12,462. RUDIMENTS, pt. 930

RUDIMENTS, pt. 930

(stop wrestling with the cat)

Sometimes, the directions that

things take me in get pretty

outlandish. It's always been

that way, pretty much, over

the years, as people seem to

be just letting me in on things,

talking about stuff without

really being asked. I'm a

cursory kind of guy around

others, not overly talking too

much, keeping it discreet.

Yet, at the same time, others

very quickly come forward.

Here's an example, an easy

one. I write these stories,

often about old days but

often, as well, interweaving

current things that have just

happened. As a writing exercise,

it all works: Just the other day,

I'm out on the road, traveling,

and ending up in a town I used

to live in, about 300 miles

from home. Completely

without lead-in or any start,

I'm  standing outside, with my

dog, a double set-of storefronts,

on the left a used bookstore,

and on the right a liquor store.

My wife's in the bookstore

while I wait around  -  this guy

approaches, out from the rear

of the stores  -  grassy old road

and path, and he was surely

headed to the liquor store. This

is the 'south' side of town, which

mostly means bad news. The

physical places are mostly shot,

the houses are a wreck, most

of the storefronts are closed up

or boarded. Not a nice scene.

This guy, though the nicest

guy in the world, I could tell

was a representative of the

down and outers there. The

dog instantly becomes the

focus of conversation, after

the preliminary, 'hey bro,

what's up?' stuff. He lacked

maybe three or four teeth, top

row, but otherwise seemed

hale enough  -  chugging on

a cigarette mightily, but in

all respects happy and content

with himself and his situation.
[I want to admit here, in the
poverty of Elmira it was actually
as pleasure to note people sucking
on real cigarettes at last  -  none
pf those candy-girl vapor clouds].

In scenes like this, I am adept

enough to know what to watch

for  -  no lurking sidekick, no

sly or criminal intent, no pleas

for money, or booze, or cigarettes.

That would have happened

already -  he was just a talker

and looking for an ear. The

talk turns to the dog  -  age,

behavior, and the rest. He says

he's got a husky now, nice dog,

but his previous dog was his

favorite; and he goes on about

it a bit.

-

One always needs to surmise

the mental scenario of such

people, as they talk. Watch

their eyes, see what they do

with their hands, watch their

feet  -   there's a sort of telltale

in-place walk that some people

do which usually evidences a

problem, whether from drugs,

medication, or, again, intent.

So, feeling OK, I take a little

of the bait, and ask about the

dog he liked; what was it, how

did it die? Old age? etc. This guy

seemed like little could throw

him; he was in control. Not a

big guy, slightly slighter than

me, though who knows what

lurks. I know well the format

of southside living, from my

own days in town, and know

too that it's gotten worse. (I was

never a denizen of the area, the

other end of the 'city' was my

territory, home, and center).

So he says the previous dog

was an Alaskan Malamute.

Then he goes into the whole

litany of the dog's good points,

and this leads, unfortunately,

to the climax of his story  -  the

dog's death. I'm figuring old

age, doggie cancer, a tumor,

whatever, probably forgetting

that I was on the brutal southside,

the edge of everything, the center

of a certain form of old Elmira

iniquity. It all turned out very

badly here, this conversation, for

the words the guy used, which

do still baffle me. I'll get to it.

But, first, he says, in a very

matter of fact manner, 'My 

friend threw it off the cliff, 

where I live, and it strangled 

itself, got hung.' Yep, you

read that correctly. First off,

he puts it in the voice of

making it the dog's fault. It

strangled itself? Secondly, 

did he mean maybe a second 

or third floor porch? He used

the word 'cliff'  -  heard quite

clearly and correctly, by me.

-

There are times when I just

figure all things are right and

correct, and any confusion stems

from me, not the situation; so

that's how I took this too. Maybe

I'd just missed something along the

way. Was I expected to respond?

Say something weird back? A

follow-up to the whole 'friend'

thing. Friend? Is that how it

was done here? Throwing
your dog to a hanging?

-

A couple days go by, now it's

today; I'm driving back to home,

and we cross the border, up above

the Water Gap, into some truck

stop place  -  coffee, food, gasoline.

Again, I'm standing around and

the gas guy starts talking. Mostly

about New Jersey, seeing my

plates. So I (stupidly?) ask if he

lived nearby. He says, (relating
a story here, his words),  "No

f'n way. I ain't never livin' in

Jersey again; it's too f'd up. Rules

and laws, trouble. I live in Pennsy,

with my guns. They said I couldn't

take 'em into Jersey if I moved

here. My AR15's are my babies.

I got 7 of 'em. I said, 'What?

What if I take the bayonets off?'

The agent says, (deep voice here),

'No form of assault weapons are

allowed into the State of New

Jersey, bayonets or not.' That's

screwed up man, no way, not

for me. Where I go they go. So

I drive 25 minutes each way to 

get here. Then when I get home,

I wrestle with my cat, and I can

never fall asleep. Next thing I 

know, it's one-a.m., and I say,

'hell yeah, better sleep. I gotta'

be back here for 7. But it beats 

Jersey. You have a nice day now..."

-

So, if that's not a story a day, two

sometimes, I don't know what is.
I got to thinking about the future,
as I drove away  -  hoping just as 
much I was driving away from the 
future. Both these guys were male;
one was about 25  -  the gas guy  -
and the other, the dog guy, I'd
guess 40. The dog guy lives in
his poverty, probably with state
support and no problems over it.
The other, the gas-kid, makes his
choices, stays out where he wishes,
and, along with his guns and a
certain talky cheeriness, reaches
for his own Life, Liberty, and
Pursuit of Happiness  -  as I
pass a large American flag,
slamming in the wind, way
high up on a pole. Who's to
say right or wrong, and what
that flag is flying for anyhow?