RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,013
(tasteless old brain)
It's funny how, when you're
a kid, everything's equal at
first. It seems that anyhow
but it probably never is. I
can remember when the guy
across the street, Jimmy, my
childhood pal (dead now),
took me down to the finished
basement they had. It was the
first time I ever saw figs; the
holiday kind they used to have.
They were sort of on a piece
of twine and wound around in
a circular fashion. You would
sort of just pull one off, along
end of the twine, and it was
edible. I wasn't real fond of
them, but they were curious,
and so was the basement.
That was probably the first
time I realized that things
weren't that equal after all -
each of these houses, seemingly
alike, were different inside. My
father's use of the basement was
raw and unfinished; a workspace.
He was an upholsterer and was
always working on chairs or
couches down there in his time
off from the day job he had in
Newark, doing the same. We
never had any figs around there.
Jimmy's basement, by contrast,
was 'finished,' as it was called.
Made nicely into sort of a
lounge area, still a basement,
yes, but all done up with walls
and decor; tables and seats, and
it even had a bar. I knew nothing
about that, but it was where the
guys drank and, with their wives,
they had parties and all for the
holidays. Which is what this was;
Christmas time, and all these
special things, like the figs, were
around for some party, or had
been or whatever. We sat there
one afternoon, just eating all
sorts of stuff, I guess all left over.
Little foods, like I'd never seen
before. His mother kept bringing
it down. But I was fascinated
by the figs, for some reason.
They really caught my fancy.
Funny thing, years later, way
later, like 45 years, my sister
was having a house party and
we went, and there was Jimmy's
mother, old now, with his sister,
who was a pal of my sister back
then. A sort of 'reunion' for the
day. Myrtle (the mother's name),
was the woman I mentioned who
kept bringing the custard pie to
the hospital. I'd never really thanked
her in any way, from those days
long ago. So I muttered something
really nice to her. She was probably
about 80 or so, a little distant but
all there. She acknowledged my
thanks OK (she'd always been a
gruff lady) and then I said something
about being sorry Jimmy was dead,
or had died. Feeling awkward as
all get out, I was. She snapped
right to attention! 'Don't feel bad
for him. He did it to himself. He
ate himself to death. We all told
him he was way too fat, but he
didn't listen. He did it to himself!'
Wow, I thought, how weird
is that. Jimmy and I, as young
kids, used to get the first ride
each year in his uncle's yearly
new Chrysler Imperial. The
uncle as a doctor in Carteret,
and each year he got the same
brand of new car, and he'd come
over and we'd get driven around
for a half-hour or so, in it. It was
pretty cool, yearly. I guess it
ended about '61 maybe. Jimmy
always wanted the same sort of
car, but he always said he wanted
a phone in his car. Way before
wireless and all, I couldn't figure
out, ever, what his ideas were
about how long the darned cord
was going to have to be, and how.
Never cleared that one up.
-
I only saw him maybe once,
maybe twice, but I think once,
as an adult. He was still blond
and forceful, but had turned, yes,
heavy and kind of thuggish too.
I think he had one or two kids,
but the wife was gone. Whatever.
That was that.
-
Point was, how all that hidden
stuff in the houses made each of
them end up being different anyway.
Like people. Often, when walls
were taken down, to enlarge
spaces, the houses I saw always
took the same wall or walls down;
and the little staircase and shadow
box thing too, that was always
first to go. Once again, my father
had never done any of that stuff.
I think, probably, our house remained
the closest to original for the longest
time. Except, because of five kids,
he was the first to have a room added
at the rear. Pretty nice, not real well
done, kind of home-made in my
father's own way; but it got the job
done. And then others after that
started having the same things done,
as their families grew. But they
were done by builders, and mostly
real nicely appointed. My father's
version was fairly plain-Jane and
without any style. That was about,
started anyway, 1959. I helped, after
I got all healed up and when I wasn't
off playing baseball or Little League.
But mostly he did it himself, or with
one of my uncles helping. Giving
up a weekend or whatever. I
assisted, pouring concrete footings,
for the cinder blocks, that went
into the trench he'd dug for the
foundations. That was pretty cool,
except I never liked cinder blocks.
I hated that gray, and the texture.
And the weird shape and form
didn't help. And then one day, it
was Spring, and I remember
helping them lay down and nail
and all that, the big plywood
sheets that made the flooring. It
looked, after that, like a big, large
flat deck out the back of the house.
Then, over the course of the Summer
and all, they put up studding, wove
in the electrics, crossbeams and
windows, and then the roofing,
and it really almost looked like
something. And then one day,
Summertime, mid, we broke
through the rear kitchen wall
to make the entrance into what
was soon to be the new, back
room. That was fun, blasting
everything with sledgehammers
and mauls, taking a Sawzall to
the wall. I'd never seen a Sawzall
in action before. Pretty cool.
Then eventually, it all got an
an insides, the room began at
least looking real and finished.
I think, by the next year, I was
gone again (seminary) and I
can't really recall it getting
finished up; but that might
just be my old brain playing
tricks, or refusing to cooperate;
tasteless old brain that it is.
I probably should'a ate more,
to nourish it and, maybe,
grow fat too.
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