RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,112
(anguillan merchants of grog)
One time, still in Perth Amboy,
right under the Outerbridge
Crossing (named after the
bridge-designer, James
Outerbridge; not because
it want to far-off Staten
Island's backside, as it
sounds), my friend Dave
McGrath, who had a
sixth sense for finding
parties, took me with him
to a really large, outdoor
party, on that grass at the
bridge, at the Anguillan
Social Club. I'm not sure
back then if I'd even heard
of Anguilla, but here they had
their own building, clubhouse,
picnic and party grounds and
the whole bit. They spoke a
wonderful lilting sort of
British patois (is that right?),
which mixed Colonial Bermuda,
Jamaican and some other
Caribbean, rolling accents.
It was fascinating. I couldn't
tell if they thought of themselves
as strictly black, or white. Or
anything at all but 'happy.'
Honestly, I'd never before
come across a happier group
of people anywhere. Natives
of whatever they were natives
off. I asked, yeah, and got
numerous happy stories of
their wonderful land, the lives
back home, how grand it all
was - sun, sand, and joy all
mixed. I never did get to why
they were all there, in Perth
Amboy, rather than that old
and wonderful home, but it
hardly would have mattered.
The whole day was like 7 bucks
each to get in, but that small
sum was soon swarmed with,
figuratively, tons of food and
drink, booze, rum, beer, and
a general sort of camaraderie
and zest seldom seen. Dave
seemed to know everyone, or
they him, but in reality he knew
no one at all. Maybe one or two
skinny guys out on the field.
The sport was, I guess, some
form of cricket or something,
but not real intense and filled
more with goofing off, drinking,
and taunting the ladies and girls
in that wonderful, enchanting
half-English they spoke. As a
youth, I recalled, I'd had 'good'
dreams, and 'really good' dreams.
Most of the island-enchantresses
that day fell well into the latter
category.
-
The day ran, long, and late, until
Summer darkness, which is maybe
9pm? After starting at Noon, maybe.
By 4pm it already felt like we'd
live there all our lives, came from
Anguilla, and spoke the tongue.
Past that point, it gets fuzzy. I
remember some 50/50 drawings,
money awards, a basket of cheer,
which was basically a tub of
booze. The fun was watching
the winners shimmy and gyrate
as they went up to get their prizes.
It was pretty cool. It always seemed,
and this was just at the cusp of the
turnover of Perth Amboy to almost
a purely Central American/Caribbean
culture, that Hispanic girls, of
whatever origination, were carried
along by a different sense of self;
sexuality's aspects of it anyway.
I watched it, and saw it lots after
that day too - a blistering and
bolder awareness of the grasp of
the sexual element in moves and
gestures. That's not necessarily good,
mind you, because it comes off, most
often, as crude and coarse. Certainly
nothing that Miss Spangle's School
of Grace & Poise would teach, nor
anything, back then, that would have
passed muster for a high-school
yearbook. I don't know what yearbooks
look like these days, or if they even
still do them. If they do, they're, for
all I know, topless. Anyway, when
people call alcohol a social lubricant,
this Anguilla Day defined that category
too. Music, maybe calypso, with those
cool steel drums and all the different
sounds and tones they make under
the hands of a skilled player. It was
pretty wonderful - and tons of
people eventually took to the grassy
fields for a dance-fest as well.
-
Above all this was the very tall
bridge - concrete spires and steel
braces and all that. The roads winged
around - an interstate (440) took
the bridge people over to Staten
Island, and the ramps and curves
led up to it, while, down below, at
ground level, the small, local road
from Sewaren brought people in.
There was a group of old homes
clustered under the bridge with,
weirdly, a car-wash squished in
there too - still there to this day.
Back then it was maybe a buck-fifty;
now it's about 7 or 8. It was odd
because, just looking at it, at
first glance, it seemed as if two
of the houses had somehow just
maybe given up their connected
living rooms to make a car wash
drive-through. That's how tight
everything was. But it was a hidden
operation, and actually was separate,
though deceiving to the eye.
-
Past those houses and the car wash,
the street petered out into auto-shops
and tire dealers, and three or four bars,
in a row, for the workers from nearby
National Lead Co., Shell Oil, the
railroad, and, I think, some Chevron
corporate operation that was there
too. I guessed they all drank a lot,
when they weren't drinking crude oil
or gasoline. All those old companies
are gone now, and the old bars are
dead or dying, and have Spanish
names. El Loco Rico replaced things
like State Street Tavern, or whatever.
The grassy fields and marsh are now
some poor-people's project of condos
called Harbor View (that's a lie; the
only view you get is your neighbor's
fat butt, seems more like it). And
they're endless too, and reeking with
people.
-
In the other direction, back towards
town, was that Stanley guy's Polish
church, and a few others, and one or
two funeral homes too, with long,
oddball, names. How'd you like being
laid out in 'Portrwesczeki's Fine
Funerals Home?' Got enough
consonants in that letter-box?
And, lastly and low and behold!,
across from the Anguillan Social
Club and a block up, was the
Puerto Rican Social Club Tavern!
Not missing an opportunity, they
too had their front door open all
day and we kept occasionally
sauntering over there too. It was
much different; a great, high-ceilinged,
dark tavern, more like a hall, with
dangerous-looking dudes sitting
around and sullenly staring. As if
just waiting for our mis-step, so
they could take our 75 cents for the
beer and then bash our heads with
the empty bottle. They weren't
exactly digging that whole Anguillan
happiness rap, but were willingly
taking it out in trade. They had babes
in there too, but I think they were
all busy upstairs. 1982 was sure
a great year.
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