RUDIMENTS, pt. 1063
(a person could get killed)
Anyone along the way who
has thought this life was an
easy life to relate, should
think again. Most of the time,
I hated myself. One stupid
compromise after the other,
with no one ever really getting
me eye to eye. Even today,
that still goes. Some dumb
park guy comes along and
says 'You know you gotta'
keep that dog on a leash.'
'Mister, I know you got your
laws and routines, but if this
dog was a cat, that cat on a
leash would be more worrisome
than this dog, believe me.'
That's all I say back, expecting
a challenge or a throwback
right to my face. Nothing.
The reason for that is I know
that he doesn't want to go
through the inane and stretched
complexities of what I'm saying
to counter his laws and rules
stuff. It's difficult to have to
make one's way along the world
of such people. I can't explain
to them my world-view and the
way I see things, except cryptically,
which they always mis-read and
end up thinking I'm a snot and
coming right on at them. Tough
life. I see swallows and butterflies,
they see fences and borders.
-
Frankly, I don't give a damn, to
paraphrase that Gone With the
Wind guy. Part of my self-exiles
have always been snottiness, I
guess. Or attitude. Either word
works. yet, inside of me it's not
that at all; it's more a personal
disappointment in the way crap
always turns out as more crap.
I'm silent, and silence can't beat
a life sentence.
-
The Memorial Day weekend time,
in New York City, was always an
adventure. They called it Fleet Week;
all these sailor guys whose ships
had come into port, there, converged
as one. The silly city was ready for
them, in a sort of 'take advantage of
the rubes weekend' sense. I never quite
got it right. I figured it had to be all
planned with the quiet knowledge that
for three days most every sailor would
(and this is how it happened) let loose,
usually in their whites or something
to set them off, which only made it
worse - if the brass were aware of
what was to be going on, they were
sadistic to these boy boys so presented.
To begin with, every person in the
city with an urge to undertake
whatever, was there to meet them.
Whores by the dozens, all primped and
readied - knowing these alco-idiots
would gladly and foolishly be wining
and dining them to the fullest extent
of the law so that later result of the
fullest extent of the un-lawful would
occur. These were blimey-mates,
after two or three months afloat, who
were usually so horny that they couldn't
walk past a wall plug without sticking
it in. It was a slaughter. Within three or
four hours, they'd usually be plastered
out of their minds, already - gaping and
staring up and straight: Tall buildings,
traffic like they'd never seen in Honey
Corners, Iowa, and enough merchants
of sleaze and sexuality (both sexes)
to throw an elephant off stride on a
wide train. That's what it was like.
Everyone was after their money
and their innocence, and they
seemed never to learn and it went
on like that always. Suckers. Falling
for everything, and raring at the bit
to prove themselves of something.
And all for a damned postcard sent
home with a NYC postmark on it. I'd
seen it year after year - white-suited
guys lined up, in their whites, catered
to by fem/dames, real or not, waiting
in lines - literal lines - to get into
places like McSorley's or Bar 55 or
The Raccoon Lounge. One time
I was inside the Racoon Lounge,
with another friend whose birthday
it was - a veteran he was too - and
he took a hankering to a group of
sailor boys at the bar; to befriend
and talk. So as they sat around, they
began talking and it got heavier and
weightier, about conflicts and wars
and the rest. Of course it went bad.
One of the sailor guys was a Japanese
kid, from California, and he began
throwing some crap around about
older wars and his grandfather's
getting rounded up and put in camps
and how it wrecked his family and
how he didn't know what he was
even doing now in Uncle Sam's
water-force and he began getting
angry, the kind of drunk angry that
someone gets like to whom it's all new
- the anger and the drunkenness.
He couldn't handle it and his pals
were no help. They were busy
enough trying pick-up their slop-
pail of choice, each, from any of
the 7 or 8 fine specimens around.
The bar-keep and his female
helper just kept a close watch on
things, as best they could, telling
me (I'd stepped back long before
just watching all this), the bar
guy, that it always breaks out like
this, the 'dumb sunofabitches
can't keep even their own misery
to themselves, they always got
to be spreading it around some.
Everybody ends up hurt. Assholes.'
I told my friend to cool it. The
other guys with the Jap kid were
getting unsettled by now, over
things. There were other people
around too - date couples, kinda',
a few old drinkers, one or two
frolicsome types. I'd seen bikers
in there now and then who'd have
mopped the place up with whatever
head was handy. But none of them
were present. I guess thankfully.
Everyone was getting nervous,
you could just tell it as a bad
current that was suddenly running
through the place like bad electric.
-
The Raccoon Lodge, I'd discovered
quite by accident. It wasn't the sort of
place that was real visible, didn't have
any grand financial district reputation,
and was mostly in a bit of being just
a dive. The inside was large, and cool,
with neat stuff hanging up everywhere
and enough of those goofball things
that bars with lots of open space end
up having. I myself, one night after
a long Biker night of bad behavior,
passed out there (too) mightily; I
mean unconscious, and was told the
next day that I'd been driven home
(to Metuchen) by someone after
a few people had thrown me into
the back seat, flat out, and closed
the door - and that my untied
shoelaces had caused then great
woe, and that some part of my
clothing was hanging out the door
all the way home. I believed all
that like I believed that a banana
doesn't need peeling, but others
vouched for it too. We got home
about 5:30am - in fact that I
remember because it was
beginning to get light out.
Weirdest feeling in the world.
Anyway, back to the sailors of
Fleet Week - this Japanese kid
had, eventually thrown a ragged
punch, and a short melee ensued.
Mostly drunken sailors going
at each other. I think they were
jut polishing their balls for the
sake of their selected ladies for
the night. The baseball bat came
out from behind the bar; they
were shouted out, and pushed
to the street. Where they just
huddled and hung about. Some
version of North American
embarrassment, I'd suppose.
My point was, sailors like that
don't deserve to be thrown
to the wolves, and it certainly
isn't rest and recreation.
Someone could get killed.
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