RUDIMENTS, pt. 837
(in the matter of Ace Mulvaney)
Without a premise it's
difficult to draw a
conclusion, yet, many
times it's easy to formulate
a premise to fit the already
pre-ordained conclusion.
I think the universe was
made like that. Many were
the nights when I'd barrel
up to one bar or another
without any idea of what
was going to be happening.
Sometimes it ended up
being just plain ridiculous.
Point: One night at the
Pioneer, in Iselin - before
the onslaught of South Asians
had laid claim to and then
been given the town. It was
about 1993, I'd guess, and
they weren't yet around.
The Pioneer at that time
was a white-boy's biker
bar, in the evenings and
deep into the night anyway.
During the day you could
still find the usual endless
old codgers in there,
gurgling and nursing
their woes and beers. But,
a number of years of habit
had turned it over at nights
to bikes, motorcycle guys,
creeps and buffoons too.
Let's not leave the higher
classes out. There was some
sort of problem with the
cops one way or another, and
this one Summer night, after
a prolonged period of cop
and patrol annoyances, it
came to a head, sort'a. It
was a heavy night, maybe
30 motorcycles, and at this
time they still let us park
in the street, curbside, and
the parking lot. Which was
the cops' beef this night;
they'd decided to put up
some resistance to the
ongoing fiasco we were
making of and with them.
Short bikes, long bikes,
loud bikes, quiet bikes,
put-together bikes, and
the store-bought heaps too.
Haphazard parking, drunken
revelry, drinking outside
(another no no), noise, music,
and probably you name it
whatever else and it was
there too. This Ace Mulvaney
cop guy comes steaming in
with patrol assistant or whatever
rank hits the street. The cop
with the mouth, Ace Mulvaney,
was some sort of supervisor.
Anyway, he comes storming
in (this is true stuff) and loudly
starts proclaiming 'All motorcyclists,
outside, now!' (Nobody except
salespeople and Rider Ed ever
called us 'Motorcyclists'). It took
a while for the message to filter
around, the rumor was they were
out there madly writing tickets
for everyone (not true), and
eventually about 40 wobbly guys
and some girls for the watching
filtered out, knotted up in bunches.
It was a Friday night. This ironclad
bunch of nothing cop starts going
off on his harangue, positioning
himself as some baddest-ass drill
sergeant type you'd ever see, how
he and his men were sick and tired
of the infractions, rowdiness,
violations, noise and illegal
parking we presented to them
and they were going to start
doing something about it, starting
tomorrow night, and we'd better
be ready. No more parking in the
street; no more haphazard parking;
no more ape-hangers (high handlebars);
no more drinking outside; paperwork
and plates had all better be in
order. And then he began picking
out a few guys in the crowd, I
guess the ones who'd been really
annoying him, and pretty much
going down the list of the crappy
things they're always guilty of.
And then...he actually started
walking along the bikes, one
by one, with a comment or
comments about this or that
on each bike, as he passed,
which would no longer be
tolerated. He went so far as to
start bitching out one or two
bikes that, in his mind, when
parked with the kickstand, had
'too much lean' - as if that
mattered or was even a violation
except in his petty, gumball, head.
It was truly laughable, and you
must believe me when I say that.
First off, too, half the guys came
out with a beer bottle in their
hand, violating his principle
before he even opened his slot
of a mouth. Nobody flinched; it
was like a clown show. And, you
know what? Everyone acted scared
for like the next week, and we did
stop parking at the curb and just
began using the parking lot, but
absolutely nothing ever transpired
after that. No difference; no new
or extra enforcement. Nothing.
It was all such a pathetic cop joke.
And right after that too, the town
began falling away to Swamiville.
Real estate changed hands quicker
than a wink, buildings got switched
over to sari stores, money-transfer
laces, cheap Indian jewelry, and
eateries. And you know what else?
Exceptions were made and laws
changed everywhere to afford the
new arrivals, Indians and Pakis,
preferred parking, free lots, rights
of crossing and congesting traffic,
all as if 100 years of stupid white
people previously had never
occurred. Hell yeah, we were
being discriminated against by the
powers in Woodbridge intent on
cashing in on the new real estate
values and driving out the old
whites and those bastard bikers.
And they did too. The Pioneer
is now some disgusting banquet
hall for Diwali-fests. And that's
how we all began ending up at
the Maple Tree too, down in the
Avenel no-man's land of swamp
and beer. Now even Avenel's got
an attitude about itself. Two Irish
twinkletoes running security; one's
a Mayor and one's a fake cop.
-
Now, I'm about to end this tale
with my imaginary speech to the
wrinkle-headed cops out there
that night: In 1783, George
Washington sent a circular letter
to the States, describing the
situation of the new nation as
he saw it. 'We have equal occasion
to felicitate [congratulate] ourselves
on the lot which Providence has
assigned to us, whether we view
it in a natural, a political, or a
moral point of light. The natural
resources abundant, the freedom
and independence, the free
cultivation of letters, the Age
of Reason in which it's been
grown, the commerce and
liberal sentiment, and above
all the pure and benign light
of Revelation, should have
these citizens completely free
and happy. And if that becomes
not the case, the fault will be
certainly their own. Such is
our situation, and such are our
prospects.' Drink up, boys.
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