12,825. RUDIMENTS, pt 1,060

RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,060

(interesting, interconnected adventures)

At one point I had an

arty friend, in Woodbridge,

who lived on the street

behind the Barron Arts

Center. There were about 

8 kids in this house, and

a mother. I never knew

about the father, or even

the rest of the family, for

that matter. It's a long

story, but Dave  - the

last name was McGrath  -  

started working at St.

George Press, where I'd

already been working for 

some 5 or more years.

He'd gotten hired in as an

artist, which he was. His

useful skills for the sort

of 'graphic' art needed for

the job, however, just were

not good, and before long

storm clouds were brewing.

By this time we'd become

friends, I was feeling bad

over what I saw was about 

to happen (his being fired).

Just at that time, as well,

one of my customers, also

arty, but way commercial,

and also personable to me

and we got on well, was

Sanford Werfel Studios.

They operated, on Avenel

Street, in the old Stanziola

Coat Factory, which I'd known

from growing up and playing

baseball, etc. with 'Frankie.'

His father owned the place.

This art fellows name was 

'Sandy,' and along with his

wife, Rita, they had a nice

Jewish Fund-Raising business

going, for temples and hospitals

and all that. Their thing was

'Tree of Life' wall sculptures,

on which each donor purchased

an engraved, brass 'leaf','

inscribed with whatever name

or date or message they wished.

The whole contraption was

installed in and on lobby walls,

vestibules, central rooms, etc.

It doesn't sound like much, but

they're everywhere and I guarantee

you've seen one somewhere. The

'art' here was in drafting the design,

drawing the tree, having the leaves

cut, forging the installation, etc.

Tedious, plantful work. Anyway,

I went there and pleaded Dave's 

case, and he got hired there; making

his release from St. George Press

at last a salvageable, lateral move.

He lasted there a decent enough

time, so I guess it worked out,

but I don't really know. Dave, as

an artist, was a colorist  -  fanciful

and elaborate paintings, oddball

subject matter, large canvases. He

thought like an artist, as I did; and

much like me we both realized that 

the 'business world' really had no

place, nor use, for us. We were out

of step, no matter what. It was OK,

and we just laughed it off.

-

Dave may have been an artist, 

but he sure was no mechanic. He

drove maybe a '72, or '75 Valiant;

I can't actually remember. It was

pretty helpless, but it ran. I guess

it was the standard slant-6 engine,

a usually bulletproof powerplant.

He went up to some place out past

the old Kittatiny Arsenal, along

Rt. 287 somewhere, to see some

girl he knew. We never got there.

Somewhere along the way, on an

off-ramp, deep into the wilds out 

there past Morristown, the engine 

seized. A total lock-up that stopped 

the car dead, or so it seemed. Not 

a stitch of oil was in it. I said, 'Nice

work. Dave.' And then I went on to

explain the finer points of engines

and engine lubrication, in its small

details, to him. We got some oil,

walked back to the car, which in

the interim, I guess, had cooled 

down and loosened up, or enough

at least to bang and clatter us back

a few miles, newly loaded up with

oil, to a place called Mt. Tabor,

where Dave swore he knew a

British family who'd help us,

which meant feed us, take us

in for the night, and generally

aid and assist us. With me were

Kathy (wife) and our 12 year old

son; who was enjoying all this,

immensely. The car was by then

a smoking mess; which we parked

at the entrance to Mt. Tabor  -  

which is a hilly community, and

strangely vertical, with an old,

ratty Gulf Station at the base.

Long gone now. This was late

already on a Saturday; it was

all closed. We left the car and

walked up the hill.

-

The nice British family, when we

knocked, greeted all 4 of us warmly,

invited us in, were happy to see Dave,

etc. I should add, it was also v-e-r-y

hot out, like 95. The large house had

no air conditioning. Dave got a

couch or a bed, and we were taken

upstairs, to an attic loft, with some

bedding strewn on the floor. (Myself,

Kathy, and Jay). It was late by then,

after some food and wine, and talk,

and dark. The 95 degrees, of the day,

in that attic space, overnight, had

become like a very-dead 130. It was

unbearable. But we managed. (There

were a number of years, and this was in

them, when I was asthmatic, although

I never visited a doctor to have it

diagnosed. The unbearable heat, by

this time, seized up my lungs. I was

nearly unable to breath. In times like

that what used to keep me alive was

some crappy over-the-counter inhaler

think 'Primateen Mist'  -  which was

eventually taken off the market  -  and

that night I think I must have sprayed

a near half a bottle into my nastfied

lungs. Though I survived, I never

knew how). In about 15 years,

somehow, and I never knew how,

that either,  all of that asthmatic 

stuff simply disappeared out of my 

life and now I almost) can breath 

like an alpine skier).

-

The next morning, the Brits gave us

breakfast, and in a grand manner!

Their style of breakfast was canned

tomatoes, stewed tomatoes I guess,

over toast; tea and coffee, and

some pastries. It was pretty cool.

Dave's 'girl' friend from Kittatinny

came and picked us up by 11, and

took us all back to Woodbridge in

some fine car she had. We tried the

Gulf station again on the way out,

explaining the deal to the two

Spanish guys, but they said 'No,

no. No fix.' Their claim was that

the car was shot, and they were

probably right. We left it there,

and, frankly, I can't recall what

came of that car or if Dave had

to have taken away from there,

or any of that.

-

Now, for the connection: 15 years

later, at my ABATE office in

Metuchen (719 Main St., though

it looks all different now) in my

Biker years, I was often involved

with outlaw clubs and issues. The

Pagans were a Jersey outfit of

seriously rough guys. My group

was mostly out of Elizabeth and

area, 'Ajax' was the bar frequented

most often. They'd apparently

assigned two guys to my case,

Pancho and Ming, (whose club
name  I couldn't figure out, but 
could only think of as - ["Ming the
Merciless - a character who first
appeared in the Flash Gordon
comic strip in 1934. He has been
the main villain of the strip and its
related movie serials, televisions 
series and film adaptation; depicted 
as a ruthless tyrant who rules the
planet Mongo]" - who'd both come

around often enough and hang

about, watch what was happening,

etc. They were OK, but made me

nervous, especially the Ming guy,

who just oozed force and trouble.

They were each younger than me,

for sure, probably by 20 years.

Guessing. Somehow one day we

got on the subject of Morristown

and stuff up there, and Mt. Tabor

came up. I related the experience,

and damn it all, Pancho says 'I know 

that Gulf station! That was my

first job, ever. I used to live up

that way. I grew up there.' I was

floored, and wanted to ask if,

maybe, he had some recollection

of a car full of fools rolling in

with a burned and scorched old

Valiant. But I didn't.

-

Even funnier, that day the reason

they'd come was to ask if I would

be able to help them set up a

website, and a link, and all that,

for the Pagans MC. I fiddled and

mostly pretended, but then said

I too was unable to figure it out.

Pancho said he couldn't do it

either and couldn't find anything  

-  and that whenever he tried 

calling up 'Pagans' all he ever

got was 'weird sites and shit,

about religion and witches.' 

He was really perplexed.