RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,301
(patron saint of nothing, pt. THREE)
As I got up to leave, 4 more dogs
appeared and sort of made a circle
around me, that wiggling kind of
circle-in-motion that dogs make
when something really interests
them. It was a happy moment. It
also coincided somehow with his
motion to open the inside door and
have the dogs usher me in. I went
without any resistance, not sure
what or how I'd do anything
anyway. Inside was a kitchen,
in which he'd already turned
on the light. It was daylight,
but the house, being in the low
shadows as it was, I guess stayed
pretty dark. The kitchen itself bore
all the earmarks of a kitchen, minus
any of the lady-like cookery touches
a woman would give it. He seemed
to live light, and off the cuff; which
was OK with me. I'd done that myself,
and always found it comfortable when
I did so. I never found anything more
annoying than the homes of the very
fastidious. Perfect order, spot-on
cleanliness, little racks for towels
and everything else in its place. I
thought back to what he'd said about
scrimshaw, and pretty much felt the
same about this.
-
I was, at the same time, reviewing all
this in my head, as if writing, say, a
movie review of the scene. It had to
be kept, in its way, 'objective,' as they
say - even though it's quite silly to
review a film and determine to be
'removed' and 'objective' about it.
Downright silly, in fact. Visualizing
his earlier remarks about those two
sisters, and that Marilyn person,
had already whetted my appetite
to find out was this guy was about.
Turns out, he was about to be opening
yet another beer for each of us. I
wondered if his name was not
Hop Head Swimmingly, but I
didn't ask. I'd been in situations
like this before - half-captive to
someone of entirely different habits.
Mostly it was back in Elmira, college
days and all that. It usually involved
lighting up another toke because the
person in the apartment where you
were just assumed that everyone
present and newly arriving would
imbibe. Usually listening to another
Steeleye Span album, or, for sure,
Fairport Convention, while his wife,
unerringly, was in the shower with
someone else. It was never alcohol
in those days (1974); it was pot, sex,
weird food, and even fondue, of which
now I can hardly remember what it
was. A flaming torch-pot?
-
So I sat there thinking: It was pretty
weird, to be sure (but that was the odd
fun of these weird situations I often
get myself into). Here I was, nearly
50 years on, in the deep. low middle
of some Cortese Road (just off Peggy
Runway's closed end), listening to some
78-year old guy remind me of scenes
from way back, in Elmira, NY, at my
friend Nelson's house. Nelson was an
art teacher in the Elmira High School
system - super hip, back then, heavy
into pot and music, and good times and
other stuff. We all hung out together.
It wasn't knives, it was just Life, with
a capital L. His wonderful wife, Kristen,
(RIP, oh dear), was just as hip. Kids
used to run away from home, in Elmira,
where the good old hippie days, about 6
years behind the curve, showed up in '73,
and they'd show up at Nelson's front
door, seeking refuge. From their parents,
and sometimes police too. Nelson would
take them in, and the explanatory procedures
as to the how and why of all this often got
very complex, between him, the kids, the
parents, and the police. But back then
things were so different that he never
got bagged or in trouble. He drove a cool
'65 Pontiac Catalina, which he, by '74,
had traded in for a - believe it or not -
AMC Pacer, when they first came out.
It was like a fishbowl on wheels.
-
I couldn't share any of this with that guy,
for our minds were miles apart and had
not yet in any way meshed - well maybe
over the dogs. Not sure. His strange world
was sure enough enticing though. He leaned
in, to speak: "You know what the main
things is out here in these woods? To stay
apart. That's probably my main daily
motivation now - keeping out of the
mess of things. I want nothing to do
with anything. Shit, I ain't been really
out of here for 9 or 10 years now, and
I don't miss a thing. I mean I go get what
I need when I need it, drive to here or
there, but the people are so fucked-over
different now I can't abide even an
ass-twitch of any of them. The girls in
the freaking bank? They talk with a
scabrous tongue, and way too fast. I
can't understand a word. So I just go to
pretend. I go along with the god-damned
sing-songy, prancing voices, all that
rise and jive and twitter shit. They
can't even finish a sentence, I bet,
without fully gagging on some guys
unit, boyfriend or not. I don't even
know why a bank would hire that.
Used to be old ladies I'd complain
about; now it's god-damned kids!'
-
I thought all that was kind of funny
in a way, but I couldn't just start
laughing. I wondered about him.
He kept a shade-stubble on his
face, maybe 8 or 10 days old, so
I wondered what was meant. A
beard? Or just some bizarre, hip
try at stubble, like a fashion look.
How removed was this fellow? How
did he feed all those dogs? Must
have made plenty of dog food trips.
I couldn't much see the Fed Ex
trucks here delivering Chewy!
-
Usually when people drink beer,
steady, like one after the other as this,
(I had a friend once (RIP again!!), who
was expert at this, until his liver
revolted), they just progressively
lose some coherence. But he seemed
fine. Sharp. Pointed. Well-honed.
No wonder he made knives!!
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