RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,232
(montclair)
In late December, 1980 -
very late, with about 3 days
left in the year - I was sitting
in a coffee-stop/diner sort of
place, in Montclair, NJ. My
10-year old son, and my wife
were with me. It was maybe
2 in the afternoon, already
drawing towards dusk. We'd
been slumming all day, in some
little car I had at the time - it
wasn't much but it got us about;
gas was yet cheap, by today's
standards. As I recall, we'd been
to West Orange to visit the
Edison Laboratory, and then
to Llewellyn Park nearby, which
is the closed, private and once
exclusive community where the
Thomas Edison Mansion is. He
lived there and went each day
the mile or two to the Edson
Laboratory where he worked,
conducted experiments, kept
kept a massive library, and a
cot and sleeping quarters too.
-
Montclair is a number of miles
off from West Orange, and quite
a separate place, though in that
NJ fashion of old, abandoned,
industrial towns - in the 1970's
and 80's anyway - they all bore
the same attributes of 'scratch
and get by' - long before the
age of mass condo-conversion
and head-strong communitarian
developments for middle-class
and subsidized housing. It was
all interesting, if you liked that
sort of old, faded bricks and
mortar, almost Victorian,
landscapes. Newark was the
same way, once all visible
from the trains; all gone now.
I never understood, and still
don't, why old, working, America
would have allowed itself to
self-destruct as it did, except for
the ideals of Capitalism, which
in a truly Marxist sense, are
nothing but self-consuming,
and which thrive only on
consumption and self-destruction,
based on the constant need for
new product, new junk, and
a formulated process of false
need and appeal. Capitalism
can never achieve peace because,
once attained, any goal cannot
be settled and rested, as greed
and profit then demand something
new again that everyone must be
convinced they need. Rapacious
destruction ensues. Nothing can
ever be appreciated. Even the
ides of God and Religion can
become nothing more than a
frenzied nervousness, based
again on new 'product', money,
and awkward claims of 'success',
both spiritual and otherwise.
Any God, in Capitalism, is
truly in the employ of Mammon,
and Moloch too. Even bookstores
will claim to sell you wise
enlightenment through their
serene and enlightened staff,
but first you must turn over
money, for the newest tome
awaits. At the top of every
heap there's someone with
their dirty hand out.
-
One of our reasons for the
Montclair stop was, yes, a
bookstore. Off along the side
of the retail district there had
always been a large, totally
haphazard and messy, used
book emporium (they liked
words like that back then. It
itself being an old, Victoriana
sort of word), which, besides
endless used books of every
description, encompassed
also magic, games, jewelry,
runes, and other esoterica,
hippie-oriented or not. It was
run by a curiously aloof guy
of about 35, and was adjacent
to the coffee-shop in question.
-
We were having our food -
usually coffee, a toasted corn
muffin, maybe a tuna-sandwich,
and my son (off-school I guess
for Christmas week), was having
whatever he'd ordered. Paging
through our books and pamphlets,
we looked up and, addressing us
and sitting nearby, was this odd
fellow in a great-coat. The expensive
kind of a coat and hat I'd only
come across in tales and stories.
He nodded to me and began to
speak: "Hello. I couldn't help
noticing your charming little
family in the bookstore there;
you really caught my eye. I feel
I must say this to you: I am Jack
Eckleberg, of late a no-one here
but once a staff philosopher at the
local university. So be it. I need
to tell you this, at the belly-end
of the years as it is, for I have
been a great-chooser of men and
can pick-out destiny quite easy
and when I see it. Never become
unsettled, for I can sense you are
made for great things, and this
new year will soon, to you,
become a great boon and a
blessing. Tread with care, and
let not the opportunities pass
you by. It is written in the stars."
With that, he gave me 25 cents,
saying, 'Keep this,' and then he
told the guy at the counter that
our bill was to be on his tab.
-
I said, "Wait? Eckleburg? Like
the doctor in Gatsby, with the
eyeglass billboard over the ash
heap in Queens?" He nodded,
"Why, yes, in fact, that is so."
-
Nothing ever came of this, lest
you mistake my story for glory.
It's was probably nothing but
the faded glimmerings of a little
man lost in his own space. My
son asked for a quarter and got
one too. I told the guy I'd had
two friends in my youth in Avenel'
Jerry Eck, and Jimmy Eck. I
asked might they be related, with
a shortened version of the same
name. He didn't know, but said
the name had been toyed with
over the years and families.
And then he was gone. By
the it was about 4:o0, and
darkening quickly. Leaving
the diner, I looked up, to
where some glade-bird was
trying to sing Panis Angelicus
on a department store step.
No comments:
Post a Comment