RUDIMENTS, pt. 816
(kickbacks)
There are, and always
have been, variations on
what people will accept.
Someone, for instance,
going to a comedy club
will tolerate personal
ridicule, if they are
called out within the
comedy act, far beyond
what they would accept
in daily life. (Come to
think of it, wouldn't that
be a great way to avoid
some of the flash-wars
and world hot-spots we
have today, this sending
the leaders to one-on-ones
in an international comedy
room, perhaps at the UN).
One of the problems I've
always had has been with
reverence. I've never had
any; for nothing. At least
not since those early days
at seminary, when there
seemed a exaggerated sense
of reverence for everything
was the common view. And
then, of course, that extreme
tone was what I quickly saw
through. It was all a frolicsome
make-believe, but without, or
leaving out, the frolic. Since
that time, I've realized so
many things are illusion
and enforced fakery, as
is reverence.
-
Back in Avenel, at the far
end of the street I grew up
on, it petered out after the
houses, into woods, and then
a few trucking companies, a
trailer court, and Route One,
northbound - straight out
would get you to Newark and
then the Holland Tunnel, NYC.
If you enter down under Rt.
One, at the curve there, it
came to a grouping of junkyards;
those were the places my father
used to go to, saying he was
going to 'the junkies' - which
made me sometimes think he
was an addict going for a fix.
The whole thing kind of worked.
Anyway, in the years I'm talking
of, these places were still just
junkyards - exposed heaps of
cars, and some varied sheds for
the different things, windshields
in one shed, all marked; wheels
and tires in another, all marked;
shock absorbers in another, etc.
I always wanted to be one of
the workers - there were guys
whose job it was to circulate
among these cars and dis-mantle
each of the re-sellable parts, and
select and separate and mark
them, etc. - so that if someone
like my father came in, say,
looking for a 'pattern-juncture
receiver strut lateral shaft' (I'm
being facetious) for a 1954 Ford
Victoria, these guys, or one of
them would know about this and
where they were and for what
sort of vehicle, etc. Or, sometimes,
as in my father's case, they knew
him enough or whatever, and they'd
just steer him to a '54 Ford whatever
and let him have at it, dismantling
for what he wished, himself.
-
Now, it's unheard of; as in these
same places the inventories are
hidden, the references are all on
computer screen at the sales desk,
and they usually have you view
the designated part by its image
or photo on the screen first to
be sure that's it. I know, I've
gone through it myself. It's
clean, efficient, and boring as
hell. The guys don't seem to
be worth spit, the dumbo music
is blaring, there's endless small
talk and off-theme stuff, and
it becomes as if nothing is real.
The old way was much better,
or to my liking anyway : the
knuckles that bled, the pools
of muck and water, oils and
grease, the foraging and the
self-picking; all much better.
There were grimy dirt-paths
between rows of older autos;
little of anything was plastic;
bumpers weer still chrome
and metal, piled and stacked
in bins and rows. I always
thought the Leesville yard was
the best. Like an innocent lamb,
I actually went in there once,
seeking a job, really wanting
to work there. They walked
me through, out into the parts
field, through greasy lanes and
run-off and scrap. It was all
going really cool, until the
guy told me that in order to
have the job I'd need to bring
in my own rolling cabinet
of tools and things. I had
no money, and that - back
in those days - was like
an $800 investment, to
get started. Curtains, (using
a newly-minted Avenel name)
for that idea! I was truly
disappointed, but at the same
time it wasn't me at all and
I don't know what I was
thinking. Fortunately, that
was the end of the idea.
Another time, always thinking
that it would be so cool to
pump gas, I went to the Shell
station (I think it was, with
a Sunoco across the street)
at Green Street and St. George
Avenue (or maybe it's called
Amboy Ave. there) and ask
that guy for a pumping job.
I'd known this guy, over the
years, from gas transactions,
etc., and he was a real pain in
the butt, strait-laced, guy. He
had the reptilian consciousness
of a Marine. He took one look
at me and, almost spitting out
the words, said, 'Not looking
like that you're not working here.
No you go home and get a
nice haircut, cleaned up, and
some changed clothes, and
come back here and we'll talk.'
Yes, this for a gas-pump job;
for which they now probably
demand a PhD, from the
University of Riyadh or
somesuch place. My military
French Foreign Legion
French was pretty rusty,
but I did know how to say
'Up yours.'
-
My disappointment I kept
compartmentalized. Down at
the other end of Avenel, down
below Rahway Avenue, into
the low swamps there, were
two other, operative, 'junkies.'
The one farthest out towards
the turnpike, was Ira Rhodes'
junkyard - same family that
once owned a gas station at the
corner of Avenel Street and
Rahway ave., in the 1950's.
It's now the location of a
dip-shit Dunkin' Donuts
(there's a sort-of half pun
in that phrasing. Funny). It
was that same family, back
in the 1940's, I was told, that
had the underpass dug out
after one of their kids was
killed by a train there at
the street-level crossing,
when it used to just blaze
through town. That probably
took a lot of lobbying for and
legislating to get done, but
they did it, and thereby also
changed the entire complexion
of that part of Avenel and the
stores that once were there but
now faced nothing but a wall,
as they moved the street
for the dig - you can still
see, barely, the original
configuration, but it too is
all going fast as new plans
are implemented to re-do
that part of Avenel as well;
like everything else around
here - the beggars have their
hands out, looking for 'change'
and they get it, in both meanings.
A chapter or two back I wrote
about the three words that always
irked me - halcyon, lascivious,
and pablum, if you recall. There's
another curious one, in play here,
and with a double use - for
football, and for local politics
too. The word? Kickback
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