RUDIMENTS, pt. 942
(I guess the stairs were too much)
Much like old men in their season,
the heirs to Michelangelo will put
a bullet to the back of my head;
well, they will if I ask them to
anyway. I wonder if I should be
kneeling for that? I read once, in
some book or something by I
think it was Nick Tosches, that
if it's done right the body will
remain in that position, and not
even topple. Here's the quote:
"Louie pulled the trigger through
the plastic bag, [the pistol was
in, like an evidence bag], and
that was that. He stepped back.
Perfect. It was funny: if somebody
was kneeling and you did him
close and straight through the
head, really close and really
straight, just so, with no second
shot to jack him, he would stay
kneeling. But if you tried to set
up some collapsed, discombobulated
stuff to make him look like he was
on his knees when he went, it was
a real pain to do, and it never looked
right; never." I'll have to tell you
here, I really don't even fathom
what he's talking about, but no
matter. It reads OK, and I get the
writing. That's pretty much the
opening pages of the book - which
aren't fun at all - robbery, anal sex,
pistols, nasty talk, and then that.
And then some guy getting it in
the back of his head. Dead out.
Some poor schmuck too, with
a wife and a kid; a guys who's
just trying to run some shitty
shop or store. I hate that much
negativity. Sometimes, in NYC,
I'd come across a crime scene,
probably something a lot like
this one - with police tape and
off-limits stanchions, some
waiting cop or two standing
mutely around, guarding a scene
only made important by death.
Small circles on the sidewalk,
drawn to show where bullets
were found, maybe a chalk
body-shaped outlined, where
the stiff had last been (well, hey,
what did you expect?). I always
used to make up funny Italian
names for the dead guys at
these scenes : Schmuckalou
Pignatelli; Rigatoni Miserecordia;
Pantini Lasagna Restorino.
Any one of them could have
been me.
-
Voltaire's brand of sound, I found
out much later, was some sort of
military band they all loved.
His shy, famous, nothingness was
its own laughter in the dark. It
lasted long, and it went far. It
sounded like echo, but in a park
filled with people; not a cave, nor
a cistern. Nothing. The noise of....
-
There was a barrel-garage, or a
barrel warehouse or whatever
it's called, back when barrels
were still used - the wooden
kind, with staves and wood, made
by what were called 'Coopers,'
who were really just men good
with and at making wooden
barrels. Next time you meet
someone with the last name
Cooper, ask that person when,
if they know, their forbear came
over from Britain and if he had
been a King's Cooper (who were
on the Royal staff and made
barrels and stuff for the family);
wine-casks, barrels, lids, side-
boards and all that. Or were they
related to the more lowly sort;
makers of barrels for nails and
oils and liquids and powders?
See if they know. This barrel
garage I speak of served the
west-side waterfront right
nearby. I can still find the area
and here and there some old
sign of what once was, but it's
mostly all gone now, and there's
no need for cooperage, freight,
storage, drayage, cargo. Hell,
there's nothing going at all now
except the usual nicely-titted
fancy-dressed girls, and guys,
jogging their little peedle-paths
through the Hudson Waterfront
jog parks and all that crap, with
stops for a latte and yogurt, the
food of Kings - or, well, Queens
anyway. (I'm not sure what a
peedle-path would be, but I liked
the word and left it in place).
-
What I'm meaning to say is that
some evil magician has taken my
world away from me. I won't
let it pass unremarked. The sailor
and stevedore guys, back on those
old 1960's boats - before cargo
containers and locked boxes -
would throw things around, handle
freight like it was their own bananas.
Barrels would 'break' open and the
guys would need another one, but,
please, please, it had to look just
as battered. Not new, ok? It was
all a science, and there were
slats and pieces of wood of amuch
and varied vintage; I was always
amazed. The guy would say to me,
'Well, how are ya' doin' today?' I
never even knew why, and I'd just
answer 'Good, good, things are good.'
I used to think he probably figured
I was from some port of call 3
continents away, never knowing
much about anything like that,
talking the same to all. It was fun.
I had an uncle, a boat guy like
that, who jumped ship from
Germany, back in the late 30's,
and roved NYC. His brother or
someone had wired him not to
return to Germany - bad things
were up, he'd be conscripted, etc.
He stayed in NYC, learned the
language with my aunt, his future
wife, who told me they'd sit in
Yorkville (the German enclave
uptown-east) and view endless
American westerns, on movie
screens, and he'd pick up language
from that. I guess it worked; he
sounded good to me, even accented.
He always said, to me, when
anything occurred, in a slow
and heavy voice, 'Dun't Verry
Abowt et, Haf a Nutha Bier!'
I love language.
-
There's another scene in that
book, later on, about some guys
digging up relics, or a manuscript,
or something valued, and they
come across this : "This was all
the more curious as there seemed
nothing here but litter left behind
by the workmen: many crumbling
castaway newspapers from the
summer of 1928; wine bottles and
beer bottles and soda bottles; cigar
butts and crumpled cigarette packs;
food wrappings; broken tools, bent,
rusted nails, and shims and scraps
and shavings of wood - all of it
blanketed with the dust of a tomb."
Reads like the 1970's in NYC to me.
-
I was always at the rough and ready,
or, anyway, ready for the rough. It
never happened to me - a friend I
knew jumped to his death from a
loft window, over by the Holland
tunnel. Another guy died, somehow,
up in his eighth-floor rooms. It was
weird - without an elevator, the
building just had long stairwells.
Yeah they could tire you out, but
when he was dead, I turned the
corner once and, surprised, saw
a sort of police crane thing, and
up at the guy's window, as I
remember it from a hook or a
claw, with cops and guys standing
around on the street, dangled a heavy
canvas-strapped body bag in some
sort of tray, slowly coming down,
on that crane hoist, to the ground.
I guess the stairs were too much.
When I found out it was him, in
that sack, I sure was surprised.
Heroin was the culprit. He'd OD'd.
When I found out it was him, in
that sack, I sure was surprised.
Heroin was the culprit. He'd OD'd.
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