RUDIMENTS, pt. 877
(even I've been there)
"Preludium! I sing in a
loud voice to no one at all.
I did finally get out today,
to the ocean, where I stood
in the rain. There's nothing
better than a storm-tossed
sea and those beckoning
waves were calling to me.
Curling, in fact." That's all
the opening to one of these
books around here that I've
got meticulously piled up
in the modern sense, which
means not piled at all, just
rather amassed in some
electronic manner, at the
ready, in the fashion, a la
mode, of computer storage.
Oh, but why. I had a friend
once who burned all his
writing, he said, in Central
Park. I did see him burning
something, but I couldn't be
sure what it was, if it was
not just copies, etc. I didn't
much care, certainly not
to the extent he did. It
was a combination of, as
I saw it, vanity, mischief
and anger, all rolled up into
one. And I could understand
that, yes, for sure, and he
was probably right. But, a
small fire, just off The Ramble,
by that old cave in the grotto?
In 1974 no less? I just wasn't
sure about any of that. Safe
as ever, yes, because it was
all on rocks, and recessed -
and I've not been back but a
few times since. But, the poor
fellow's dead now, as is his
father too. I used to wish I
was him, sometimes. The
night I turned 30, at The
White Horse, he threw me
a party, with a few others.
My gift that night was the
collected works (LP's) of
Edith Piaf. (French chanteuse).
I thought that was pretty cool
even if the night was the greatest.
There was a fight on the floor,
by the bar; the rest-room was
a mess, and I think the fight had
started there. Music was blasting,
all night; real junk. Punk. Joe
Jackson, maybe The Clash too.
Some down and out homeless
type was around too, a young
kid about 25, tops, going from
table to table, with a rag tied
around his chin, crying and
begging for money to fix his
toothache, which he said he
couldn't live with any longer.
He was begging people for
money or, if not that, maybe
that they knew a dentist who
would help him out. It was
all so excruciating. Then my
friend said, before we all got
up to walk west to the docks
and finish after midnight with
the wine and the talk, that if
he wasn't famous by the time
he was 30, he was going to kill
himself. That startled me, and
probably as much as did that
kid's toothache problem. I had
never thought of it in those terms.
Fame? Who writes for fame, I
thought to myself, what's with
that; it' so cheap, and what a
waste. I write to stay alive and
to hell with fame. I just figured
he was boozed up. Anyhow, what
do you say to someone who says
that? Hell, then, I hope you're
famous, and soon. (He was 27
already). We shared the same
birthday, but he was adopted
and was never sure what about
himself was real or right. Like
the date of birth. Or I guess his
real name, or where he was from.
All that's got to work on a person
too. I always thought. So, anyway,
him saying that about me, at age
30, I always figured was a bit
of calling me out, but I didn't
care. I couldn't have handled
'fame' if it came anyway, and
the things I was writing then
really had only little behind them.
When you're that young, what do
people expect you to be, a font
of age-old wisdom? Heck, at age
30 you're still learning about how
toothpaste comes out of a tube.
Wider questions of life and death
and circumstance? I think not.
-
There was some other girl there
too, that night, from my home
town. I didn't really know her.
She was a big girl, I mean in
weight, but really nice too. Irish.
She had something to do with
the New Jersey Symphony
Orchestra, and her gift that night
was tickets to some NYSymphony
program at the Mosque Theater,
on Broad Street, in Newark.
A night of Sarah Vaughn, singing
classics, and being filmed too for
PBS. The Moderator TV guy was
Robert Alda, an old actor guy who
was the father of Alan Alda, the
MASH guy. I never liked him,
always annoyed me. But his father,
I'd never even heard of, and Sarah
Vaughn was only marginal to me
as well. Nothing big deal. But it was
a nice night. The old concert hall
was really nice too, all tiered and
well-lit and good acoustics. I
had wanted, actually, for my
Grandmother to go, instead of me,
or with me anyway, since she was
a Sarah Vaughn fan, from the 30's
and 40's and would have really
loved all that - but even with my
constant pleading she said no,
claiming her legs wouldn't hold
out, there were too many stairs
involved, and the rest. Too bad;
by 1981 she was dead, 2 years
later. Seems like, sooner or
later, everyone's dead.
-
Broad Street Newark, that night,
was a trip. This was in the high
holy days of wreckage and ruin of
urban NY/NJ places, and to be on
this 'non-business' end of old
Broad Street, was a chancy deal.
The theater itself was like the last
sensible thing left there from the
old days of the 1930's when Newark,
up by Broad and Market Streets
anyway, was a real, swinging,
jazz capital. All the big guys and
acts came through here, and the
string of local streets was famed
here for its jazz clubs, halls for
recital, and theater places too. It's
all gone now - ravaged by neglect
time, both without shame too.
The gangster hoodlum Dutch
Schultz was shot and killed in
some 'Chop House' up by the
intersection. (They used to call
certain restaurants chop houses,'
I guess because they served chops
and steaks. I never see that used
anymore). Right through the 1980's
the old abandoned place was still
there, and you could just stroll right
in - no one was around - and look
at the old place. It was all a wreck,
but if you knew the Schultz story,
it was pretty vivid. He'd acquired
a huge some of money (someone
else's), and had had it hidden away
up in the Catskills, a town or three
over from Woodstock, deep in the
woods by the Indian Head rock
formation. His valet or someone
sworn to secrecy and then killed,
buried it. There was a map somewhere.
The dead guy took the knowledge
with him, in death, and only Schultz,
it was said, knew the location. So,
anyway, after he got shot, they
dragged him away and it took like
3 hospital-days for him to die, and
the whole time he was ranting and
mumbling crazy-like. They call it
Dutch Schultz's last poem and it's
not really 'poetry' just rather some
mad, crazy jumble of words trying
to get across the location of the
buried treasure for others to find.
It was all a big failure, and he died.
People still traipse around up there,
searching. Even I've been there.
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