RUDIMENTS, pt. 819
(well, until it's over anyway)
I sometimes like to think that
death will be nothing but a
re-run; akin to re-visiting old
memories, the things you yet
think you can barely remember,
have but a faint recollection of,
but aren't even sure about. 'Did
that happen?' In a stop-time
of death's way, and time, you'd
re-enter those pasts and places,
like a peeled-back layer of
something, given back to what
you were, for a moment or two.
It all makes little sense now,
but would then, fine. That's
what this is all about.We run
taut circles around the forms
we once thought we knew.
That's like; 'that's what all
the people say. Riding high
in April. Shot down in May.'
-
One time, about 1990, a cousin
of mine, whom I'd seldom seen
and had little contact with, sent
us an invitation to a combination
birthday party (hers) and Halloween
Party - dress and costume optional
your choice. It was in some hall
or something, up where they
lived; Maywood NJ. I pretty well
remember the whole thing -
we took a motorcycle up
there, headed towards Newark.
After that point, the precise
direction to Maywood were
unclear. It was damp and chilly
out, October cold, drizzly here
and there, and I didn't feel like
being lost forever plodding
around on two wheels in that
crummy weather - so, passing
a firehouse that was open and
had a few guys in it, I stopped,
asking for a better idea of the
way to 'Maywood.' I got the
lowdown, Route 21 (McArter
Highway, through Newark.,
etc., etc.). They let us in, to
warm up, dry off a bit. A nice
deal; little else transpired. We
then departed and made our
way along, up past Clifton
and all that. And we did find
our way to this Maywood
location, I think it was,
in good time. I was scraggly
looking, had some riding
leathers on, everything was wet
and dripping; same went for
my rider. She too was a drippy
sight, jackets, leathers, scarf.
We got to the place, and entered.
It was a roomful of Cinderellas,
Batman and Superman, ghouls;
all sorts of contemporary and not,
costumes, etc. And a few folks
in regular clothes. So we did the
greetings, said hello, and all that.
Chatter and drinks ensued, the
usual loud music, food. Eventually,
two people, young 20's, a couple
came over, all apologetic and
the rest. I was confused. Their
embarrassment, and nervousness
too, it turned out, as I realized,
was that we had come in all gnarly
and sloppy wet, in riding garb,
and they'd at first thought we
were just another costume duet;
in biker garb - which was THEIR
exact costuming, but obviously
fake and never having even seen
the high side of a tachometer and
handlebar. Thinking we had
redundant costumes, my cousin
had just clued them in that we were
NOT in costume; had ridden there,
were wet and chilly too! Every
cliche in the book, at that point,
came out - they thought, now,
that we'd be killer-mad at what
transpired, furious at the mockery,
and ready to maim and kill
these fakers. It was actually
funny, as I slowly watched the
color come back to their faces
when they were told (ha ha)
we'd let hem live. It was funny,
and all I can really remember
saying was something like,
'Sweetheart, I only wish I was
you right now. I'm wet and
feeling crummy.'
-
Later on, I toook a tire iron
to their Chevette. (Joking).
-
I guess the only reason I
brought that up is because
it's a good example of
something I'd like to
re-run. Do-over. See again.
Those chances don't much
come back. There was so
much delicious feeling in
that ride and that night - Rt.
21 runs along the river there,
the Hackensack or Passaic,
whichever it is, and the lights
and boats, and the old, rotted
industrial ruins that then dotted
the riversides, both, reflected
in the water; cars zoomed by;
the old motorcycle was humming;
only a few cars for an 8 o'clock
night. It was all pretty cool.
Riding a motorcycle in the
rain is something special, and
to be explained. Whatever the
rainfall is, it's magnified tenfold
at least by the fact of your
moving - into it - assaulting
it as it were. The rain peppers
your face. (I wasn't a safety
helmet guy, ever, and merely
wore the least passable helmet
cap I could buy. In fact I only
had one during all those years,
and it had seen ground action too).
The rain seeps in, to your neck
and collar. It can sometimes hurt
too; If it's cold out, it really
gets crummy. You also need a
greater awareness, in the rain,
of traction, leans, turning, and,
not the least, stopping. Oils coat
the roadways, and you don't
always know that until rain
brings it out. You're riding on a
treacherous coat of lubrication,
floating over the surface. (Oil
does that)....So, plenty of extra
care goes into a wet ride. It's far
more taxing, and, in addition,
does, or should, because of
these factors, shut down your
speed some. Darkness makes
all of this worse - both to
speak of other cars, the usual
asshole drivers, splashes, puddles
and spray from jerks whizzing
by you at 84 mph in a 45.
-
So, arriving at my cousin's
soiree, the last thing I needed
for joviality was two pretenders.
-
If I ever did meet someone
like that - from the far past
and one of those memory
dilemmas I'd have to say to
them - 'Hi. That may be you,
but this isn't me.' Something
oblique and incongruous like
that, to get across the idea that
I am not what I ever may have
been then, and will not be then
what I may be now. That gets
all pretty strange because Time
begins overlapping back onto
itself, and f you're not careful
everything gets all swooped up
together and you start hearing
all that hurdy-gurdy 'We are all
one' 'it takes a village' crap,with
the organ grinder and the
monkey - except that they
never make mention to you that
they expect YOU to be the
monkey. If you begin hearing
that stuff, flee; no matter what
costume you are wearing,
because all the other costumes
are the Grim Reaper, over and
over and over and over..
Until it's over.
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