RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,282
(we end up being...)
When the lighting is bad
it's hard to do anything good.
Even the smallest tasks go
awry : the coffee filter folds,
the toothpaste cap rolls on
away, and Heavens knows
about getting dressed and
putting on socks. There are,
now, places in NYC that prey
on such weaknesses; like
jungle cats seeking out the
old and the infirm. Claims
are that any of this can be
made better - home help
and all the wonders at may
bring. I think it's a city thing,
how they bring in the extra
help and make hundreds of
dollars a week, easily, while
the skipping girls and au pair
maids and all of that then
gleefully find their ways to
ransack a purse, or file a bank
account away. From any other
angle they call it organized
crime, but there's little that's
organized about it. It keeps
an anarchy all its own.
-
I can remember those days
in the 1960's when - pretty
much like happened to Benjamin
in 'The Graduate,' some stupid
geezer would come up to you
(and by 'you' here I mean to say
'anyone'), and start baling career
information at you, about your
future, like it was water out of
a boat. Let alone 'plastics,' as the
movie had it. They always left out
those other parts - about getting
hooked up with some illicit hot
deal, a way to so quickly make
millions that the rest would never
matter. Early in a career, it's all
a crime lab anyway - wanting
to test the limits, see how much
can be bent away. No one ever
really wants to work, and shouldn't.
It's a thieves' game and only the
ones at the top get the manners
and means to walk heavy with
the graft that makes any of it
worthwhile. The rest drone on
- slaves to their own dreams
and innuendos. I guess no one
ever says, 'Let me see what I
can steal,' but that's how
it happens.
-
What can be the value of any of
that? I often wondered. They say
you only get paid for doing things,
but I wanted a system where you
could get paid, just as well, for
NOT doing things. Like the old
Dick Tracy 'Crimestopper's
Textbook' - always a favorite
of mine - there seemed to be
hundreds of ways of finding
things out. Clues abounded,
hearty and heavy. I soon learned
that crime was everywhere. My
father said 'Don't get caught.'
But that still meant 'doing' things,
working, having a job. The thing
about a job was the other people.
Man, I hated that - having to
meld and fit in, act the game,
nod and smile, read the sports
pages just to know which geek
did what, because you knew damn
well some idiot on the train or the
job would bring it up. I used to
feel that I'd rather be in solitary
confinement than have to work
every day with some moron who
always had to place phone bets on
games, or phone-trade some hot
stock and then ransack the papers
for tips and results. Like money
mattered that much, at the bottom.
-
One always had the beach-bum
routine as an option. Flee to some
pale Hawaii, or, like Gaugin, find
a fine Tahiti in which to dwell.
Whether in mind or in reality it
hardly mattered. The ones who
did it in mind got to be called
crazy. So what? I always wanted
to stow away on a steamer to
Bremen or Hamburg - the way
the stories went it was easy to
do, sneaking on board, finding
a place to hide. The way it went,
I was told, was that they'd find
you, yes, but by then you'd be
two days out (1960's) and there
wouldn't really be much to pay
for being found. They'd pummel
you a bit, make a 'man' out of
you, and then put you harshly
to work doing some harsh and
menial job. Once arrived in
Bremen or wherever, scatting
away was easy and your new
life awaited. Of course, that left
out a million things - language,
food, lodgings, papers, police,
family, but who cared about that.
Life was crazy in the living, so
take a big bite.
-
We end up being all that we are,
and only that forever.
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