13,011. RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,128

RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,128

(who wants yesterday's papers?) pt.1
Well, whatever comes down the

pike, one has to deal with it. I

have the walking blues, but I'm

a happy enough guy. That's the

side of me you see; the other

side is what I call my 'factory

side'  -  where the work gets

done. I've been singing the

blues, every day without you.

That's an old song. Hank

Williams, maybe even. Ha!

Made you look. Let's try

Marty Robbins, and just the

plain old 'Singing the Blues.'

It's like a cereal called Sunny

Sunday  -  just doesn't add up,

about all that voice timbre and

bouncy feel. Sounds too happy.

Singing with a smile. The music not
fitting the frame. Larry Kramer

once told his biographer 'How

can you write about me if you

haven't seen my scar?' That

was in Pittsburgh, unfortunately,

where Larry was after his liver

transplant, and his biographer in

NY told him he probably couldn't

make it out to Pittsburgh to visit.

That's maybe a bit like my factory

side; more real than the happy side

anyway. So, don't judge a book by

its cover, or a kid by his mother,

or any of that. It doesn't get any

more wild than what you've ever

seen in a movie, and just figure

how, in movies, everyone likes

everything.

-

I want to touch on, here, just for

a moment, another thought having

little to do with this, but everything

too: I subscribe to the theory that

what's not said is just as important

as what is said. Take a play, for

instance, a drama, wherein the

rigors of stage efficiency, and

moving plot steadily forward,

necessitates the most accurate

snipping and cutting; a 'succintness

of the verbal,' is how I'll put it. A

playwright labors over all of that,

keeping at any time in their head

the structural action and the image

of the play in progress, as it would

be, in progress, while being staged.

There's really very little room for

error or exaggeration and that's a

difficult thing for the writer to

foresee. A bad writer won't be able

to, and he or she will just walk in

to their own ambushes. A bad actor

will tend toward histrionics, which

ruins everything, whether verbally

overdone, or written perfectly. A

reviewer, at the same time, facile and

surface as ever, will start the ball

rolling: 'In Act Two's opener, I

question why Ronald, in light of

the news he'd just been given at the

end of Act One, would handle that

cup and saucer in the manner shown,

while at the same time breaking, and

then lunging, at Peter....' You see, there

needs to be an quality of understated

'elegance,' let's call it, to every act

and gesture. Those are lead gestures,

and they become giveaways to the

guiding light behind the action. not

just cups and saucers  -  that was

merely my lame example  -  but

everything, even diction, and slang.

Why I bring this up is because of

my late friend Bobby Beddia.

-

Bobby was a first-rate, multi-grade,

career fireman, in the FDNY. We

always referred to it as 'Fudny.' It

was situated, his station, at Houston

Street and Sixth Ave., #227 6th Ave.,

to be exact. Engine 24, Ladder 5,

Battalion 2, as I recall. It was not

one of those old, tight, fire station

buildings which you often see in

NYC; this one was maybe a

1965 vintage, utilitarian architecture,

mundane looking, Modern, and low.

But, whatever; it had its own spot

and was situated with decent access

in or out, though maybe a bit awkward,

with traffic. Bobby was the senior guy

there, looked up to, etc. He doubled as

the prime-time bartender at Chumley's,

not that far off. For years. That's where

I got to know him; like a brother too.

Although not a fireman crony  -  and I

knew that, and when they were there

(it was a big fireman's hangout), and

the drinks were rolling and the noise

quotient was way up, I just fell back,

and spoke if spoken to, but that was

about it. Bobby always came by, in

any case, intermittently, to make sure

we were in good shape, up to snuff,

and being served. It never went bad,

and he always gave us time. And beer

too, don't overlook. It was all good,

and it came back to him.

-

When the Twin Towers came down,

on everyone, I knew he was there. But

I couldn't find him, nor his name on

any casualty lists. He wasn't around as

he had been. The fire station lost men,

but his name wasn't posted, no black

ribbons, etc., and it wasn't the sort of'

thing outsiders would ask about atany

of the NY firestations  -  it was all too

raw and sad and deadly. Months went

by, and I mean months. And then, one

day, again, there he was! We were as

enthralled to see him as much as he

was to be back with us. His first words

to me were : 'This gives a whole new

meaning to the words 'I'm so glad to

see you again.' It was stunning. Bobby

had gone through it all, never really

wanted to talk of it, said he'd been in

treatment, had to re-settle his head, it

was bad, and let's put it behind. Life

was back ; drinks all around, all hail

Bobby!

-

There's a bad part to this story, but I

leave that to last. What I wanted to

say is how perfectly succint his words

to me that day were. There's not a

playwright in the world who could

have done it starker or more to the

point. All extraneous expressions

were removed; the words had been

purified. Do I want to say 'purified

by fire?' Well,'yes, and no.

-

On August 18, 2007, there was a

fire in the Deutsche Bank Building,

adjacent to the World Trade Center

site. That building had been damaged

in the collapse, and for those years

intervening was empty; not condemned,

just closed and out of service, with 

plans for some sort of renewal. On

that very day, Aug. 18, I was down 

there, with my wife and a friend.

She had gone into some Paragon or

sports equipment store for a bit, 

seeking some hiking supplies or

something I forget. There was, at

that time, a fire in the Deutsche

Bank Building  -  high up, smoke,

fire trucks, a real racket. I gazed up,

observing. Unknowing. While I

waited  -  I may have even taken 

a few photos, though I'd have to

search 2007, to find them. As I

said it was a high-floors fire, and

the Twin Towers collapse, right 

there, had been 5 years back already.

As it turned out  -  and it's the saddest,

cruelest, most lethal twist of fate I

ever experienced  -  as I gazed up,

Bobby Beddia was up there, dying.

The building had no services. They

were fighting the blaze on an upper

floor. He sought oxygen, to breath

with. He turned on his air, but there

was no power to power the air. He

suffocated, and was brought down

dead. I didn't learn of this until the

next day's news.