12,688. JIMMY MESSERSCHMITT SMITH, A QUITE RAUCOUS FELLOW

JIMMY MESSERSCHMITT 
SMITH, A QUITE 
RAUCOUS FELLOW

Since he started this stuff, he believes

in nothing at all or everything at once

and says it all the same to him. Why 

didn't I think of that? And then he says

I should watch out because Mother's

Day is coming and I'm not prepared.

So I'm going to Summer Camp for

that, even though he says it'll be

too late. 'But good for next year,

right?' I ask. He stands outside the

circle, I notice, as he answers,'Take

your blue eyeshades down and put 

up a new mantel, the fire inside this

one is going out.' So I look up the

chimney and see he's right. 'But, 

hmmm, nice legs,' I say. I thought

there was a woman in the room, of

a sudden, but I was mistaken. It's

Larry Jedd the furrier instead. He's

got a package for 'Mr. Smith.' The

card says, 'bang, bang, you're dead.'

We carefully unwrap the pistol

inside. It's made of chocolate! 

Jimmy then turns to Jedd and says

'Are we even doing an Easter this

year, or something else instead?'

12,687. THE GROWING SIMULATION

THE GROWING SIMULATION

Mars and Venus. Jupiter and Saturn.

What's this world coming to? Now

even the stars in deep space are

turning out for nothing. It seems

the more pretentious the location,

the more stupid the response.

-

Metuchen drills a hole in its wall,

while Princeton settles for new 

values. Some are now learning

new ways to eat : Moral superiority

is of course the main course.

-

The world will end, not with a bang,

nor even with a whimper; but with a

grand sale on toilet paper and wipes

at the local emporium. Be sure to

buy local, Avenel.

12,686. TELETHON DON

TELETHON DON

Here's the hammer you came in

with. No, it's not a gavel; it's got

claws. It's a hammer, and everything

is a nail. Man, I get disappointments

five times an hour. My friend was a

judge, and he shot himself; another

was an Olympic swimmer and he

died at Sea Bright, a little dipshit

town at the start of the Jersey shore.

The jetty and the sea wall had bashed

his body up by the time they'd found

him. Like mussels on some shiny

jetty rocks.

-

I saw Bruce too; he came by in his

big-deal old Corvette and walked into

the bar. Just like that; people stirred

and all, but it was no big deal. His

place is two miles or so over the

Rumson Road Bridge; Muhlenbrink

Road is how it goes. Romeo and

Juliet. Samson and Delilah.

-

It was later that year that I began

going blind  -  it was slowly at first,

and then it got worse. Now? I do

probably like this darkness better

than the light.

12,685. RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,010

RUDIMENTS, pt. 1010

(no one told me a thing)

Back in this hospital time I'm

speaking of, 1958, the Perth

Amboy Hospital was just one

building, 5 or 6 stories. It had

the usual lobby thing, guest

passes for visiting hours, all

that. I think there was also a

little place to eat, get lunch

or whatever, while you waited.

And there was a bank of two

or three elevators. But it was

all small, square or rectangular

spaces, made for utility. That

same place now is all different.

It's been rebuilt and expanded

three times that I know of; and

the entries and lobbies now (all

plural) aren't even in the same

places, and everything is oriented

differently. I think I can still find

the window/corner I used to look

out of, based on the view that I

can remember, but of that I'm

not even sure. It's not even called

by its local name now  - with the

advent today of all those medical

centers and group hospitals and all,

this is now called something so

completely different and foreign,

and no longer local at all, that it

may as well be called 'Paris France

Hospital Group,' or, perhaps, 'The

Caribbean Medical Center.' There's

nothing local about it. Not that

you necessarily want a local feel

to your hospital stay, but it was

sure more human. All around it,

like little medieval secondary huts,

used to be numerous doctor offices,

clinics for rehab and follow-up.

That too is all gone now, and I don't

even know if the doctors in the

hospital still even have any local

medical sites, as these huts were.

Dr. Breslau; Dr. Slobodien; etc.

I had a bunch. I don't know what

any of it cost either, but it must

have all been a nasty penny, even

back then. My parents tried to sue,

but lost the case. Fortunately for

me, it wasn't really a 'loss' since the

settlement called for payment of

expenses by the Reading Railroad,

and I myself was awarded 1900,

(yes, that's nineteen hundred) dollars,

to be administered as a trust for me

not available until I was age 21. It

wasn't much more than maybe 200

additional dollars by then, when I

did redeem it, but that was how I

had money to put down on the

farmhouse and Pennsylvania

hideaway that I later got (and even

written here about, lots, in previous

chapters). My body kind of healed

up and fixed itself, everything still

worked, with a few glitches. By the

time I got rolling again, on crutches

for a good while, I was pretty swift

on them and could run a mean crutch

race. Problem was, for a 'race' you

need two, at least. I had only me.

-

All the time in the hospital gave me

plenty to reflect. I tried reliving what

had happened to me, but couldn't.

It was as if I'd lost the string of 

anything that had to do with before

that moment. A closed book was

settled around me, and I'd now been

given a new one to get started on. A

new, complete me, in fact. I felt that

and I knew that. My old eight was

now my new one, as far as years went;

it's only now that this begins haunting,

because at 70 beyond it doesn't seem

much sense to still seeing that as an

advantage  -  having basically run

down ALL time to these last, far

fewer, personal moments. Hoping 

they last. (It's funny, for just today

one of my neighbor guys from down

the street, stopped out front near where

I was and yelled out, 'Hey, personal

space. Six feet!' and laughed. I said

back, 'That's OK. I'll stay back; I was

never that close to you anyway.' (That

was a joke). He laughed and said,

'We're all gonna' die, so what's it

matter? I just hope, before I die, to

have a few beers.' I said 'Call me 

over when it happens; I'll have a few

with you.' Such levity in the face of

a plague makes all things vivid.

Anyway, I'd escaped death once;

now I had to figure how to do 

it again?...

-

It's very difficult, especially as a

youngster, to get people to relate

to you, especially after, when they

ask what you've been up to, you

say, 'Oh, I got hit by a train, and 

was dead awhile, and now I'm back!'

They either figured I'd invented

The Twilight Zone or was some

mad, raving, very young, lunatic.

Friends got hard to come by. None

of that ever much mattered to me.

I was able to get by. One thing that

kept troubling me, and as I think of'

it I'm still troubled, not by 'it' any

longer, but by the presence of it

then. I can't to this day tell what 

was going on. Apparently I'd

become some walking sack of 

or bundle of parts, hitched back

together, maybe, somehow. Fact

of the matter is that I've never

felt right; I've never correctly

meshed, as it were, with earthly

humanoids since. A lot to delve 

there, but we'll leave it. I kept

getting dragged back to the

hospital and to various clinics 

and labs, for 'Brain Wave' tests.

That's what they called them.

Not once, not thrice, but maybe

five times. No one ever told me

a thing about why, nor what any

results were that kept puzzling 

them and which kept me having

to go back for more. The doctors

were all lab-coat weird and 

secretive about the whole thing.

I was just a kid without a dog,

didn't really care about what

they said or did, and mostly

remained in a half-fog of

re-entry for a long time. (I did

finally get rid of the crutches, 

and stopped chewing gum too).

Anyway, what they said was that

there was spinal fluid leaking out

my ears. Or coming out. I had

no idea how they knew this,

nor had I myself noticed any

of this supposed 'leakage.' I

tuned out, fearing they'd drill a

plug trough my ears or something,

if they even meant BOTH ears

or not. These brain wave tests

were a nuisance because each time

they'd shave these little bare spots

in my hair, for the suction-cup-like

tiny rubber things, maybe 8 or 10,

connected to wires and a console

That they all stood around. I hated

those bare spots on my head. Nor

did I ever know what in the world

they were doing. Sending a current

through me? Putting x-rays into my

brain? I never felt anything, I don't

think, but it took about 15 minutes,

each time, and they'd all read results

and write in this metal folder clipboard

thing that was, I guess, my file. I

used to think the 'metal' was Kryptonite,

or whatever that Superman stuff was,

and they were setting out to kill me

all over again.

-

All this went on, for probably a year.

I never knew what came of it, not a

word, and then it was all just dropped

and forgotten. No more leakage, I guess.

They really ought not to do that stuff

to a kid, not without at least having the

decency to say what was up, and what

the prognosis was. My parents were no

help either. No one told me a thing.
So I just sat around, trying to
get to living the rest of my life. My
own life. Not theirs. I never got too 
keen on that Science stuff when it
starts sneaking around to humans.
Like me. 

12,684. A LOT

A LOT

A lot of what I learned about

writing I learned from boxers.

The fighting guys, not dogs.

A boxer worth his salt never 

comes out swinging and going

at it frontal, from the start.

First he encircles, maybe hovers

dances around, comes forward

and then retreats. It's all slow

action to the roll and the reel

of the authentic first swing. 

-

It's like that with writing to.

Whatever I've got to say, I

never go there first. The 

circling and the swan. The

bend, and only then the

lunge. Coming forward,

to hit the mark.

12,683. LOVE BOAT, DOG DREG

LOVE BOAT DOG DREG

If you were true to me you wouldn't be

sending me mental images. I'm kept

up by them, deep into the night. I

had a time I just recalled. It was Lou

Reed, but I introduced him as David 

Byrne because I was out of my head

in drunkland and said 'I imagine he'd

rather be introduced as anything but as

the frontman for his group 'The Talking

Heads.' He laughed, and walked up

to the stage. But first (?) first, he went

to the sidewall and took painting off

that wall and gave it to me and when

I looked I realized it as one of my own

and I said 'How'd you get that, from

here?' But it really was him, there

was no Lou Reed that night at all.

-

He came up to me as I realized he had

built this place and this stage and room

were his, and in the ceiling, suspended,

was this large green and yellow mechanism,

sort of a big, circular wheel with a hose

attached and the hose had a mouthpiece

and he gave it to me and it was one of

those gases that make your voice sound

funny and go high. He laughed again,

and took a long drag himself. And he

had that gas-funny voice and said 'This

is how we do it now,' and started singing.

-

I, by contrast found I'd lost my voice

and couldn't do a thing. Or say. He was

singing about his 'large automobile,' that

song where it goes, 'This is not my large

automobile,' and I remembered I'd left

my Oldsmobile running outside in some

gas station lot, and I was sure it was towed.

Going outside, fast, to get it, I saw I was

running in the wrong direction down a

street I didn't know, and even though that

was so I could see my destination getting 

closer. Whew ! I was sure confused. The

theater was looming up behind me, and I

could hear that funny voice of his, and the

gas station was crowded with cars, all

parked, and mine was locked into the

middle, like in one of those puzzles where

you have to move one, slide another, move

another, etc. But I couldn't do a thing. It

was after hours and I had no key, having

left the Oldsmobile running?

12,682. RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,009

RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,009

(misery)

In 1958, when I got hit by that

train, it was like one life ended

and something else began. I sort

of got a re-start, a second revving.

It took time time. Coma-land

was pretty weird. A lot of big

space, places and rooms, with

colored flowers and strange

sounds. All my realizations 
were changed and worked over;
 some strange spirit lights and 
glimmering  places held me in 
thrall. I really didn't want to let go
and just come back...to...here?
It took a long time, I re-entered in
partial segments, the lights would
get strong, and then I'd retreat, and
pull back, fighting a spirit guide
all the way. I almost really did
NOT want to be returning. I
finally did make the passage, and
it was very bright too, filtering back 
into this 'reality.' Way more than 

just waking up, it was an entire
raft and level of being I no longer
 really wanted. I think some of

me was reluctant to re-enter,

and maybe that's the pull I

was feeling. It was a cold

and snowy February then,
when I can recall the impact,

and when I awoke it was

warm, hot, sunny outside, or 
at least outside the window at
my hospital bed. People would 
talk to me about things, in a
strange, slow, and logical way. 
Slow too, like maybe they 
thought I was retarded now or
maimed for life, in the head.
(That's another story I'll get
into in  a bit). I no longer 
wanted that, but they went on, 
telling me it was hot out, how  
they'd been enjoying  things on

the outside, the sun was nice, etc.

I was up pretty high, I guess it

was 5 or 6 floors up. But all I
could see through the window
glass was sky. During the

period of being out all that

time, comatose, I never found

out, not even later, what had

gone on. Did I still poop and pee?

Did my body move about? Did I 
make noises? How did I eat, or get

nutrients? I couldn't eat normally

for the longest time, as my jaws

were wired shut. They used to

give me baby food and a big

kind of spoon, and I had to jam

the food, on the spoon, into my

wired-shut mouth and sort of

suck it in. All that mushy crap.

Man I hated that and I never

got my taste for eating back.

Eating is a real nuisance, even

now. I don't mind drinking stuff,

and I can be OK with chips and

all, but regular food just ain't for

me. I eat, of course, and don't

get me wrong. But not with any

relish. (That's kind of a food joke

too, I suppose).

-

Call me ignorant, but I often go

around saying 'Why can't they just

make some sort of food-wholesome

chip, where you can get all that

vegetable and nutrient stuff, and

whatever else you need, in a sort

of basic yet tasteful chip?' Not all

that salted up and stupid stuff, I

mean like real good food. Every

so often someone, including my

goodly wife, who prides herself

on cooking well, and does, will

tell me things like that exist, in

health-stores and such. But we

never end up checking it out. So

I still eat all her stuff : The usual,

greens, potatoes, fish, rice, and

all that. No meat. That's only

because I can't stand the betrayal

and the pain of what we do to

animals. Like my friend once

said about not eating chicken  -

'I don't eat nothing that has its

pecker on its face.'

-

So, right off the bat, I had all these

tubes and intraveneous drips going

on, into my body. I was all strung up,

and in casts, in a hospital bed, in

traction. Weird word, about all that,

when I first heard it. Traction? It

meant I couldn't move; my one leg

cast in white plaster and suspended

straight up and out, and under pressure.

Like getting stretched or something.

My mouth was wired up, for months.

I couldn't, and still can't, breath

through my nose. The air doesn't

travel. Same went for my arm.

All this smashed stuff was on my

right side. Where the train impacted

me. If traction was the word,  was

it because because everything was

'fractured? Why not just call it

fraction? This male nurse guy that

I had, he said it was because 'traction'

meant I was under pressure, things

being forced to remain straight,

to bond and heal as I mended. He

kept talking t me like I was 4. I ended

up really annoyed at the guy. He'd

come by every so often, to change

sheets and all that, and the jerk would

like push me up, off the bedding, so

he could pull the sheets out and slide

new ones in. It hurt! He was the one

who told me I had to be straight and

under tension (traction), and he's the

one now treating me like a nursey toy.

Foolish. Why was a man a nurse
anyway? I wondered that.

-

Everything took so long. Bones to mend,

and then finally they began dismantling

all that traction stuff, and I got re-cast

some, and they loosened me up and I got

a wheel-chair of my own! I was mending

pretty decently, I guess, except for the

Gerber's bullshit creamed peas stuff.

(The jaw wires were still on me when

I finally did leave.) I wasn't much for

talking after that either. I also sort of

got wheel-chair rights to just stroll

around the place. It was a huge ward

room, (Perth Amboy General Hospital

then), and there were maybe 30 beds

and cases. Mostly kids, a little older

than me. It's funny now how I can't

remember any of that; if it was males

only. I guess it was. I don't remember

any pajama clad female wrecks around.

The place was a crowded mess. There

were beds in the hallway too, with

people on them. A few even in the

same traction situation I was in. It

got to be cartoon like, all that. I'd

see cartoons with accident guys in

them, portraying after a car-accident

or a big fight or something, even

Bugs Bunny and those guys; they'd

end up looking just like me  -  traction

and casts on arms and legs, and all

that bandage junk too. Funny stuff.

I used to wonder if having a cartoon

anvil land on your cartoon head

felt anything like being broadsided

by a locomotive.

-

That was pretty much third grade

for me. Did me in good for that

year. When I got the braces off

my locked-shut jaw, the guy said

I should 'chew gum, chew lots

of gum.' I think my dentist, Dr.

Chrobat, must have sent him a

kickback. I got, after I was

pretty much back into the real

world, and no one figured any

longer I was going to die (young),

lots of visitors from the neighborhood

people; the parents and the adults

who knew my family. Everyone

was all awkward, or the ladies

would start boo-hooing when they

saw me. Fearsome stuff, like I

was back from the dead or

something. The one lady, from

right across the street, my friend

Jimmy's mother, she came often,

every few days, and the funny 

thing was, each time she brought

with her a homemade custard

pie. She figured I'd like it and

because the custard section was

mushy, I could eat it. I did, a little,

but I wound up hating it, just

sick of it, I guess. Even now, if

I think of it, it's not cool. Mostly

others ate it too, standing around.

The whole scene was gross  -  a

hospital ward, visitors, people

eating food and stuff that was

brought in. If instead of the darned

food, every person came in with

a dollar, I could have been sitting

pretty after 5 or 6 months. Food 

just never made the grade for me

after that. Pass me the chips.

-

When I sit around now, and think

about all this, I realize about how

such another world it all was. I'll

write more on it, because I have

a lot to say, but what amazes me is

that, in 1958, it was only 20 years

from 1938, say. 20 years forward

was still only 1978. This was all 

like 60 years ago. That's a long time.

In all my traction and all my re-entry,

I was a heck of a lot closer to the

1930's than I was to now.

12,681. IN ORDER TO REFORMULATE

IN ORDER TO REFORMULATE

I hear nothing; quite often. Nothing.

'All that is dragged, swept. or pulled,

along the floor is rubbish anyway.'

They will say. Quite trite, probably

not even right. There's a certain

'tradition' that should always be

kept in place. Yet, these, these,

new crusaders for their liberal left,

what do they do? They act bereft;

of power, not, certainly. Where

they will be wrong (I swear, it's a

song) is when they undermine the

common weal. Instituting their

moralist changes, and forcing the

others to go along. People don't

want that. They wish for things

to be left alone. The rest will

come  -  in due time  -  without

being pushed. Do not mimic.

Instead, reformulate the mime.

12,680. IMPACT TO THE STARS

IMPACT TO THE STARS

Why is the night sky still swirling,

Vincent? I sense that everything is

wrong. Fireflies have lost their light.

The distant frogs have lost their songs,

there is nothing present now but the night,

and I am alone here, standing. My

testament to vacancy is that I will soon

be leaving : five steps off, another

twenty, down the path, a jump.

-

I am an astronaut too, of my very

own. No cables or tethers in this

grand free-float; I can range at will

where there is no air; just the calm

and still of lost references, misbegotten

dreams, and those swirling lights of the

distant and the deep. Every artist is

a sky traveler anyway; some stardust,

thrown from another place.