guy's name was
Tom, and I gave him a lot of
finishing work, for some three
years. Big bucks. I used to do
eyeglass cards, for Safilo Co., an
Italian Eyeglass Frame 
manufacturing company. Fancy
stuff : we'd print on heavy card-stock,
eyeglass point-of-purchase display
cards, by the thousands. I mean
expensive printing, quality 
chromecoat stock, 12 pt. grade.
It was like a fake face card, for the
displaying of the frames : the part
of it that was die-cutting was when
the fake nose and some ear things 
for the arms had to be punched out
and propped-up. They did all that in
each of the NYC eyeglass stores. It
was a real pain in the butt; I was
doing like 20,000, or more, at a 
time. Heavy, dusty stuff. Paper-dust
from the cut-outs. And the people
were real demanding. Can you even
imagine getting all snooty over
'eyeglass frame cards,' high-fashion
or not? It ended up, I was taking
piles of these things home at
night, sometimes, to sit there
cleaning and arranging these piles
of flat faces, banded and separated,
in 100's. A real annoyance. But Tom,
the guy there, was real nice; we got
on good and I often hung there,
waiting for his production, to load
up my vehicle.
-
There was a Portuguese Restaurant
next to him  -  cocktails and dining,
and bands too, and across from that,
at the curve in the road (French St.,
was actually Rt. 27 too, straight out
to Princeton) a gigantic cemetery.
Cool stuff. Up the other direction,
big draws at the time, was Olde
Yorke Books  -  neat place, crusty
and antiquated  -  and the Melody
Bar, named by her father for
Melody Kokola, a women I knew
from Metuchen. Everything's
gone now; there's nothing left,
unless you like tacos, enchiladas,
corns, and beans. Which I
do, actually; so no need to get
all crappy with me for separating
that out. Mexicans run that
whole end of town there now.
I'm not sure what they do for
religion, but they're not
Jehovah's Witnesses.