12,717. RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,020

RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,020

(how narrow, the sounds)

I'll just put it all out there;

I knew I'd been here before;

it was all played out already,

and this life was but a replay,

maybe even a review. Every

scene or word I ever did or

spoke had been done or

spoken before. There is

nothing new under the sun.

How any of that adds up,

I can't exactly claim to know,

but it's somehow cumulative.

Maybe we call that karma.

And all these small efforts that

Humankind makes to understand

any of these glimmers; they

get little names and labels

attached. We live with them.

-

Plato had everything as symbols.

I hold Hell to be that stasis of

having to remain in place, and

have all these events and words

recur, slightly varied, perhaps

with slightly different inputs and

variations and effects, but the

same nonetheless, over and over.

The Hell of lost chances then is

Nietzsche's eternal recurrence.

I've said this before; I call it

'Lesson Learning Catching Up

With Itself.' When it does, the

You of you is let out of Hell,

and it's redone, yet again, but

with perfection. We try to call

that 'Heaven.' Just another label,

nothing really at all. Like saying

garage sale or estate sale or

household sale. Same shit,

different day. If it wasn't for

any of that, what would the

universe be? Lights, slowly

blinking off? Our pale adventures

give the universe its meaning.

Monkey, swamp-dog, turtle,

or human. Take your pick.

They all have their stories.

-

One day, I went right up to

John Calhoun, the foreman on

a miserable dock crew I now and

then helped with. I said, 'John,

John, I want a day's work and

I want a day's pay. And I want

two beers with you when we're

done.' He agreed! I got two

shipments of something from

Japan, to break down and sort.

Turned out they were record

albums, about 30 of each, it

seemed, by these greasy rock

n' roll groups. Early ones, mostly

concert and live stuff. You see, the

thing about Japanese printings,

I guess the 'pressings' too but

I don't know, was that the printing

was so much more vivid than the

muddy American kind. The album

jackets and all that graphic and

colorful stuff really popped.

The Japanese pressings were

prized more than the American

ones. And they usually cost 

more too, in the record store.

So I had, in front of me, crates

of them, assorted, to break down,

unpack, cross-check, and pile

together as unified freight,

received. I guess today that's

all containerized, binned,

scanned, kept sealed, and

recorded as delivered, by time

and everything else. But in

these days here, it was haphazard,

quick-flow, freight. Like toasters

and TV's that 'fell off a truck.'

Except I wasn't interested, so

I didn't steal anything.  There

were different ways of doing it,

and it was done often enough.

You learned, eventually, where

to stash one or two items, not

be greedy, keep cool, and come

around another time and grab it.

Maybe someone saw, maybe not,

but the fact of the matter was

no one really cared. Loss was

part of the factor. It's all

different now, and those kinds

of boats don't even go there

any longer. Now it's all large,

container vessels, and they're

all off to Port Elizabeth instead,

or other, southern, ports, which 

have taken over a lot of this traffic. 

NYC's a goon-squad, high-expense,

union-bound destination no one

really wants any more. But these

here were different times, and this

was small-time stuff. And then

at the end of that afternoon, John

Calhoun says,  'Let's go.' I was

trembling in my boots. He had

three other dockworker guys

with him; a typical after-work

drink spree. I'd never done this

before and had just been talking

big, never thinking he'd take me

up on it. It was a dockworker

bar, a real grime-hole, but cool;

called 'Lisi's'. I guess that was

someone's name, at some point.

Sawdust on the floor, a little

noise, but not real loud. Old

guys dwarfing around over a

shot and a beer. A few women,

guys coming and going. I figured

it was just a usual spot, and I'd

been past it a few times, never

seeing any great shakes or

anything noticeable. These 

guys set me up with two beers,

and a back-up, which kind of

instantly bummed me out because

it sort of meant I had to buy

them too. 4 guys and me, At

85 cents each, that was probably

6 or 7 bucks out of pocket,

right off, plus for me it was a

real lot to drink. I'd be reeling
if it kept going 'round;

these guys took it all like it

was water. Stupid me. The

whole idea had been to get

16 or 18 bucks for a weak 

day's pay, and now I end up

giving a good portion of it 

out. As drink. 

-

These guys were funny, the

talk was good. I watched them.

They got crazier. And it all got

easier. The more they drank,

they had these little routines

between them  -  'Hey, Sal,

didja' know that 58 percent

of the women in this country 

are battered?' Sal look startled,

says 'No! Damn it all; I been

eatin' mine plain all these years!'

Har-har. John Calhoun said

little. He'd gotten all quiet and

stern. More stern for sure than

the others. He said to me, 'How

are you enjoying your time out?

I don't do this too often myself,

but for you today I figured to

make an exception. You like 

these guys? They're real assholes, 

but funny.' I said, 'Yeah, they're

OK, but you don't seem so. What's

up?' The other guys had gotten

up and gone to the side-back, 

where there was pool table, 

really close to the wall, I thought, 

and two dart boards. On the wall 
were a few of those trophy-fish 
things. I never liked them, anywhere 
I saw them. A person goes out
deep-see fishing, gets this big 
swordfish,  drags it back, and has 
it 'mounted' as a wall-hanging? 
That always seemed like an
injustice to me. There was

also a double-phone-booth

thing, nice dark wood kind, and

a rest-room entry. One or two

I couldn't tell, and I don't know

what ladies did. I suppose there

was one. Those guys were hootin'

it up back there. It was a pretty

happening spot. John said, 'It's

nothing, except, you know, I

oughtnt' to be here  -  there's 

too much hoodlum crap around 

here, dock stuff, people owing 

people, waiting on deals, etc.

A couple of faces I know; it's

tense. I'm not liking it. I don't

want to say I'm 'Management'

but to these guys I'm not one of

them, and they know. It's tense;

the less I see, the better. You

ready to go?' I said, 'Yeah. But

what about them?' John laughed.

'They're grown boys, they can get 

home on their own. Don't worry.'

He left a few bucks, and we got

up and left, and outside, after
a block or so, we went our

separate ways.  As I walked

away, I still heard the bar noise.

How narrow, the sounds.