RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,193
(who took my booze?)
Until I was 25, I was an idiot;
from 25 to 60, I was an Idiot,
(cap I), and from 60 until now,
just an idiot again. Nothing to
do, and I don't cry over this
stuff; just telling it. At my 60th
birthday party (my sister threw
it for me, at her large house), I
invited a Princeton friend of mine
in, with this then girlfriend. She
was named Gurinder, and he was
Alan Nelson, by name. Scottish.
From Scotland, arrived here as
a 9-year old or such. The first
night, as he recalls it, his family
was put up here, in some rooming
house or something, the place
was consumed by fire and they
lost everything. Talk about starting
over from scratch in a new land!
Can you imagine that one!
-
Allan was a good buddy of mine
at that time - we rode the local,
little Princeton train, called 'The
Dinky,' together, mostly twice
daily, in and out of campus. A
bit of a scoundrel, Allan had a
wry sense of humor. He liked to
distress people too : he'd have am
orange or a banana, while we sat
around waiting for the train, and
he'd throw the rind or the peel
out onto the grass or into the
bushes, just to enrage people
who'd take it as brazen littering -
to which he'd then admonish them
with a snippy diatribe about it
being organic material that would
properly decompose...so shut-up!
It made for some fun afternoons.
At the University end of the train
ride he kept a chained up campus
bicycle (his own) and he'd pedal off
to the Physics lab where he was an
Engineer. (More on that in a second).
-
His employer was the Physics Dept.
of the University, so he was always
engaged in one project or another.
Two periods of time that I can
remember he spent a few months,
each time, at some Hadron Collider
very deep under the ground in Italy.
The competition was on - Nobel
Prize and prestige - for various
universities to surpass each other,
as well as some international
consortiums also involved, in
atom-smashing, seeking what's
called (still) 'Dark Matter' - which
physics refer to as the building
blocks of the universe, the original
matter of all things; as of a 'God'
being a chemical experiment, I
suppose. This quest is still on,
along with a number of others,
and the Princeton University team
(and Alan, by name) is still deeply
involved in these experiments.
I remember one time he approached
me and asked if I'd like a job with
him (and them) in Italy, on the
project; that he'd be able to add me
to staff and keep me busy. The deal,
or problem, would have been that
it was 6-months on, no break, and
the work space was about a mile
down, in that then-infamous atom
smashing tunnel they'd built for
this experiment, the Hadron Collider
or something, it was called. They
ran atoms at high speed, and long
distances into each other, so as to
'crack' matter to its core. Something
like that. I would have had to quit
my job, and stay away, and pick up
the pieces (a pun?) later as I returned.
It was good money offered, and the
job seemed clear-cut enough, though
a little 'technical' for me. I'd have
probably just gone stir-crazy.
-
So, anyway, nothing came of it.
At the time, where I was working
the owner would come in on Thursdays
and Fridays and work with me, to
close out the regular week, check
orders, go over receipts, etc. On
those two days he'd break out the
bourbon, all day, in tumblers, and
we'd be sipping as we (all) worked.
That was my first taste of Kentucky
Bourbon, (at the time he'd buy
Knob Hill). One time or two Allan
would come over for a visit or some
lunchtime talk, and we'd hit the booze
with him. When it came time for
my 60th birthday, I met Allan and
his girlfriend Gurinda (from 91st
St., NYC) [I used to ask why it
wasn't 'gurlfriend' if it was Gurinda.
They sounded the same. She was
from India]. He presented me with
the largest - nay, Goliath-sized -
bottle of Knob Creek I'd ever seen,
or even imagined. It cost like 65
bucks, back then. I was stunned.
We had at it, all during the day, and
much of it went, though not all, for
sure.
-
At work, in the same way, the
staff presented me with a regular
but large bottle, also of Knob Creek.
I thought I'd safely put it away, for
slow use at work, but one day the
owner came in and spent long
afternoon with a writer who was
autographing a quantity of his latest
book; they had a luncheon, talked
and schmoozed all afternoon, as he
signed books. Problem was, it was
my new stash of booze, my 'birthday'
bottle they'd discovered, and it was
gone by 5. To my recollection, the
writer was Jeffrey Eugenides. (Though
it also may have been Cornel West or
Colson Whitehead. I can't exactly
remember. It was a long time back
and they all frequented the place
and the university.
No comments:
Post a Comment