RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,189
(be fruitful, and multiply?)
Where do I situate myself? In the
long run of things, I don't even
count; in the cosmic fashion of
viewing, I - like all humans -
am but a pathetic blotch on some
moment of something that maybe,
just maybe, went bleeping by. Like
one of those untold lights along
the midnight sky, am I. Be fruitful,
and multiply? What the hell was
that all about?
-
I've been exposed to ten thousand
tons of crap in ten thousands tons
of days, and it all little mattered.
Like something dripping off the
poop deck of an explorer's ship;
foundering, lost at sea, shipwecked.
Jackson Brown had a song once,
way back in the 1970's, that I can
recall, still, scratching my head to.
It was titled 'The Pretender,' and
among the lyrics was something
like 'Gonna' rent myself a house
in the shade of the freeway.' As
a free American, wherever I was
and whatever I was doing (I can
hardly recall), I never figured
how any of that became a part
of the 'American Dream.' Th
shade of a freeway? I liked
Jackson Brown too, in the very
beginning; with 'Doctor, My Eyes'
and 'The Pretender' being class-A
songs, in my opinion. By the time
he got washed out through the
'Eagles' and the 'Lawyers' In Love'
it too was over and he deserved
That freeway and the shade.
-
I had a friend named Mary Kaye,
long time back - spectacular and
unique specimen, of something.
Last I knew, she was in Tucson,
Arizona somewhere, but out of
touch and I could never find her
again. No matter. She lived in
Elmira, NY, and then Corning.
Whenever I used to visit her,
I'd hear the stereo blasting. In
apartment corridors. (she was,
by the way, in 1975, the first
unattached female I ever met that
had gotten a house and a mortgage
on her own. That was pretty rare
then, most banks casting a doubtful
eye on unattached female). Anyway,
in these days she was still in an
apartment in a big, old house in
Corning. Each time I was arriving
she'd blast the stereo with Elton
John singing, 'Burn Down the
Mission.' I once asked why, and
she said the song reminded her
of me. Another time, some black
guy banged on her door, and when
she answered it he was standing
there with his shlong hanging out.
unimpressed, she said to him, 'If
you're gonna do that, you ought to
be better hung.' This is the same
girl who had a sex-calorie-burn
chart hanging over her bed - with
the different calories used for the
various sex positions. There were
about 25 of them. Plenty of jokes,
back in those days of yore.
-
Much like that guy who says,
'I don't know where I've been,
and I've just been there!', I often
felt perplexed and between places
but enjoying it. For its own value.
There wasn't anything better, back
then, to witnessing some of the
crazy, Elmira, stories I'd get.
Mary grew up there, in a big,
old, Victorian kind of house
that was still standing, just on
the edge of the southside as
you entered from that direction.
Her father was a 'tool and die
maker,' which was new to me,
the concept; kind of old world.
People just go out and buy things
these days, but back then there
was a need for guys and metal
workers and such who could
custom fabricate the needed
thread and screw and tool for
whatever use arose - new
machinery or some new and
automated process needing
that. It was a fairly unique
job niche, and somehow he
made it work for himself - the
old city of Elmira had enough
fading businesses left for it to
pay, even though - by the mid
1970's - he was getting on and
most of that old manufacture
was already shot and gone. A
gritty, old town like that held
on nonetheless, and it was only
when Hurricane Agnes swept
through in June (22nd), 1972,
that the real ending began. It
all had gotten swept away and
the picking and cleanup took
nearly two years - bits and
pieces here and there. The big
places, like Corning Glass,
American LaFrance, the Hilliard
Company, Kennedy Valve, places
like that, they came back and all
were still up and running through
the later 70's but - once we left
the town - they too faded as
American industry changed and
everything got to be foreign or
'global' or imported or cheesy.
Take your pick.
-
Mary's story never ended. There
was a time when she took up with
a fireman from Syracuse, pretty
far-enough away too, and she
moved off the move in with him
too. She came back within 6
months (that's when she bought
that house I mentioned), because
she hated Syracuse, and the
fireman had neglected to tell
her that the two kids he had
after his divorce were put in his
custody. That wasn't in Mary's
stylebook, no way, no how,
none of that motherin' stuff.
I figured, though I never
asked or made mention, that
it was mostly because they
were the kids from another
women. Made sense to me; no
feelings around. I had gotten
to know the fireman guy a little
bit before all that, but I always
found him to be ordinary, in
fact, pretty boring. I never
got the connection between
them; there seemed to much
a world of difference. Maybe
I ended up more right
than wrong.
-
That was a long time back. The
last I saw of Mary was in the late
1990's. She was the sort who'd
think nothing of just taking off,
riding cross-country, on a whim.
It was in that fashion, and to
Metuchen, NJ, that she showed
up on our front porch, a number
of times, for stays of 3, 4, 5 days.
The first time, I hooked her into
a local motel off Rt. One. She
hated it, said it was filthy and
it stunk, plus it was noisy all
night; connected to some sort
of Edison-local Indian social
hall or something. The next
two times we just put her up
in our little house - she would
manage anywhere, sleeping on
cots, or blankets or mattresses.
Pretty rugged, for a girl.
-
The last time I saw, in addition,
was just after her father had died.
She was doing some wild trek
around, from Tucson to Elmira,
and to Metuchen, and back,
closing up all sorts of loose
ends, chasing down memories
and spirits of her father. We just
let her talk; she seemed a little
different, things we noticed.
My wife had left for work, and
I'd gone, as usual, to my little
office in Metuchen, where I
worked on my monthly news
features for the ABATE issued
newspaper I published. We'd
left Mary to finish up, get her
stuff together, close up, and set
back off for her trip again to
Arizona. There was a knock,
on my office door. It was Mary.
She'd stopped back, and had a
lot more to say about her father.
She began bawling, and didn't
much stop; while I listened. It
was all an agony - sadness and
sorrow, at one mix, of anger,
regret, hatred and love. Boy,
was I perplexed and on the spot.
Fathers sure keep hold on people,
in the oddest of ways.
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