RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,223
(another mistake)
Back up in Columbia Crossroads,
when I bought that house and old
farm, the business end of it all
was done in Troy, PA, a small
little about 7 miles south and west.
There wasn't much there - some
old-time houses, a big old crumbling
hotel, groupings of stores, all local
and utilitarian. No chain stores or
franchise stuff, except maybe the
Ben Franklin store, which was
like a cheesy, imitation Woolworth.
There were a few of them scattered
around out there in the wilds. They
were cool-enough as little stores go;
ranging from pencils to sponge balls
to toy metal cars, and a good contingent
of notebooks, school supplies, house
dresses, cheap clothing and underwear,
socks, baseball and sports. Pets and
fish too. Most everything was just
out on open-display. A person
could paw over everything, get
the feel of it, the size and the fit.
Downstairs there was a really
corny household-supplies area:
ironing boards and irons, with
clothespins, lightbulbs, extension
wires, clips and hammers and
hardware and screws - nothing
of any high quality. I don't know
know where cheap, foreign stuff
was coming from in those days
(before China awoke), but maybe
Japan, the Philippines, or any of
those strange and distant trading
markets by which American
imperialism had widened its net.
A coolie market of goods and
supplies probably made for 12
cents each. Back then, too, much
of that stuff was still made here,
in America - strange places like
Ames, Dubuque, Pittsburgh, Tafton,
Ilyria, Hendly, Hayes, and Atlanta.
Yeah, it all was a different world,
before the big stores, the mass
merchandising, and the imported
junk had obliterated all good sense.
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I'd pick around in there sometimes,
while waiting for my real estate and
lawyer and bank stuff. I knew nothing
of any of this legal stuff, nor the whys
or the hows, just instead handing
over what I had to, signing this or
that, saying yes or no, nodding and
signing some more. My lawyer's place
was directly across the street from the
Ben Franklin, in a little business shed
of sorts, perhaps built for just that
use. It was cute looking, like a
fairy-tale-cottage kind of stone and
stucco building. I forget the lawyer's
name now, but he was a real nervous
type - about 6 feet tall, skinny as a
rail, and he always had, draped loosely,
as if over a skeleton, not a body, some
sort of heavy suit. Business attire, yes,
to be sure, but of heavy fabric, usually
some form of gray - tweed or design.
I didn't know clothing, myself, but the
suits looked expensive and courtroom
worthy, except that he always ruined
the look, every time, with some horrid
tie that he'd probably purchased across
the street there for 25 cents. I always
figured that was the giveaway sign; the
guy really had no sense of flair or style,
regardless of the suit, because there
was no follow-through. Ties, shirt.
and shoes never matched the quality
look of the suit. The rest of the cheap
stuff just always let the air out of the
style bubble he'd started blowing up.
For the most part, it probably didn't
matter. No life sentences or executions
out in those parts were ever going to
hinge on what the cheeseball lawyer
was wearing. Most of the crime was
penny-ante stuff, or adultery/divorce
matters, child-support and/or real
estate. Living in debt, and outside
of the law, were just and simply
the way things went. There was
no 'law' to speak of, except on
paper, and calling a cop was the
job of an hour or two anyway.
-
The guy was, however, a pencil freak.
(The Ben Franklin store had plenty
of those too) - Ticonderoga, lead
#2. He had one or two cups at his
desk with finely-sharpened, mostly
new, yellow pencils, ready for use.
I used to sit there and watch him
carefully reading legal documents.
He'd lead his eyes along with the
pencil point, sliding lightly across
the document. If it was a document
that was to be turned in or filed
somewhere else, he'd leave it be.
But any copy of a legal paper that
was 'his' - for his own office files
or whatever - would get not just
the light-pencil read, but quite
often underlinings too. He'd scratch
and draw the line across the page,
beneath the typed-section in question,
carefully and with quiet deliberation,
always as if he was alone. There was
an older female secretary too, at the
front of the office, by the doorway,
but she was somehow never brought
in for any of this action. It was just
him, the desk, a typewriter, and those
pencils. Church-like and as if in
attendance at some grand ritual, I'd
sit there, quiet, and watch.
-
There was always something of a
deferential deliberateness about him;
something I didn't like, actually - as
if his entire life had been wrapped and
sutured into a regimen of following only
the most minute instructions, looking
our for that smallest detail, everywhere.
No wonder he was so skinny and looked
so odd. I really didn't think this fellow
had ever granted to himself a free moment,
a breakaway pass, a split-second out of
the long eternity of following order and
rules and logic, for himself. It was very
off-putting for me to have to deal with,
and - in that 'country' sense, I'd never
met anyone like that in any of my
previous life. Particular and fussy, it
seemed to the utmost. The sort of guy,
I figured, who probably allowed himself
two and a quarter pieces of toilet paper
per dump. Because someone stupid
had once told him that.
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The Troy Bank was right next to the
Ben Franklin, both of which, as I've
noted, were across the street from the
lawyer's office. The bank had a granite
front, in that older fashion of small
town banks; reaching for importance,
and determined to reflect solidity,
good sense, and continuation., no
matter the balance. The town was
determined to live up to its imagined
presence, and future. That bank held
my mortgage, my notes, and our pathetic
family balance, used by necessity for
fuel oil, food, and baby stuff. It all ended
up fortunate, and I always somehow
managed to keep my head just barely
above water, financially. The business
participations between the town's few
lawyers and this banks dispensing of
loans and mortgages was probably
reciprocal and of benefit to each, in
that between real estates, signing for
money-notes and mortgages, loans
and they all helped each other garner
business; even the delinquencies,
which of course required business
of another nature. The small Police
Station was but a few buildings over.
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Between the bank, however, and the
police station stood probably the most
telling building in town (it's gone now;
torn down by the 1990's for some
wretched ersatz mimicry of what
once was) - The Troy Hotel.
-
The Troy Hotel was perfectly centered
at the middle turnpoint of town, as
if the Gods themselves had pre-mapped
the imagined town in their conceptual
theorizing of what would eventually
evolve into 'Troy.' (You'll note how a
lot of these Pennsylvania and New
York State towns took classically
grandiose names, in mimicry of
ancient Greece, the Roman Empire,
Biblical ideals and/or places. It was
NOT just this ONE Troy). I can hardly
think that a rinky-dink, country-hop
sort of a place as Troy would have
harbored such pretensions, but it's
possible and perhaps the bank did
anyway. The Troy Hotel was nothing
more than a huge relic, maybe from
1898 or 1905. Guessing, It was a
rambling, running-over wood-frame
white minster of a place - rows
of rooms, a few landings, a hotel,
a bar, a room here or there for any
of the community functions it once
may have had there. To my knowledge
Troy, PA was never a railroad town,
unlike Elmira, NY, some 28 miles
to the north. Maybe travelling
salesmen stayed, working their
sales path all along the way.
Hunters. Government and state
work functionaries. I never knew,
but there once had to be a reason for
this huge hulk being placed there.
By 1971 it was mostly dead to the
world. Old sots held court at the
bar; seasonally, the hunters came,
yes, and stayed for their term, 3-days
or 2-weeks. I don't know what food
service was left there, but I never
saw a dinner or restaurant thing
happening - instead, the courtly
animation of bar-fights, vicious
arguments and shout-downs, and
enough wobbly old geezers chewing
their fats, and locally-drunk farmers
and farm-hands coming in to, maybe,
talk agriculture. Whatever the reason
the old Troy Hotel was a gem. The
interior space was different; the
modern world was little reflected in
its light. The rooms held auras and
swarms of ghosts and light. Old and
raggedy carpeting, in once-plush
purples and reds covered stairways
and landings. Floors too, though in
other spots the floors were great
oceans of wood, old, worn, and
polished by use.
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The oddest thing about the Troy Hotel
was the banner sign inside. Upon
entering, one passed the large doorway,
and crossed the lobby to the sign-in
desk and counter area. Not to be missed
was the sign stating 'No Women Allowed.'
It was the strangest sign ever - I'd been
told once or twice it only went up for
Hunting Season, when the place swarmed
with dogged huntsman. But I never saw
the sign NOT in place. Hunting season?
Gaggles of hunters cooped up together.
Alcohol? No women Allowed? I used
to wonder, how did all that go?
