RUDIMENTS, pt. 801
(high times in the claypits)
I'm still, a lot of the time,
numb over the things that
have transpired to me, or
around me. Some years later,
back in NJ, I was working
locally at a print shop job,
where I stayed, actually, for
a long time - for me anyway.
Having a 12-year career
somewhere, for me was
like a lifetime. This wasn't
by far the greatest of places:
a little tacky, and poorly
appointed. Any question
of higher aspirations had
to be dismissed. I did,
however, often get my share
of higher-toned NYC account
types, fashion, salons, dept.
stores, and they always come
away distressed by the tacky
surroundings; where they had
to wait, or the office of mine in
which we 'consulted.' I never
knew exactly what they wanted;
this never, certainly, acted
as the Ritz - it was, after all
a raw and down and dirty
print shop. A couple of gay
guys, Damian and somebody,
I forget, they had a high-toned
Fifth Avenue hair salon, on a
second floor suite at about Fifth
and 51st maybe. They were used
to a really well-appointed place.
This galled them; Edison was
home for one of them, the town
here, so he tolerated it, just for
the ease of travel it afforded
him. His parents, for a long
time, owned Lou Rose Music,
on Rt. 27, in Edison. Instruments,
rentals, sheet music, etc. I had
another account lady, who'd
been with Lord & Taylor for
years, fashion and design and
buying. She was opening her
own high-toned outlet somewhere
in the city, and came to me by
reference - Air France or one
of those midtown Rockefeller
Center accounts I was holding.
I forget her name too - nice
lady, tall, high-caliber, all
fashion and posh. Her new
venture demanded only the
best - papers, ink, colors,
text, style etc. She'd come in
and we'd just talk on, about
all sorts of NY things, as she
selected ink matches, or papers,
or whatever. Her store was to
be called 'Ivy Vacance'. I
think that was it. Pronounced
in the French way 'Eevie
Va-cahnce'. Something like
that, very precious. I never
for the life of me knew what
it meant, but I never asked.
Ivy vacancies? Cold emptiness?
I just played along.
-
Another one, again a female,
was perhaps the most crazed.
Her bother was a local dentist
millionaire, raking through
Woodbridge with some budget
dental clinic thing; it's still
around. He's got a few places
actually, and calls himself
Eastern Dental Associates. It's
now in a large building of its
own, but when it started it was
a rental suite over by the mall.
His sister was a NYC graphics
art type - again all design
oriented - I went to her, she
never came out. She was sort
of a high-belted crank, very
self-absorbed and short with
inferiors; me included. She
always paid up, and her
brother backed her too, so
I stayed with it. Crazy sorts
of letterhead and envelope
combinations, complicated
little booklets and catalogues.
Generally really odd stuff. As
I recall, it was in the upper
west 80's somewhere, and was
an old, untidy but massive,
pre-war apartment. High up,
large rooms, high ceilings.
She lived, with pillows and
blankets and a cat or two,
in maybe 1/4th of her space.
The rest was like a stage-set
- piles of interesting things,
haphazardly placed about.
including swatches of
fabric samples, some old
chairs, gooseneck lamps,
etc. I never knew what
went on there, but - frankly
- the thought crossed my
mind often enough that some
sort of retro-porn was maybe
being filmed there. I never
saw anyone else; never asked,
never cared. That old Clinton
'don't ask / don't tell' suited
me just fine.
-
She was always crusty, cranky,
and harsh. In fact, if she'd been
a lawyer, she could have worked
there, having the receptionist
answer the phone by saying,
'Good afternoon, Crusty, Cranky,
and Harsh; how may I help
you?' So, the point was that
the rather cheesy decorating at
St. George Press often got on
these people's nerves. That
always baffled me, and I thought
they were all being pretentious.
In any place in NYC I'd ever
been, where there was production
and actual work being done, it
was the same way, especially
in the printing industry. Some
crazy Jewish or Hasidic guy
throwing things around a
screaming, or murderous,
thieving people always trying
to angle you out of something.
The offices were 2x4 cubicles
with piles of crud, old job
samples and broken boxes
of material. There wasn't any
flash or style underway at all,
yet these folk always wanted
Ralph Lauren in Colonia, NJ.
I could never figure it out.
People always bothered me.
A few years previous I'd been
up to my ankles in daily cow
shit; and now this - it was
really something.
-
I'd been there a number of
years too, and - once again -
it was all beginning to work
on me. I had a friend, in Elmira,
named Mary Kay, who used to
say she could only stay at one
job seven years at the most. After
that point she simply needed and
demanded a change; that things
got old and sour, the annoyances
overtook the job, it was no longer
fresh at all. I could understand her
point, yes for sure. She eventually
went of, to Tucson, AZ, and has
been there somewhere ever since.
I've seen her but three or four
times since, and they've been, let's
say, always interesting. But, for
my case, in the sour middle of
Woodbridge NJ, at St. George
Press, I sort of got to see the
slaughterhouse from the inside
out - all those local politics
people, the Camber of Commerce
double-dealers, the sell-outs and
the real estate shysters. Mayors
and fire inspectors, councilmen
and cops, all cut from the same
foul and ill-fitting cloth. I'll leave
it there, because they're all still
whiners, and I've got the goods.
One time, after I was long-antsy
and showing it (I hated business,
and I hated money and transactions
and dealers and finaglers too) my
boss took me aside, actually sort
of trapped me by picking me up
after I'd left my car off for service.
The guy I thought was coming to
get me turned out to be him instead.
So we could 'chat.' He was unhappy
with me at that point, because both
my appearance of late, and my
attitude in general, he'd noted,
had turned. He was probably
totally right, but little did I care.
We hashed it out, and he kept me
on. I actually walked off that job
two or three times before I did
just quit, and over these same
matters. One time, in a huff, I
tore off, hoping to just escape
the job forever, and then realized
it wasn't my car, but the company
van I'd torn off in. Like stealing a
library book or something, and
then returning it. When I did
return, everyone just looked
the other way, and laughed,
figuring, 'there goes Gary, he
went off again.' What galled me,
in this talk, however, was that
the guy told me that I was
causing him problems because
the 'Town Fathers' often came
in to the shop and he felt it
wasn't very respectful of me
to have these points of view.
And would I please cut my hair?
(I'd written a local news article,
about business ethics, the town's
direction, in which article I called
them FatCats, the rich and the
privileged). That drove me nuts.
As if it was Colonial Williamsburg
or something - every local creep
I'd met through this job, and I'd
met many, was a low-down
scoundrel, close to scraping
the bottom as far as ethics and
chances of corruption went. And
here he's suddenly calling them
'Town Fathers' as if my honest
behavior offended their breeches
and buckle shoes. Bring out the
stocks and the whipping post.
-
I've always been around losers like
this; what I call them anyway. Real
no-brainers, always after a buck.
The last thing I mention, and this
was pretty early on too - I can't
remember the year, but maybe
about 1981 or '2, this tribe of
bluecoats came around as the
'Management' company for what
was called Woodbridge Center,
a local piece of crap mall, the
usual stores ad pretzels and
garbage they sell in such places.
These guys were all young, mid
20's, execs on the management
track, fast-moving their was
along the channels of 'know-it-all'
and 'better-than-you' ism. Basically
they too were swindlers, stealing
a town from its people, like all
the others too, and building a
cheesy pile of junk in the old
claypits. So in the course of
some account work one morning,
this jerk starts getting all high
and mighty to me about his
'mission', or the mission of
the 'Simon Company' or whatever
his Mall Management bunch was
called. 'What we're essentially
doing is building a city from
scratch, where none existed
before. We need the services,
policing, security and atmosphere
of an urban city, without the feel
of any of that degrading aspect
of decay that cities now suffer
from....' I mean, you had to
hear this guy - a meandering
platter of bullshit. I wasn't about
to let it go past me with out
comment. I got right in his face.
'That's not what you're doing at
all, and who do you think you're
kidding? In case you didn't
know, there IS a Woodbridge,
and has been one for two-hundred
years, without your greaseball
help. What you and your clowns
are doing is killing it, ripping the
shreds left and transplanting
what you think is a'city' of
some 30 crappy stores where
you think you can control all
that comes into it. Cities have
smells, and rats, and problems,
and people who are hurting, and
as much bad as it has it has that
much good too, not that you'd
know anything about it.' It went
on some, and I soon got shut down,
and then removed from all dealings
with that account. Thank goodness
for small favors.
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