15,711. THE DESIGNATED RAMBLER, #6

THE DESIGNATED RAMBLER, #6

Long after the train wreck  -  it took a

lot of healing and it took a lot of work  - 

I finally got back to some semblance of

personhood. Whatever 'personhood' can

be at age 9 and after a piecemeal recovery

centered on everything and nothing all the

same. I was always screwed up, after this

point I sensed my personal logic was soon

to be a lot different from that of others.

-

One memory was that, when I was still

in that hospital bed, interminably, it seemed,

I had a male nurse, not a nurse I guess, more

just an orderly. He wore blue scrubs, and was

a Filipino. He'd come around to check my

casts and suspensions and all that, and, most

annoyingly, it was his job to change the sheets

on the bed. Remember, I was in casts, and

suspended, in traction. The whole thing was

a minimal of comfort as it was, but this guy

would - in order to change the sheets - just

sort of manhandle me and without regard to 

any pain and anguish caused. He'd 'lift' me

up to get under me and pull out the sheets,

and slide new ones in. He'd think nothing of

twisting me some, or pulling, to get into the

sheet-changing positions he needed. It was

pretty gruesome and I really ended up to

dislike this fellow. I didn't like his ways,

not his handling. He was like the first

'foreigner'  -  as it goes  -  that I'd dealt

with. It was a funny, bad, impression.

-

Another memory, equally weird and shaded,

was my 'homecoming.' I guess it was a

Saturday, since there were people all around,

aunts and uncles had come, neighbors and

kids. I was driven up in a car, and  -  with

my crutches  -  let out of the car at the curb

and front lawn of the house I lived in. It

was nearly embarrassing, as I had to trundle

along with the crutches, people were happy,

saying hi, even clapping. When I did get into

the house (up the front steps, a real feat on

new crutches), I walked into a room  -  the

same, small, living room I'd grown up in -

that appeared totally different, out of place,

unworldly. It was difficult for me to again

realize the needed 'fit' to get back into

that same old mode of existence. Yet, I

realized it had to be done. The same old,

small, metal box TV (1959) was there

but on it, miraculously to me, my Uncle

Joe and my father had put in place an

aquarium. It was for me  -  angel fish,

tiger fish, and an assortment of others.

I was pretty stunned, having never before

had anything 'particular' like that before.

It was an immediate change for me.

-

My mouth, upon homecoming, was

still wired shut, for about 2 more weeks.

The talk and joke around the table was

of the great, big, sirloin steak they'd give

me once I could eat again. I mentioned

this before, how the entire idea of wires

shutting my mouth so my jawbone

could heal  -  and for that long a time -

would now drive me insane, like being

buried alive , but during this entire time

I really thought little of it. Curious. I

can only think that, when young, those

sorts of things do not predominate. 

-

I think, from this point on, actually, my 

entire was ruined. I can't really put a

finger on the evidences of what I'm

saying, but the everyday matter of life,

after my re-entry to it, was undermined

and way different. It was from that time

on that nothing really gelled. I was an

outsider, somehow, to everything.

-

Within, I guess, the next year, I got

another piano teacher. This guys name

was Frank Novak, from Woodbridge. 

My father at met him at a local Knights

of Columbus dance, or some Elks function

or VFW, where he and my mother had

gone, dinner and dance and all. This 

piano guy, Frank, fronted the little dance

band, and my father somehow chatted

him up...about piano lessons. Which he

'just happened' to give. His house was

up at the corner of Lockwood and

Ridgedale Aves., of Rahway Avenue.

He had a very nice, stone, house, in

the English-cottage style, and off to

the side of the property was a garage,

his, which he'd converted from garage

use into his CPA tax and accounting

office. Along one side of the leathery

office was a piano against the wall,

where he gave lessons and played. I

never saw another person there except

me, but whatever. It was pretty cozy,

and I liked it a lot. The one drawback,

and it was killer, was that Mr. Novak

smoked cigars, large, serious, ones,

and all the time. The place reeked,

and in fact, everything was coated 

in cigar grime and odor. No avoiding

that. Even the white piano keys were

dingy, with that yellowed pallor of

cigar smoke exposures. Bad news.

-

Other than that, it was OK. He'd 

start each lesson with the small talk  

- baseball, boys stuff, how was 

school? How's Dad?, etc. The he'd

review the lesson I'd had for practicing

all week, and then he'd play it, and

then have me play it; usually mangling

most everything. Then he'd discuss my

errors, have me try the right way, and

again he'd play it. No big shakes, but

there was never any 'music theory' or

music history involved. It was the

most basic practice-to-play stuff.

The hour went fast enough, and I'd

leave. I bicycled there (about 20

minutes) and back, in most of the

good weather. The funny thing was

that to get there, bicycle, or car,

I'd have to cross those same RR

tracks where I'd gotten creamed. I

really thought little of it. I was in

control of my own activities, and

it surely wasn't going to happen

twice. The only real problem I

ever had was in turning up to 

Lockwood, there was always a 

few kids who would start to 

pepper with small stones and

pebbles. I happened a lot, and I

really hated those kids but I went

through it each time, figuring I'd

not give them the satisfaction of

being bothered. I never met the 

kids, just saw them from where 

they huddled and hid at one of

the houses

-

Those piano lessons went on until 

I was 12 or13  -  at which point, 

when leaving for the seminary, I 

just dropped  the entire idea, and 

even there never partook of any 

music instruction or band courses 

offered. I'd been musically 'saturated,' 

and just wanted a break.