12,658. RUDIMENTS, pt. 1000

RUDIMENTS, pt. 1000

('dead, or a vegetable, for life')

I never figured for much as

far as big talk or participation

went; in fact I usually stayed

way outside of that. And then

one day  - I'm still not sure

how  -  I found myself atop a

mess-heap of motorcycle guys.

Talk about learning fast and

running hard; this was it. The

action was close enough to the

bone that I was able to keep up

with it, yet, once again, there

I was, undergoing a form of

tribulation without ever really

having given choice to the 

matter. My life was like that,

a lot. I'd never steadied my

hand enough to get settled in

any one thing, because they

all bored me. I wasn't made

for this world, nor for any of

its rackets  -  but the problem

with that same world is that it

usually grabs you by the nuts

and never lets go. I disliked

business, money, and any of the

smarmy crud needed to make
deals and get contracts. I'd

rather work from inside (my
head). There are a million other

people made for that slimy 

stuff, and they didn't include

me, and that was fine. I wanted

only to create; yet, as a male,

in the peculiar day and age, I

was expected to rot away 

working, dragging home a 

few wasted and ineffectual

dollars at the end of the week,

and stay attuned like that for 

the next 45 years. I'd already

been doing that crap for 25 or 

so anyway, so jumping at this

Biker thing seemed right. It was

crazy-ass stupid; not right. I made

money, a paycheck anyway, doing

what details I had to do. At first it

was cool, but then I realized it too

simply broke down into the same

rancorous bullshit as any other

'organization,' be it Elks, Moose,

or a Union Hall. Factions, Gripes.

Anger. Attitude, People who truly

probably hated one another, trying

to act as if they got along. One

always vying against another. It

was tiring, and 9 years later, I was

done too. Life has parameters, and

they're different for lunkheads,

drunks, speed-demons, fighters, 

and the rest; different for each.

People continually scratch and

claw. What I ended up dealing 

with, at the fine old age of 45,

was a disparate group of end-run

renegades, on one hand, AND a

bunch of looney-toon boy scouts

(albeit on motorcycles), at the

other end. People either wanted

to do good  -  blood-drives, toy

drives for kids, etc., or they wanted

to be as raw and cutting as they

could get away with. I took the

'dad-burned' job (is that a word?),

only because they wanted a monthly

newspaper produced. I knew printing.

I'd be able to write my various

columns and coverages, invite in

and coach along other columnists,

and design and put together this

pretty cool, all inclusive, and

opinionated newspaper. 28 pages,

for a good number of years; then

I had to start paring it down, and

then.....broke. Nothing. It was all

over. That's how I then ended up

at the Barnes & Nobel years, and

then my closing years, at Princeton's

bookstore. Balloons lose air, yeah,

and sometimes the air, instead of

popping, just takes a long time

to dribble down, to nothing. By

the time the Biker crap was all

over, I'd just walked away from it

all, nearing nervous breakdown

levels of anxiety and exhaustion.

Cops. Tax guys. Accountants.

People. Meetings. NJ/NY travel.

I realize it all represented nothing

to me; I'd lost my own standing

in the cause, and I could hardly

tolerate those with whom I was,

at the end, dealing. There were

outlaw clubs sneaking around,

vying for my attention   - there

was the concomitant violence and

fights and break-outs that went

with all that. Demands for money,

etc. I was so done. 

-

My friend, Pete, used to get all

worked up every year when they

went to that Winter blend of 

gasoline, or Summer blend, I 

forget  -  a certain time of year

when they'd  add something to

the gas for emissions control,

or something. He claimed it was

lousy, it affected performance

and was bad for engines, etc. 

Once or twice, early on, I tried

caring about it too, like he did,

but I realized I didn't care one

whit either way what 'they' put

or didn't put in the gasoline. As

long as it burned and fired up,

I was happy. The point was, I

was no longer in consort with the

sort of thinking that would get

all wrought up over that. All 

I wanted to do was create; paint,
write, read. Anything but this

endless chain of pathetic Biker

stuff, which seemed boxed in,

closed-up, incestuous, and dumb

too. I'd taken the whole thing

too far. I was near to being a

drunk; a wild, unfettered, crazy

biker drunk, with a clothesline 

of people behind me wherever 

I went. My foil was, by the

later 90's, to make trips to NYC.

8, sometimes 12 other motorcycles.

We called it recreational drunk

driving. That weeded out a lot of

the real pests; they either didn't like

NYC, or claimed they didn't like

the way  we rode. Or drank and

rode. Or drank. Many a time, I

admit, I don't know how I survived.

The places, and the stunts, were

savagely murderous. I often,

stupidly, put others in danger,

because I wouldn't stop, until

excess drew me down. Nobody

died, through these excursions,

but they could have. What it did

for me  - which was a sad and

sorry state, actually, was get a lot

of this onus off my back. I'd get

NYC, I'd get to show others things

they'd otherwise not have seen,

an it took my mind off all the rest

of the crap. 

-

One of the bars we used to hang at,

on the last Sunday of each month

it would get its visit from the two

Mafioso collector guys. Really. They'd

come by in some big Lincoln car

for their protection money or payoff

money or whatever. All suited up.

shiny like, sharkskin fabric or whatever,

(certainly wasn't 'hounds-tooth'). They

were both big heavy guys, the huge

one went inside. He'd see Michelle,

the owner (Michael, the other owner,

had died, and she was his wife) for

the money. The other guy would,

in good weather, stay outside on a

chair  -  there were a few kept there.

He was the driver and sort of lookout

guy too. I'd sit with him, shooting

the shit, as they say, until the big

goon was done. He'd usually come 

out with a couple of beers, and we'd

sit around, drinking. The place was

mobbed, good and bad, and those

I'd brought with me were all over,

here or there, good-timing it up.

The bikes were all parked wherever

we put them. These mob guys were

cool. Blunt and coarse too. It was fun,

and it lasted a good part of a year, I'd 

say. One time, the driver guy came with

a present for me. But he said the code

was that I'd have to give him a nickel

for it. So I did. He said the next time,

or anytime, he ran across me I'd better

have this on me or there'd be hell to

pay. (I'm thinking, what's with this

guy?). Turns out, he gave me this

sleek, silver thing, looking like a pen,

but when you open it, it's a 3-sided

shank. (See photo). Razor sharp too.

Then he said, 'This is how you kill

a guy, in a crowd or whatever, quick,

silent, and nasty.' Then he shows me

the thing, and says, you go up to the

guy, you take this, (the sharp-shank)

and 'you drive it as deep into his ear 

as you can, in an instant, while twisting 

it too. Then take it out, and walk off.

The guy will be down, either dead, or

a vegetable, for life. Preferably dead,

if you've done it right. This is a very

powerful too. Don't lose it.'