12,256. RUDIMENTS, pt. 858

RUDIMENTS, pt. 858

(am I blind yet?)

Father Jude (patron saint

of hopeless cases), in the

seminary, was my 'Spiritual

Advisor.' That was a title 

they gave to the faculty 

priest who was supposed

to guide us along and assist

us in personal, spiritual, faith

and growing-up problems. 

It was a real problem  -  kids

jerking off, taunting each other

sexually (I only recently did

hear, in the last few years, of 

some rather bewildering

hook-ups that were going on

of which, honestly, at the time

I had no clue. These dudes

were my peers, for goodness

sake!). What they expected

'Jude' to do about it was

beyond me. The guy was 

about as dull as a baseball

bat anyway. Smoked a pipe.

Had thick, black-rimmed

glasses, and was about 6 feet

tall, in the crazy and usual

black robe and beads and

cross and all. These guys 

all looked dark-side wizards.

He'd sit there, speaking in

his monotone, while cleaning

or disassembling a pipe, or

smoking one  -  talking in a

gentle manner about things 

that should or should not be

happening. Not as if there

was a solution to be had, just

rather that he was sort of

'aware' of the situations, about

how teen boys wake up, etc,

the kind of things that happen.

His idea was to get minds off

all that, but not by thinking

about weightier matters, instead

seeking solace in sports, outdoors,

and Holy Mother the Church.

Excuse me, what? Holy Mother

the Church? Thanks. A real

heap of help that was.

-

Paucity of effects, but plenty

of evidence. The Sunday New

York Times Magazine section,

with those full-page, in color,

underwear ads, models, girls,

yeah, those things got pawed

through like they were holy writ.

I fully expected someone to

go into Jude's office and simply 

ask, 'Am I blind yet?' That would

have been pretty funny, to go in

there crashing into the door and

wall and desk and chairs, fumbling

around. In addition, I used to
chuckle to myself picturing him
 saying, 'Me? My son, how do you
think I got these glasses?' Not 
that everyone there liked girls,

for sure. The 'other' side was

fairly represented too  -  guys

against guys, as it were. Like

sports, one-on-one. Everything

was deeply symbolic; it was a

wreck of a place with, really,

no place to go. A captive bunch

of boys  - either ridiculously

pious and overly weak and

religious, or starved, crazed,

and over-the-top drooling 

over awakened 14-year old

sexuality. 'Dear Father...

I have sinned.'

-

I have sinned. I have smiled.

I have sank. I have smirked.

I have sucked.  I have sneaked.

All that stuff could go on and

on. It was a litany. Father Jude

had his hands full, and that

ain't no pun.

-

Father Jude drove a black, 1955

Ford. It too was pretty funny. He

looked a bit like the father of

Dennis the Menace, in it. The

heavy-rimmed black glasses

frames, the upright posture,

the pipe. He did everything all

slow and deliberate, and he drove

like that too. I never knew where

any of these guys went, but they'd

be seen driving off, down the

long roadway that exited the

place. There were a small number

of cars around, maybe between

twenty of them (a guess) there

were 5 cars, and I guess they

pooled them, using what they

needed when. I never saw more

than one in a car at any one time.

It was kind of weird. They came

and went. The house they all lived

in was a large, rambling place up

the top of the area, near the old,

round, buffalo barn. (The place

itself, all those acres, up through

the 1940, had been, yes, a buffalo

farm? Also kind of weird. Bison

meat? In deep south Jersey?). There

were, here and there, remnants of

all what once must have been. We

had a regular, working barn over 

at the other end of the farm, with 

cows, both Holstein and Jersey 

(brown) cows. But over at the

priest-house section was the round, 

buffalo, barn. In between all that

was walkways, grassy meadows,

a large pepper field, the seminary

buildings, the drama-stage, the chapel,

and the 'refectory' (where we all ate,

as one). There was a gym, tennis

courts, ball fields, and a high-jump

thing. Pole-vaulting. It was all

pretty cool   - stage, showers,

lounge-rooms, recreation areas,

and the rest. Then dormitories 

and classrooms too. There was

a lot to take in, and each year 

the new crop of kids would be 

running scared for the first three

weeks or so, getting the layout

and the feel of the place, always 

unsure, never knowing what to

expect. Shit-scared, as it was. 

In  a place like that, who could 

blame them? The promise of

sanctity and seclusion, always

held out before them, was really

hard to come by. At least boys

didn't get pregnant. I guess.

-

Indentured servant? Servant of

the Lord? Survivor of the most

fit? Strangest man in the oasis?

Any of those four categories, 

and a hundred more, could be 

held out for anyone. Each of

us, it seemed, had their own

horror story  -  the reason 

they'd left home, what they'd

left behind, and why? None of

it was much pretty. My friend,

John, from Brooklyn, he had

his tales of family woe. John

liked Rudi Nureyev, a famed

Bolshoi Ballet guy who'd

defected or something while 

on tour. He'd taken NYC by

storm, all those Lincoln Center

and Jackie Kennedy types set

to swooning. John called him

'Fruity Rudy.' It sounded so

perfectly right, so sing-song,

so pure. I used to think that part
of the 'privilege' of being from
Brooklyn or New York was to
have opinions and knowledge
about such matters. Like the
Bolshoi Ballet, and Rudi
Nureyev, etc. Turned out I 
was way wrong, but whatever.
I wouldn't know a ballet
from a valet at that time.