RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,268
(from this distance)
From this distance, most
everything seems the same.
I've lived in varying situations,
each of which were quite
different from each other at
the time. Not saying that I
understood each of them as
they were occurring, now the
differences have faded and
they mostly appear alike. In
each case, I see now, there were
underlying patterns and themes
taking place that I wasn't fully
conscious of. Perhaps that's
just how life goes. I was never
made fully accustomed to
picking out differences.
-
When a person first gets splashed
into a different sea, it all feels
strange, but only for a moment.
I remember first one job, then
another - in all cases I found
myself in a new mix of people
and circumstance, just watching
for clues as to how the group
dynamic went, what I should or
should not be doing or reacting.
It's very off-putting, like Heinlein's
'Stranger In a Strange Land.' One
learns to 'fit in' by recognizing
the differences presented. The
hardest thing for me, initially,
to understand was 'motivation.'
Back then the minimum wage
was $1.25/hr. It's a bit hard to
believe what it felt like then to
get 100 dollars (before deductions
anyway) for a 40-hour week, but
for me it was a cool deal. Gasoline
was maybe .27 a gallon, (yes, the
days of 19.9 cents a gallon, by
which my father had bought
gasoline were by then already
gone), and a good enough used
car could be had for 300 bucks.
I was reveling in self-compassion
over all things.
-
Motivation, however, outside of
those rather mundane and material
things just mentioned, was another
matter. I found it hard to understand
how people could rationalize doing
this sort of daily grind thing on an
endless and everyday basis. (Little
did I realize my own grindwheel of
a future). A person was able to talk
on about 'slavery' and being a 'wage
slave,' but only if it were done in
the sociological or historical format
of American history, the anti-slavery
movement, and the long history of
labor issues, strike-breaking and
violence, the Wobblies (IWW), and
all that. Everything was a long story,
and contention was the rule, once
you began.
-
But, that was then. I was in the midst
of a strange part of NJ, adjacent to
NYC, in which most of the people
were quite happy with their lawns
and cars and kids and vacations.
That was all it took to keep the sum
of life adding up to correct numbers.
At home, odd little things cropped
up, like parents arguing over whether
Dad should or should not get an old
boat and outboard motor. My mother
ran on about how it would just sit
on a trailer, in the yard, with little
use, being a big expense and of
little practical value. My father,
on the other hand, and on whose
back the whip of wage-slavery
kept cracking, wanted it badly, if
for no other reason than for his
Saturday and Sunday forays to
'the Shore' and fishing, and for
a small bit of the 'status' that he
somehow thought it would give
him. Beats me, and I never did
understand. How is it put as an
adage, 'a boat is a hole in the
ocean that you throw money
into'? Something like that. He
did, long after, eventually get
one and - yes - it mostly sank
on the trailer and rotted into the
ground it was parked on out back.
-
I guess the squirmy gruesomeness
of all that does make people, after
a while, start looking for other
things. Day after day working can
become as dense as a gray-chalk
paint after a while. Boats, love
affairs, bowling leagues, alcohol
and whatever else seem to find
their ways to creep in and add to
the mixture their own forms of
charm. Good for that, probably,
for I'm sure it has saved violence,
wife-beating, murder and abuse
(often enough) from happening.
-
Once I got rolling, my really
'first' job was a joke. I had a
305 Yamaha motorcycle that
last Winter home, and on it I
went daily, regardless of weather,
on a madman's mission, to the
'Menlo Park Car Wash.' Why,
I never really knew. I was
biding my time, hating school,
and trying to 'launch a career
at a car wash. (OK, not really).
Problem was, and there were
two, that I didn't really know
how to properly ride this
motorcycle. The usual hand
manipulation of meshing
clutch and gas in an orderly
manner still escaped me, so
I usually ended up 'peeling
out' from any lights and stops,
and many times also, just
thudding to a dead stop as
the machine - because of my
stupid take-off. would balked
and stall. The weirdest part of
this was what was, at that time,
called the Green Street Circle,
when it existed. It was, in British
terms, a 'roundabout,' and had
about 4 or 5 other exit and entry
points that one had to watch for.
I would, to avoid the need for
stopping, hesitating, to lessening
speed by downshift, just heedlessly
barrel through the circle, no matter
what. After that it was a fairly
simple straightaway, down the
2 or 3 miles to the car wash.
Daily, by these means, for three
Winter months anyway, I would
sail past anything, heedless of
space, speed, caution and/or
hesitancy. And, the second point,
it was usually 30 degrees, give or
take 10 in either direction. Yes,
motorcycle baptism by fire. But,
I learned. Once there, the debauchery
of the car wash was without compare.
High School dropouts (yes, and
'high' school dropouts as well),
who were essentially car-wash
lifers already at 20, bailed and
rag-massaged cars as if they
were their own girlfriends. Loud
music was always blaring (I recall
that being the Winter of some
strange Beatles parody song called
'Lucy in the Sky, With Glasses' and
it seemed to be playing all the time).
There was a little locker-room and
lunch-break area, into which the
two or three female car-wash
attendants were always being
invited. Ummm, I knew not why?
We'll leave it there. Advancement
comes hard (no pun intended?) in
the car-wash career business.
-
Those few girls were something
else too - besides probably attaining
a criminal status as a gun-moll by
the time they were 30, they somehow
silently boasted, as well, of a disdain
for what is called 'feminine' or the
usual 'lady-like' stuff. Any make-up,
if there was any, was 1960's harsh.
Hair was a wrestler's matted pile
of squashed linen. Fingers and nails,
because of the car-wash tedium, were
always white and softened by being
endlessly wet. Nails broken by always
hitting the metal of car handles, mirrors,
or edges. It was hopeless. Their clothes
were construction-worthy, and by
Jesus they were tough. These girls
took no guff, sought out their tips,
and sauntered around as if they could
flip the car of anyone who pissed
them off. I loved it. They called me
'Crash,' mostly because of the way
I drove that motorcycle, daily.
-
The end-up of that motorcycle was
as follows: It had Yamaha Auto-Lube
Injection. Which meant that, as a
two-stroke, the engine no longer
needed to be fed a mixture of oil
and gas, as two-strokes usually
did. (That's why they make that
blue-streak behind themselves).
Auto-Lube, with its separate oil
reservoir, supposedly did this
job for you, and with the correct
ratio of oil-to-gas. The problem
there, as I found out, was that
if 'Auto-Lube' failed or broke
down and no longer functioned,
there was nothing to tell you of
that. It happened to me. Beneath
once of those Parkway arch-stone
bridges by Rahway Road, leaving
Colonia towards Clark, NJ, the
bike seized up under me as I was
gallantly passing some ancient
lady doing 12mph in her Dodge
Dart. I held on and kept myself
from hitting her heap, but the
resultant skidding and going
down ruined the bike, which,
without me on it, flipped and
flopped to a nasty meeting with
the curb. My friend and I later
retrieved the bike, no cops, the
old lady went on, and I later
traded the whole mess with some
guy for a Rudge bicycle ('English
Racer' it was called back then),
and a Yashica 35mm camera,
which served me for years,
though it had a light leak which
left errant white marks on the
photos. It served as my entry
to photography, so it all had to
be worth something (even from
this distance).
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