RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,098
(my future ex-wife)
There's an old Bob Dylan song,
written when he was a kid, about
a Minnesota or Minneapolis or
someplace there, a boys' reformatory
and prison. It's called 'the Walls of
Old Redwing.' Redwing was the
name given to the prison, kind of
like we call our prison, here,
Rahway University. And some
people actually believe that, as
they equate internment with
education. Kinda' fits, perhaps.
Anyhow, I felt like that, within
the 'walls of old Wrightstown,'
on that New Year's Eve. It was
a bash. The entire sordid town, it
seemed, turned out; for something,
and I'm not sure anyone knew what
it was actually supposed to be: a
brawl, a huge drunken revel, a
pick-up joint, a food-fest, etc. I
imagined that a lot of the people
I saw, I guessed anyway, must
have had service jobs at the military
bases. The soldiers and all couldn't
possibly do it all by themselves.
I was sure they needed regular
civilian staff, for anything from
maintenance and garbage, to cooking
and grounds and buildings. These
locals may all have looked like
groundhogs out of their holes, but
the bar-dollars seemed plentiful
and the booze was flowing.
-
What was it I was faced with, along
with my wife? Her drink was a long
line of vodka and grapefruit juice
tumblers. I don't know what that's
called, but I think it has a name.
She usually asks for Absolut and
grapefruit, but in this place as I
recall, Absolut was way out of
their league. One was happy to
merely get some rotgut called,
maybe, 'Boris' Best.' I drank the
usual swill beer of America -
wicked-water Budweiser. T'was
years ago; now I couldn't quaff
Budweiser if it was intravenous.
She, therefore, was suitably spaced,
and early enough. Enjoying herself.
I was left with one or two overly
friendly barmaids ('They're in it for
the money, asshole; don't get a big
head, fool'), with the usual bend-over
massive cleavage and sure that I was
seeing it. The one girl had a breast
tattoo that read 'Inflatable Rainwear.'
OK, that's a joke I just threw in.
The other one really did work for
Double D Construction, though she
may have been a guy after all.
-
The remainder of the place, much like
Old Redwing, was walled and confining,
dark and smelly, and loud. If you've ever
been subjected to some four plus hours
of lame go-go dancing and half-strips
by the likes of little Johnny's mom and
Carol's aunt, you'll understand - sweat
dives, swinging pasties, until they're gone,
even little fancy ones with frills and fans.
At least, (for my sake) they kept their
dance-panties on while they shugged at
the pole. 'Pole-dancing' was not yet a
commercial sport with languid wives
who sign up for it and practice, and
learn squats and dildo techniques too,
for 'Hubby.' (Never could stand that
word). Don't get me wrong, I ain't no
prude, and I stayed interested - I've
always liked real estate, and these were
at least an acre a lot. (That reminds me of
an old Biker buddy named Bill. He used
to go up to girls, at bars, mostly, and
say that he'd heard they sell real estate.
Then he'd grab his crotch and say to them,
'Tell me, is this a lot?'). It was funny.
All those girls! Amateur kit-kat dance
club graduates, making good, at their
new gig in Wrightstown. During the
breaks, yes, there was juke-box noise.
Confederate music. The Muscle Shoals
Sound. Lynyrd Skynyrd and the Allman
Brothers, for sure. That whole raft of
entyycable 'Merykin bomb-town musyc.
To use a Skynardyism. Girls liked it too,
and they could hardly restrain themselves
with their own table gyrations between
dance acts.
-
Plenty of food - the usual catered bar drivel.
What is it with old Baked Ziti? Even in the
finger-code of the Pine Barrens that stiff
is awful - crusty, overheated, dried out.
Everything was laced with salt too, so as to
keep Johnny Reb drinking. No, wait, that
wasn't Johnny Reb. That was American
soldiering, at leisure. Drunk enough now
for? Fingering girls, exposing breasts,
tongue kissing to death the nearest
free-lance female. I didn't even go out
back, or down the street to any of those
in-a-row motel barracks things. Probably
rented, on New Year's Eve, for 20 minutes
at a time. 10 Bucks a throw.
-
Yep, had to get out of there. I told the
sweet bargirl I was researching a scholarly
book on base-towns and their influences
upon local cultures. She thought it was
cool and wanted to be in it. I said, 'Sure,
no problem. Wanna' be my centerfold.'
She laughed, and the big drooly bouncer guy
nearby, who'd I guess had been listening,
came over to ask if I'd always been that
funny or was this an aberration - which
he couldn't actually pronounce, and which
came out more like 'infestation.' I think
that was it. I said, 'Sorry, I got ahead of
myself, but we're leaving anyway and I
really am writing a book. Happy New
Year.' (It was about 2:15 by then).
-
I rounded up the goodly wife - or, as
I did used to call her, 'my future ex-wife.'
But that never worked out either.
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