RUDIMENTS, PT. 1,077
(the real deal)
I've seen some remarkable brawls
in my day : street fighting and full
lacerations. People hobbled with
chains, and a guy beaten out on
the cold, white snow so that it
made all the red blood look
almost pretty. A real postcard
scene. Nothing I'd wish to
re-live, mind you, but, pretty
nonetheless. Balletic, even.
Stabbings and shootings too,
let me add and what the heck.
When the piper pays the piper,
it's a sort of inbred thing. But
those were Biker days and Biker
grudges; all that horsepower and
venom taken out on others, and
often for no real reason other than
making rank or reputation. In
that respect, it's a really sad
world to be involved in.
-
Within my time of growing up,
in Avenel I mean, there were
always varied levels of kids,
varied in levels of aggression
and just regular meanness. This
one kid, named Clifford Gary,
whom I never actually met - that's
how bad and downright rotten he
was - I always had to come to the
aid of another friend of mine named
Aleck. Aleck had a way of somehow
always pissing other kids off, and
this Clifford kid was always at
it, pounding on Aleck, like every
chance. I was no hero or nothing,
but Aleck was my friend, often at
my side, and we were together in
that old Buzz and Todd, Rt. 66, way.
So one day I just turned it on and
stepped in so that instead of once
again Aleck getting all bashed and
hobbled, I'd be the one. I found
such parking lots brawling a rather
pleasureable experience, to tell the
truth, and a rather meaningless one.
By that I mean to say that once you
get onto the 'other' side of the idea
of parking-lot-kid-street-fighting,
you mostly find, at age 11 anyway,
that it's all move and bluster and much
else of nothing. No one really gets
hurt, and the winner is usually the
one with most braggadocio and not
much else. Oh, maybe a scrape or
two, a busted lip, but that's nothing.
This Clifford Gary kid was just
a skinny bag of bones and bullshit.
A bit taller than I was, he was not
any bulkier, in fact probably even
wispier. I never really 'connected,'
nor did he. Our punches were more
for show (10 or 12 other nitwit kids
circling, watching, and cheering). Plus
you knew that if things went bad it
all would get broken up, one way or
another. It was never like those NYC
gang fights, or Puerto Rican brawls
within the old chainlink fences of
playgrounds and ghetto parks -
those were of equal trouble to the
Biker ones and often just as lethal.
Switchblades. Guns. Bats. Death.
-
The 1950's played all that up, all
that gangs and violence stuff, and
the idea of ghetto living had
everyone on the alert to be watchful
that they didn't get caught up in
any of it. The weird little films
of Sal Mineo and James Dean of
course didn't help. It all just made
parents crazy-worried about their
sons and daughters. A son 'going bad'
was one thing, but a daughter getting
slutted-up in a gang was both a dreadful
loss, and a humiliation. Most of it was
overplayed, but not all of it. City
living had it as part of the fabric of
city life, but, out in the newer suburbs,
it was considered a frightful horror.
As in the 1930's movies about crime
and 'fallen women,' I think a lot of
it all was approved and made up by
the authorities and those who then
produced those sorts of films and
publicities just to keep people on
edge and in place. There's no better
way to maintain control over others
than to keep them in fear and anxious.
[Note to self: See current social
climate].
-
So, one gets to NYC never having
seen a dead body, nor even a real
crime scene, other then a good
car-crash or two, and maybe some
beat-up at home, of a kid or a wife,
by a drunk father or husband. If
there's a cop in the family, as an
uncle or a cousin, you hear occasional
horror-stories at family gatherings or
around a holiday table. Then, in
New York, amidst all those myriad
situations and economic stations,
you see that people do get killed :
shot in stairwells, thrown off roofs
or balconies, beaten into any of
ten varied states of vegetable. It
happens. There are screeching cop
cars all night; searchlights, guns at
the ready, screams in the night. People
drag their violence right out into the
streets; you can watch families fight
and quarrel, and bash or even kill each
other, as if at a ringside seat. Ambulances.
Old and dead people, slumped over and
visible at dawn : at street-corners, propped
against buildings, or slumped where they
landed. You maybe go watch an old
crime movie, in lieu of scratching your
eyes out, to see if this was how it was
portrayed even back then. And, yes, it
was. No distancing there. I tried.
-
It was always important to me to have a
safe place to retreat to. That diner I keep
mentioning, with Tre, the girl there, such
was that, for me. If it had been a newspaper
office, instead of a diner, it would have
had much the same feel. People would
come in and report on the nearby streets.
'The Crenilin Shop was robbed again. They
say it was Jimmy Whistle, and with a gun,
early this morning. Cato says he probably
got about 1700 bucks. Not worth the risk,
I'd say. And, they know who he is, he won't
be able to go anywhere or show his face.
I already know Cato's gunning for him now.
On top of all the other stuff. And he told
Frangio and Malone there's a thousand
bucks in it for them if they bag him. "screw
the cops,' he says, 'I'm doing this my way.'
Once the word got out, the word spread
just as fast. And then the old lady, always
with the beads, she'd come in and start
babbling about what she saw of that
'actress girl now in her building. Always
looking to make money, and you know
what I mean; there's always a man in there,
of one sort or the other.' The Seaman's
Institute was nearby too, and the fruitcakes
out of the village, and Chelsea, were
always congregating, and we'd watch
them. They were vocal, and pretty too.
Sometimes it was a real crazy joke
how those guys managed to carry
themselves, all twisted and girl-like.
-
I used to think about them too, how
they grew up, what it must have been
like; and then I'd think of Clifford Gary,
from where I'd grown, and realized these
fluffs would have probably died with
one hit, or maybe they'd have just loved
getting all prodded and squeezed. Maybe
'wrestling' was a real forte of theirs.
It was all so funny. One of them was
right. And one of them was the real
deal, I figured. Not knowing which.
It never mattered. Until one day it
did, when one of these fruity guys
offered me a lunch if I'd sit with him
at some outdoor seating place where
he already was. It got going, and then
just soon got too far. I'll just leave it,
for now, at that. I turned on the guy,
and left. If I could have killed him
right there in his room, I would have.
No comments:
Post a Comment