RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,236
(not worth a dollar in a freaking dime bank)
It goes without saying that
the netherworld beckons. No,
I can't say why; it's like some
inevitable moment. Like the
first time I ate a blood-orange.
Or a Chinese apple - what
they call a pomegranate. Or,
another one that sticks - the
Christmas season time I was
in the basement, at my friend's
house. We were sitting around a
little table at the bottom of the
stairs, reading comic books,
and his mother came down
the stairs and gave us figs,
the kind on a string-coil,
like I don't ever much see
anymore. And back then
too it was the first time I'd
seen them. I've had other
figs since then, and much
better tasting ones too, but
these sticky-sweet, tan figs,
whatever they were, were
new to me and bettered my
attention span for Superman
and Iron Man, Spider-Man
and Batman too.
-
At this same period of time,
maybe 1958 or '9, many of
these look-alike little homes
along my block had newly
installed bars in the newly
finished basements. When
the houses were sold, the
basements - and the attics -
were just raw spaces, sold as
complete and unfinished. The
WWII guys and their new
little families, after 4 or 5
years (homes opened in 1954),
as they stayed, and prospered
or got a little money, proceeded
then to 'finish' these basements
and/or attics. Tiled the floors. Did
over the raw spaces, and paneled
the walls. (My father never
'finished' our basement, as he
instead turned it into workspace,
for his sideline upholstery jobs;
one piece after the other, couches
and chairs, through, and out, the
newly dug cellar entrance. Though
he did, eventually, by 1962, have
a completed 'upstairs' attic (5 kids),
and an extension off the rear of the
house). Anyway, each guy acted
differently towards these new
spaces, and it always amazed me
how the vast majority installed
bars in the basement. Like the
fig-space I was in that day, most
of these war-guy fathers held
some mental tack about recreating
some form of 'Buddy's Bar and
Grille' in their own basements.
-
It wasn't a rich-guy's block, by
any means - nothing of the
Westfield or Summit character
of large, old homes towering
over lawns with wide, circular
driveways. These were, instead,
cookie-cutter, starter homes of
the sort that any Levittown-er
could easily understand. You
could probably get bigger houses
in a breakfast cereal box back then,
and for free. Whatever their own
motivations may have been,
each of these 'bars' represented,
almost iconically, some revered
version of the sort of life they'd
maybe fought for - more important
than golf clubs (there was little
of 'golfing' input along Inman),
hunting scabbards, and libraries
or even equivalency diplomas.
For these fellows, all that was
both over and done.
-
I can recall one Christmas season -
I suppose I was 10 or 11 again -
meaning maybe 1959 or 1960,
walking with my Father along the
block, in his own sort of Christmas
ritual, to the same 5 or 6 homes
and basement bars, of other fathers
on the street. They'd sit down at the
bar, like chums, and go on about stuff,
chew the fat, have a few beers, pretzels
and such. I sat there too, with a coke or
a root beer, at each of the stops, not
quite sure what to do or why I'd
been brought along. I knew the
houses, and any kids who lived
in the house. The parents too - just
from local, neighborhood stuff.
The kids never seemed to be
around, so I just sat there, house
to house, and pretty much by the
end of two hours and 10 beers, my
father was one, happy-time, googly,
wobbly Christmas cheer himself.
-
It was strange - lawn decorations, a
Christmas tree in the 'Picture' window,
(funniest term ever for the frontspiece
glass, but still better than 'Bay' window
when there wasn't any water around
for miles) - and most often still
another Christmas tree in the ratty,
converted-to-a-bar, basement. These
people went all out! At least 3 of
these father guys were gas-station
owners; car-guys, tough and brawny,
with little but grit and grizzle by
which to speak for themselves.
The 'bar' in the basement worker
perfectly.
-
It was a sad time too, mostly because
I pretty much hated all that pretense.
There was, back then, some rather
universal Santa Claus face decoration
that most everyone had - a sort of
punchy plastic, onto which had been
pressed or embossed, a curious type
of 3-D Santa face. More leering than
anything else; it was suggestive to
me, somehow, and always got me to
thinking how I wished a daughter,
or even the wife, of that household
would come down there instead.
My stupid-boy brain always got
started running out of control. I
leveled with myself, eventually,
and just figured any of that to be
the 'way of the world' and I ought
to just get used to it, or start wanking.
Between the fakery of the backs of
the bars, with the occasional lewd
calendar hanging or some overly
concocted seasonal Christmas babe
pushing raw cleavage, and the
vapid reality of my own boredom
and confusion, the entire 'Christmas'
thing just mostly made me want to
puke. Or wank, but I think I already
mentioned that. I never understood
any of this, and for me, even the
most reverent of Christmas family
scenes reeked of sweat and anxiety.
Crap around the tree; useless gifts
of garbage exchanged and swooned
over; envy and anger always at the
edge; Grandma acting nervous; kids
raging and out of control. Not worth
a dollar in a freaking dime-bank. The
only thing sadder - maybe, and from
the dog's point of view - was those
kids who'd with gaiety open a
be-ribboned box, to find a new,
Christmas puppy inside. In my
view, sad. Ripe too, that puppy was,
for abuse and neglect. Not like
the storybook or TV portrayals
at all. More just like another trek
down the same, sodden block.
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