RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,259
('stranded in a desolate wilderness')
It was a funny time, this living
as I was doing - on Inman
Avenue, in a place called Avenel,
which never amounted to much
for me, as a place, except for
an occasional and dreary dot
on a local map as an outpost
of something that was underway
as greater 'Woodbridge.' Which
was all wrong, because there
was nothing great about that
either, except as a town that
was dwindling down into
old enclaves of Hungarians,
Poles, and other Slavs, with
corner taverns and gin mills
abundant. Railroad and
refinery stuff, mostly. Soon
enough even that was engulfed
by the entering and crossing of
both the Turnpike and the Parkway,
which crossed there and brought
many a wayward truck and
warehouse into being. At the
end of my street, Inman Ave,
there was a truck depot for
'Teufel Bothers' - which
meant 'Devil' in German, and
which I duly noted. They had
tanker trucks for fuel oil and
gasoline parked around. next
to them was a trailer park, filled
too with an odd share of faintly
Germanic names as well. Odd, that.
A few of the NYC wrestlers on
the wrestling circuit lived there:
Karl Van Ness, I think was one,
and some other guy too, name
now forgotten. But a 'Killer
Kowalski' and 'Haystack Calhoun'
type. They came and went on
their wrestling tours, leaving
trailer kids and I guess a wife
(or two) behind. The kids, boys,
that I got to know were OK, but
sort of measly in the outreach
department. Quiet and unassuming.
Unlike their Dads' bombastic
loudmouthed wrestling way.
It's funny how time removes all
of that, as now I hardly remember
what went on. I also had a trailer
friend there named Gary Anthony.
He came and went in the matter
of a few years - like maybe 5th
and 6th grades, but he was the
first person I knew without a
father. He lived there, in a trailer,
with his mother. Just the two of
them. He was a bit effeminate, I
always thought (in those days long
before 'gay' was anything), and
I always just blamed it on too much
living with Mom. Whatever.
-
The cool thing about the trailer court,
and probably the reason for its existence
in Avenel - otherwise pretty worthless -
was that it was situated on Route One
North, an easy access and quick drive
to the two tunnels accessing NYCity.
The Holland Tunnel back then I
don't even think was a dollar yet.
More like a quarter probably, and
it was a scant 17 or so miles away,
via the Skyway. The 'Pulaski'
Skyway that is, speaking of the
honored Poles of our then existence.
I always liked the Skyway - it was
elevated high above the grubby
expanse of the outlying Newark
and Kearney meadows, it was free,
and it soared skyward in a unique
way. Years later, when I was
motorcycle-ganging it, the
Skyway became a unexcelled
speedway for both flash and
drunken kinetics at high speeds.
There was little to care about, on
two wheels and properly 'lubricated,'
when one was elevated high above
like that - open lanes and basic
upward and downward straightaways.
One time, coming off the Skyway,
late at night and plastered like fish,
four or five of us basically splattered
along the sidewall high curbing
coming down off it. Bikes went
flying, well, sliding anyway, as
we each, miraculously, were
separated from our bikes and
slid too along the ground. It was
late, and dark. Pieces and people
were scattered (my wife had flown
off the back, and I had to find her).
We were pretty much unscathed,
but bloodied up, road-rash and
scratches. All the motorcycles
were able to travel back to Iselin,
except for one. There's a story there,
and I'm getting to it.
-
Back in Iselin, one of the guy's
wives, Peg, was a lead nurse at
JFK Hospital, and - though angry
at the event - was able to patch
and sooth those who needed attention,
salve, bandages, etc. (RIP, Peg, we
miss you dearly). It took hours
before the last guy, whose bike had
been immobilized, showed up. As
we all were standing around at the
Skyway crash location, two hairy
biker guys had shown up, unbeknownst
to us from where, in a station wagon.
They stopped, pulled over, and said
they'd take the smashed motorcycle,
and its rider, back to Iselin, thereby
saving us cops and trouble. They'd
been alerted on some Hoboken
radio-connection that bikers were
in immediate need, and had answered
the call. (I found all this out later).
They scooped up the motorcycle
and the rider (Pete), but it was
hours before he returned, with them,
to Iselin, for his own version of
medical attention. We were all
confused. 'What kept you? Where
were you for two hours plus?' It
turned out that his good samaritans
of that night, armed and ready,
were also out on a pre-scheduled
drug-delivery deal to the very pits
of Jersey City - which delivery into
dangerous turf and its own pitfalls,
had consumed well more than an
hour. No matter, we were all back
together, they stuck around a bit
for a beer or two, and left.
-
My friend Howard, from what was
then Edison Harley, took my
motorcycle in for repairs, and I
had it hopped-up and re-tuned at
the same time. Some 1200 dollars
later, in those days (1993?) a good
chunk, I had a new killer motorcycle
under my legs. Pete used to build
his own bikes, so he came out with
a new project and a story to tell.
-
Woodbridge, being what it was,
had its own smooth feel of immigrant
and arriviste. By contrast, Avenel,
and then Iselin, both co-existed on
some modest (very) scale beneath
the supposed gentility of all those
Woodbridge people, with their larger
homes, older streets, and a main drag.
Most of our bars were Iselin bars,
except for the Maple Tree, which
was definitely Avenel. All of these
places - the Pioneer, Hank's, Jack's,
and Flip's...and the Maple Tree and
maybe the Blue Bird, were well
below sanction in the class-department
of proper drinking. But, like the Avenel
trailer court (Hiram's), we neither cared
nor did it matter. It was what it was
and it ought to have stayed.
-
I learned about that 'Teufel' Brothers
thing meaning Devil from a 5th/6th
grade friend of mine, Theresa Nocks.
Which I always thought was Knox.
While in the 'portables' - a shack
section of the grade school we went
too, which were not 'portable' in any
way and never moved an inch - she
and I for some reason often got eraser
detail. That meant that, at the end of
the last class in Friday's we'd get to
go outside, with all the erasers, and
clean them, as it were - by slapping
them on the brick sides of the School 4
walls. Soon enough they got, instead,
an electric eraser-cleaner, which was
like a grinder but it had, instead, a
soft brush that whirred around, to
which we'd gently hold the erasers as
they cleaned off, with white powder
flying everywhere. I never knew
much about Theresa, except that she
lived on Clark Place, the second
house in, next to Waler Wilk. She
was vaguely Germanic, and used to
say 'Danke', instead of 'thank you.'
And she also was able, somehow, to
me that Teufel meant Devil in German.
-
Yeah man, it can be said that I
miss those days and still hold what
I can of the memories dear. Life is a
weird thing, throwing stuff like this
at us without a guidebook or any
advance notifications of what it all
will be. Like being stranded in
a desolate wilderness, young, and
without any shoes, just waiting
for whatever comes.
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