12,847. RUDIMENTS, pt.1,070

RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,070

(Dad, make a left here...)

I remember getting out of the

seminary pretty good. It was an

early dark, just before Thanksgiving.

My father had come by, I guess

directly from work, by himself,

and got me, probably about 7. I

was ready, at the outside of the

dorm building I'd been in. I can't

remember any baggage, or

packing up things, but I guess

it went that way. The funny

thing now is how I said no

goodbyes or imparted to anyone

the information that I'd be leaving.

Kind of stupid, but there were no

real bonds left anyway. Everyone

had gone in their own directions,

grouping and binding in various

ways  -  of which I really was no

part. It hardly mattered, because

I'd never entered the scene looking

for compatriots anyway. It had

always been about aloneness, for

me. So that didn't matter. My

Father was of little help, and

everything was cursory. It was

also all very bizarre  -  after all

that time, no sign-outs, nothing

finalized, no signatures needed.

Here it had been all this time

me under the tutelage of some

16-20 male adults who ranged

over my every moment, and at

these last moments not even a

tip of the hat or a nod. I always

felt cheated  -  it wasn't any

confidence builder for sure,

unless I viewed it all as a

confidence-game into which

I'd been suckered. At least my

Father wasn't mad. He sometimes

had ways about him that maybe

bordered on anger, but in this

case he was pretty glad to be

pulling me out of there  -  seeing

as he never was much of a mind

about my going there in the first

place. It was all feminine stuff :

Aunts and ladies and all seemed

ever to be the only ones who'd

get excited about the idea  -  like

having a 'priest' in the family

gave them a leg up for Heaven.

Guys and men just sort of made

a grin or a grimace and looked

confused, Like 'Yeah, we know.'

All that way home, I can't recall

that we talked much about anything

except more then the usual 'Well,

here's what you'll be doing now'

stuff about where they'd put me,

since my old room had been given

over to other kids, my sister, first,

and then a brother, as I recall. I got

placed, once back home, into a

small room that had been a 'sewing'

room. It was fine with me  -  bed,

place to be, and a window that 

opened right out to the lower 

roof, and I was able to climb out, 

sit there, facing east; it was as if

I was in my tree house out back

again, from younger days. Being

up off the ground like that I could,

on good days, glimpse the NYC

skyline, and I was above the

trains and all that went by out

back. It was all OK by me. I had

to finish out the miserable senior

high school thing, which meant

registering, telling them how

I'd ended up somewhat in a

pickle. But all I had to do was

coast; I was way ahead in the

credits department, or whatever

they go by, so I basically picked

and chose what I wanted to do

and attend. It still was a constant

battle though because I sure didn't

fit in very well. The old home

turf was alien territory to me,

and the teachers were creeps.

-

My Father then did ask me, 

(finally, I thought), what I

though I'd want to be doing,

(instead of still more of his

decision-making 'you'll be 

doing this, and that' stuff).

At least in that respect it was

nice. I wasn't sure what to say

only because I wasn't sure what

I WAS going to do. The last

thing I needed was to get tied 

to just another stump. The

trouble with kid stuff is the

school system has you by 

the balls, give or take the

varying pressure, for at least

12 years and with that comes

all their layer of trite bullshit

and manuevering to keep you

completely in the dark about 

anything real. So I turned to

him as he drove and calmly

stated, 'Well, Dad, my intentions

are to get the hell out of Dodge

on the first boat out.' No, I

didn't really say that; the poor

guy would have jumped the

divider with the car, at 70mph.

No matter, the situation had me.

The long arm of the law (or as

I was wont to call it, the 'long

dong of the law'), was all on the 

other side  -  his and society's,

amassed already against me  - 

and I pretty much could only 

wait it all out and try and keep 

away from all that vanity crap 

about colleges and all those

places that make genius 

bureaucrats out of irregular 

street rats. By rights, I should

have jumped out of the car

before we got to Woodbridge.

-

My Father was a toll road guy,

and he'd take the Turnpike to

get a loaf of bread, for crying

out loud. Those roads were always
pretty boring; the worst way to
get anywhere  -  straight lines and
little local to see. A person could 
be most anywhere. Like going up 
in  space, in a capsule with no 
windows.  This felt like re-entry
to me. It was  already dark

out, but coming all the way up

from South Jersey on the NJ 

Turnpike was always a good

trip. The south portion was

still all farmland on either side.

Flat and boring, yes, but farmland.

Eventually it gets up to like the

Jamesburg area, and then it all

starts changing  -  after Forsgate

and all, headed north. Way down

by like Exit 4 maybe, there was

this cool radar installation, for

whatever communications they

used to do back then; early and

primitive satellite contacts and 

all. It was, at the southbound

side, this maybe 5-story high

large circular thing, not perfectly

round, just kind of shaped

funny, with flat spot on its

planes  -  it looked round but

it wasn't smooth. A few buildings

were scattered around it, and

some towers and big signs.

Some 'defense' communications

bullshit (Yes, it's always, in

Gov. speak, 'Defense,' never

Offense. No one ever owns up 

to their skanky operations. It's

always got to be the other guy

who's bad.)...That thing was

always fun to see and a highlight

for me, even in daylight. It set

my mind going. All that Mercury

Astronaut stuff, John Glenn and

Gus Grissom and Alan Shepherd.

Space shots and stuff, and all

these radar operation networks

underway. It was funny too, 

because this was the same time,

with the Soviets, that we'd made

a big-ass deal over something

called 'The Hotline.' Yeah,

that was going to save everyone,

and they made a big deal out of it,

like we were morons or something

to believe this. It was a damned

telephone! A red-button phone.

One on the President's desk and

the other (dedicated line) on the

desk in Moscow where their

big guy sat. We were supposed

to feel more secure. One or two

rings, I guess, and Nikita picks up.

'Oh Nikita, just called to tell you,

we've made a mistake. Pressed the

wrong button and right now there

are two nuclear missles headed your

way. Probably about 20 minutes.

OK? Yeah, sure, Ok, but don't

retaliate, OK. It was a mistake.

Regards to the wife. OK. Bye.'

Yeah, that was it back then  -  

as much bullshit and fantasy as 

now, but today people are even 

(if you can believe this) stupider!

-

Boy oh boy! I was just getting 

started. 'Oh, Dad, can you make

a left here, and drop me off at

the nuthouse?'