12,734. RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,026

RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,026

(grab-ass, and Sally Forth)

Well, sometimes I just like

being foul. There's no take,

there's no margin, and there's

no grab-ass either. It's all just

part of a normal world When

I write I'm always in pain and

there are no scales to fight

perdition. Extra helpings of

both sorrow and regret? Sure,

those are easy to get. There are

times, and easy as pie, when

I have a ghost or a spirit, right

there, sitting near me. Just

watching. It's the freakiest

thing in the world, and what

do you say? In Bayonne they

like to talk about paint jobs

and who did the windows over.

Everywhere it's something

different, all across America.

I know, like tomatoes in

Jersey and chilis in New

Mexico. Maybe cars, in old

Detroit, but who cares now?

-

I always went along dragging

my ass in sorrow. Not so much

anymore. If someone's bugging

me, I just chuck. Why hold on?

Who needs their constant grief.

There's been two, recently, that

really have caused me hardship

to dump, but I did. I've known

and learned a lot in this crappy

life, and most of it's been worth

little. For now, I no longer have

the time nor keep the interest to

 remain with it. One thing that's

for certain: I've seen, that, for a

writer, when you write something

and someone else reads it, unless

there's some weird huge ego

involved that has to keep yelling

about who they are and all they've

attained (Oxford schmoxford

again), you're to expect that

the reader will pick up on

your presented scenario, and

ride with it. If it's any good,

it will take them somewhere

and you can feel good about

having brought them to another

place. Not these two  - they

insist on particularizing the

'what' of that which they've

just read into the particularities

of their own lives. It has to

fit them first, and if it doesn't,

by Jeepers you're gonna'

hear from them : Loudly,

coarsley, rudely, and in your

face. (Hand me that pillow,

OK? I have to smother this

fire).

-

There used to be a little sandwich

place, or bread place, I don't even

know, called Amy's, over by University

and 14th somewhere, and there was a

bowling lanes operating nearby, above 

it. Second floor bowling's a weird

idea, as ideas go, but it was pretty 

popular as 1980's entertainment;

NYU kids and the rest. I never 

went upstairs, but I'd see the kids; 

there were strange attractions, I 

guess anything to draw kids like 

that in. Then maybe the idea was

they'd get the munchies and buy

a sandwich. Don't know. They had

'Midnight Bowling.' They had

'Topless Bowling.' And one time,

as an ad in the Village Voice, I

swear I saw Naked Bowling. Just

the idea, right now, of the Village

Voice, brings forth so many neat

memories. For years and years 

that was like the paper bible of 

the Village: the apt. listings, as 

they came out midweek, each

week, would get lines of people

waiting to buy the paper and 

rush to the new listings. Most 

often there were fees, lister-fees, 

agents and all that, but many 

a'time too there were to be 

found straight up rentals.

One person, without realtors or

apt. agents, renting out a place.

If and when found, those were 

killer. And especially if within 

the confines of the Village : 

some  old Hudson Street listing, 

or Christopher  Street or W4th, 

Sheridan Sq., Sullivan, whatever.

They were gold and there'd be 

madness to get to them. People 

would swarm. It wouldn't even 

much matter at that point what 

the place was. Two or three rooms,

some crappy kitchen area, with 

a window bay, an exposed brick

wall, doors opening to something

out back, any of that stuff was 1960's 

thru 1980's gold, and most often

unattainable too; arriving there to

find some geek had just put own

five months rent ahead of time and

probably gave the landlord an extra 

three-hundred too, to grab the deal.

Everything had a gimmick. A hundred

twenty-five a month, back then, could

really grab you some nice digs. My

hole on e11th was 60 a month, but

it came with free odors, free Winter

wind through the walls, and 4 broken

panes of glass. Nice amenities, for

a nut-house.

-

Just about every block had its own

small, grimy, hardware store, for

everyone had needs: plungers,

small hammers, sets of crews and

hinges, glues, screwdrivers, it

was all crazy. Locksmiths galore

too, and the worse things started

getting, the more there would be,

every month, some new sort of

security bar or door locking 

system, triple-face padlock panels,

with cleavers, chains, and, I bet

guillotines attached. Keeping s

secure and keeping safe was a 

losing battle no matter. Those 

long,-wavy, hallways and tile entry

alcoves were waiting rooms for

pillage, let along the various

factors for people actually

'getting into' your apartment 

while you were out. Most often

called, as well, 'breaking and

entering.' And  -  you know what  -

there wasn't a thing to be done

about it. Cops little cared. They'd

take a report, reluctantly, while

calling you off from expectations

of recovery. They ask for a list of

missing items, which, of course,

was always inflated and half 

made-up, in the hopes of some

bizarre expected recompense.

The cops probably got the half

of any recovered goods anyway.
-
I always figured if this was the
way the rest of life was going to go,
it couldn't really be worth all that
much; scrunch-time and pleading?
All it ever seemed to me. The waiting 
was the hardest part, yeah, and
the dumb lines with all these out
in force Manhattanites (imports)
seeking apartments and hell-bent
for leather to get one too, no matter
the cost. Downtown people were 
like that  - mostly bottom of the
heap types, there for a bit, from
Minneapolis or Dubuque while
they attended some school or
went to a ballet academy thinking
it already was Julliard. It sort of
was like a small TV drama, and
many of them actually were 
eventually turned into that. Back
in the 1970's, many people lived
their own boring lives quite
vicariously by watching the trials
and tribulations of others as
portrayed on grimy TV schlock,
running the 'urban' gamut from
'Good Times,' to 'One Day At a
Time,' to 'Sanford and Son' and
'All In the Family' too. And that was
 just TV; let's not forget movies.
Urban Cowboy. Mean Streets.
Every altercation, and each small
complication, could make a drama,
intensified and magnified, of course,
by the means of concentrated energy
and, let's face it, much made-up crap.
Just ask Kojak about that. The best
thing about Kojak was how well
they used 'Sketches of Spain,' by
Miles Davis, as such a fine and
plaintive soundtrack.