12,238. RUDIMENTS, pt. 852

RUDIMENTS, PT. 852

(Injun Joe and the drunk)

It's funny, where I live;

there could have been a 

cool, grand history here of 

stuff, the old atmospheres 

of fen and swamp, old clumps

of buildings down in the

swamps, those Indian families,

the American native kinds,

that used to live there. I used

to deliver some papers there,

Star Ledger stuff, way down

into those old, no-place

swampy spots. We called

them, the people that lived 

there  -  and I know I've 

covered this before here, 

in other chapters, but I'm 

tweaking it again  -  we

called them the 'Way Outs,'

and always held their delivery

for last, in case anyone was,

maybe, driving towards

Carteret or the Turnpike

entrance there, thus saving

me another trip 'way out' there

with some stupid newspapers.

They, first off, never had money

on collection days, timidly

sending a kid to the front door

to mumble, 'My Mommy says 

next week. We got no money 

now.' I couldn't have cared less,

that buck and a quarter a week

or whatever it was, but every 

so often the route pick-up 

guy would go freaky on me, 

like when it reached maybe 

8 bucks, and start demanding 

money or making me stop 

going out to them. I always felt, 

Jeepers, the least they deserve

is a paper, you jerk. It was, to

me, just all Blair Road stuff.

And it's all gone now, corporate

crap having been let in instead.

Nobody ever cares about

people, just things. Money 

and profit and deals. That's why

I always felt they were all jerky

a'holes, and still are, and also

that's why I took so well to art

and writing when it all began 

coming my way after all that

cheesy church junk I'd gone 

through. I never needed any

'church' to talk to me about

God. I could, in  fact, tell

them a few things. Miracles

and crap they never even

thought about in their wildest

'Holy Lord I'm impregnated'

moments. Down Blair Road

way, there wasn't any of that

tedium; just weird, fetid air,

old ways and beliefs, a number

of oddball, native families  -  

holes in the swampy woods 

with campfire spots, old wooden

fences, mostly fallen over, a

few dogs maybe, junked cars,

oily puddles in muddy clearings,

a few benches and seats and stuff

made out of logs, here and there

a rope or something hanging from

a tree  -  I always swore them to

be engine hoists, and not the

neck-hanging stuff. There was

a paucity of wild animals, it

being the late 1950's and about 

1960/61. Deer, raccoon, and all

that were pretty much non-existent,

everything having been DDT'd out 

of existence for thirty years or so,

so the geniuses could do things

like lay the Turnpike through,

put up shit-ass truck warehouses,

wire the ground and waters for

all sorts of poisons, call it good,

take a day of rest,  and go back to

their thieving bastard ways.
It's called local politics.

-

I'd go to the Way Outs' houses the

next time, and when the kid came

to the door I'd just say look, I

have to see your Mommy, or

Daddy. I'd finally get someone 

at the door and wheedle three 

or four bucks out of them to

tide me over. I never knew why

they even got the paper, for

what it meant to them. More

trouble than it was worth, I'm

sure. Nothing great about reading

more about the same old crap 

culture that already had beaten 

you to death, stole and then 

ruined your lands, made nasty 

caricatures out of your race, 

took credit for the blames

and blames for the credit,

and now pretends to educate

your kids  -  which kids, by the

way, I for sure never saw in any

school I ever went to around 

those parts. Always confused me.

We had a substitute teacher too,

Mrs. Gaspari, widowed or whatever.

She and her son Paul, who did

go to school with me, lived

right down there, in that same

swampy woods area, but they

weren't Injuns, didn't seem

desperate, and he went to

school and she most often was

in our school substituting for

one or another teacher. It was

pretty cool; and she was a

pushover  -  as most subs were.

They got the paper too, yeah,

but they always paid. Paul

was a loner, kept himself aloof, 

didn't mingle much. I always

figured it was because of where

he lived, but I never delved nor

did I find anything out.

-

That was all, as I said, another,

and I believe, far better world.

two things to make my point

pop right up. First is the snoops

we have around now. I have this

fire guy in his little truck, every

time I turn around it's at my corner.

I may be the burr in all their saddles,

but tough shit. It doesn't qualify

me for intestinal snooping. This

is still America, even if the little

weasels think they own the place.

I don't go to his house and piss 

on his lawn. He ought remove
himself from mine.

-

Another item, is the horseshit mayor.

He writes himself up about how

cool it is that he's going around

tearing things down and getting

the 'eyesores' around town cleaned

up. Everything ends up looking

like bland, tan, siding, bare grass,

and bullshit with his name on it.

Meanwhile he gets a hard-on 

(maybe) over yet another 

Dunkin' Donuts, and a few 

more dead-skunk strip mall

places and calls it progress. I

think the school kids his crowd

purports to teach could learn 

multiplication by using the number

of Dunkin' Donuts he's spread

around times the number of crap

projects, to get a nice, fat, and

probably drunken, even number.
The little councilman guy in his 
fire-wagon, on that Dunkin' 
Donuts issue, fire wagon, he's said,
about it. 'We'll take as many as they 
give us.' I got news for His Flameness  
-  that's  why people here are fat and 
slovenly, because of the corporate 
poisonings of things like Dunkin' 
Donuts. Go ahead, take a look big fella'.
I have so much more to say. Dare

I? Or should I just retreat back

to the fens and swamps of my

own steamy mind?
-
How could anyone in their right
mind call what has happened here
progress? Back in good old Columbia 
Crossroads, a guy nearly got
murdered for starting proceedings
to build a Ski-Do or Arctic cat
snowmobile dealership, a simple
cinder-block, useless looking
building, on a nice bluff along
the nearby paved road. I myself
too was against it, but I felt
powerless, being as I was a
newcomer, had no ties to the
place, and no legacy-voice anyway.
If I'd have spoken up, they'd have 
probably shot me too! I mainly was 
against the lights and illumination 
it would bring, and of course
the damned noise. In Avenel here,
that's all different now. People
can't take a crap without a light
being on; there's lights on
everywhere....and nothing to see!
And 'newcomers' think it's all
great anyway, and they seem to
never be able to shut their mouths.
-
Whew! If that wasn't a swift and
fast run-through of a bunch of
things needing mention, I don't
know whatever is. Hell yeah,
give me a hand for that one.
It's always been said 'By their
works, ye shall know them.' That
was always operative to me, and it's
better than any argument, debate,
or controversy. In about the
same general area of where these
Way Outs used to be, getting
down to their area anyway, they've
now built an ocean of apartments 
and warehouses. In the same
general area they have what they 
call a 'Nature Preserve,' named
after  -  I guess for comic relief  -  
some local Fords drunk from
Planko's. I knew Ernie when he
was alive, from St. George Press
and township dealings. No matter.
I know what I know and no one can
pull any wool over on me. When they
first put this nature thing together, I
sat there one day with a lady from the
Woodbridge River Watch, or Nature
Conservancy, or whoever it was then.
They had, she said, strict adherence
to rules  -  native plants only, original
seeds, natural format, etc. It was
OK, maybe, for a year or two. Since
then the blowhard Mayor and town
have taken it back, or away, and
all of a sudden the 'Natural' habitat,
which they still brag about, is bogus.
Decorated. Bridges. Walkways.
Artificial pond placements, etc.
Butterfly Weeds are all gone, and
alien species now planted everywhere.
Way to go, for sure, and how much
money got drained into that swamp?