Saturday, January 2, 2021

13,319. RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,114

RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,114
(hard to roam and wander)
It's hard to roam and wander -
when you're old anyway. It's
not so bad as a young guy; much
easier to just pack it in and take
off. Looking back now, I can
recall a hundred things that
stand out as definitive of that
era of being young  -  not all
of it good, mind you, but most
all incautious and devil-may-care.
It's kind of funny, being a guy,
how guys say to one another,
'stop thinking with your dick.' 
It's a younger man's game, for 
sure  -  but each guy instantly
understands what the other guy
means by saying it.
-
I remember, that bakery job, 
which had drawn me down to 
most of the most inconsequential, 
boring, and localized things, was 
about the easiest thing I ever chucked.
Yes, it was that bad  -  which made
it all that much easier. I can't even
remember the going rate back then,
but I think it was a buck and a
quarter an hour. Which wouldn't 
even buy a pack of condoms over
at the Publix Pharmacy. That was
a riot too, back then, the way
everyone squirmed and wiggled
in having to 'ask' for them from
the guy or lady behind the counter.
That was Hell, for sure. 'Hmmm, I
suppose you're using these to make
balloon animals, right?' That was
how interrogative the whole process
was. You felt like sniping back, 'Oh,
ah, yeah, me and my girlfriend are
building a whole circus.' It was a
weird world. Smoke and cigarettes.
People in their thirties screwing
their brains out, constantly, and often
with friend's and neighbor's wives
too  - what the heck  -  and they even
had TV shows about it ('Bob&Carol
and Ted&Alice; etc.). Meanwhile
some snotty kid (like me) has to
go through Hell to get his coverage.
And I don't mean life insurance  -  or
maybe I do. I remember, when I
turned 40, I think it was, a bunch of
my nutty Biker Friends took me over
to The French Maid, over along Blair
Road, when it was there, amidst the
junkyards and screw-hammers (I
should'a known), and amidst the
revels and joys of a sleaze-ball
GoGo Bar, I was feted with all
sorts of goodies from the Men's 
Room by my pals  -  little packets
of French Ticklers, Condoms,
Flavored condoms, and some
striking, elasticized cock-choker
or something, which was supposed
to help the guy hold off on the
'big explosion'  -  supposedly for
more pleasure on both sides of that
pleasure scale. I never knew things
like that we're suddenly so easy to
acquire. Jeepers, no wonder Publix
went bust! Making it worse, now
they have wall displays of that crap
at every 7-11 and Joe's HappyMart,
wherever you go and whatever the 
name. ('Hi, my name's Dick?).....
-
I remember one of my Bayonne uncles
one time telling me all about their
trip into the city to see Oh Calcutta!
on Broadway or wherever it was.
He was still palpitating with the
happy feeling of what he'd see  - a
farcical sex-romp, with nudity and
the rest. I suppose after that the whole
world was wide-open for that stuff. 
-
Anyhow, after I'd phoned in my regrets
to that bakery lady, I jumped into my
Jaguar and decided that my 'personal
business' to which I had to attend to
(which I'd told her) amounted to a few
days in Vermont. Great idea, but the
trouble was that my Jaguar had never
successfully gone anywhere over 100
miles without some sort of gruesome
and horrid problem along the road,
usually involving grease, gasoline,
wheels and tires or some strange
electrical problem which would, say,
turn OUT the headlights but electrify
the steering wheel  -  it was that weird
a car. I got onto Route One North,
and just past the Bayway Refinery
was hit with the most horrendous,
rush-hour (morning rush) crawl
(obviously, the opposite of 'rush),
leading north towards Newark
Airport, the Holland Tunnel, and
Tonnelle Avenue (my destination),
which was actually just Route One.
They called it Tonnelle Avenue up
after the left at the Tunnel. Go figure.
I wasn't a toll-road guy (Turnpike or
any other) in that car  -  one look at
it by  a State Trooper usually meant
instant pullover, and I don't mean
sweater. I managed to sweat it out
(get the joke-connection! Ha!), and 
make it up to 9W, past Fort Lee, and
then into NYState and on my way,
through all those voraciously cool
small, Hudson River places, like 
Kingston, Saugerties, Albany, and
the Northway, or Rt. 7, or whatever
it was, into Vermont. Bennington, to
be exact, which is like the first thing
that hits you as you enter from the
southeast border with NY. That was
cool by me; I'd somehow made it there
with  no infractions of the law (?), no
problems or breakdowns, and the
entire car still running! 
-
Man, I felt like a million bucks. 
That Avenel Street/Rahway Avenue 
monkey grind was thousands of 
miles away, as far as I felt. They 
could shove it all in a paper sack. 
I found the little parking lot adjacent 
to the Bennington Hotel, and went in. 
I'd been there once before, and it
was a grand memory. The Bennington
Hotel, then anyway, was right in the
center of downtown. I don't know
what's there now, nor if it is still
around, but back then it was a large,
rambling white Victorian-era, hotel;
a sort of wooden monstrosity, with
a large, central sitting room, a desk
clerk area, bellhops and all that. 
Just like in some oddball old movie. 
I forget if there was elevator service,
but I always used to great, carpeted
staircases, 3, 4, or 5 floors, which
were lined with cool, rural scenes,
paintings lush with old atmosphere.
It was so quiet in there it was stunning.
Probably a 200-mile an hour wind
would have had trouble blowing
that old building down. I got my
room, which was like a hundred acres
large; all old-style stuff  -  woodwork,
big cornices, curtains and carpeting,
and a bed rich enough for Kennedy
(back then). I'd seen the desk clerk
previously, he was a strange, natty
guy, compact, dressed neatly, and
utterly efficient and proper. The cool
and distinguishing thing about him,
which I'll never forget and can recall
instantly to this day, was the golf-ball
sized impression, or depression, or
rounded dent, right in the center of
his forehead. It was the coolest thing,
as if a 100 mph golf ball had smacked
him, head on, back when his skull
was still soft. You couldn't not notice.
Heck, you couldn't not even stare; but
he went on as if it was not present, and
it as never mentioned, noted, or even
remarked upon.
-
All was good. The room was spacious, 
warm, and roomy (it was v-e-r-y cold
outside), by silly car had performed
perfectly, and I walked across the street,
to the W.T. Grant's lunchroom  -  which 
that evening was having their weekly,
Tuesday night, Turkey platter $1.25
special. I enjoyed!

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