16,266. RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,286

 RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,286

(you can only be blindsided when you're blind)

The simplicity of the human condition

astounds. Many, many times, between

A and B, unknown to them, there are

a hundred intermediate points. Yet they

simply go from A to B, thinking that's it.

If only they, or anyone, would grasp the

concept, so many more things could

get done. Each of those 'points' is a

stepping off point into another world:

one perhaps where consciousness rules, 

cancer and disease are no more prevalent

than a sneeze, and old age infirmities,

like memory, just exist, but do not grow

or progress. And this doesn't just go

between A and B; it runs the entire

circuit, M to N, and  R to S, all the

way down the line. Life is (almost) 

limitless in this regard  -  openings 

and opportunities abound.

-

The Breck Girl I've made mention of

had been, in her youth, around the world,

on fashion shoots, travel spreads, and

safaris too. The Studio work was in-house

NYC fashion industry stuff, but it came

with all sorts of connections. Piles of

money too, and I'd supposed contractual

residuals, swag, and connections. Pretty

good deal for some 20-year old beauty.

She certainly had more enthusiasms

about things than I ever did, and it

showed : she was ebullient, joyous,

and happy  -  one day going on about

a Christmas Party she was throwing,

another day wanting to take me, with

her, to the new Princeton Dog Park 

they'd just opened. It wasn't much 

of anything, as dog parks go, but she 

was beside herself over it. 

-

You can usually tell how comfortable people

are about themselves, and their money too,

by the manner in which they handle things.

Without a second glance, paying for an

expensive meal or a coffee and crumpet. 

It all just glides, without a second thought. 

They keep talking, right through the 

transaction. since it matters nothing 

to them. (I don't even really know what

a 'crumpet' is).

-

Money, apparently, is the dividing 

characteristic of most of life's matter.

For myself, it's always been the last thing

on my mind and  -  somehow like the

loaves and fishes thing  -  my God-graces

are adequate enough so that when I 'need'

something, or 'some', it's always provided.

I accept reality as the flow I walk amidst;

nothing to be controlled and ram-rodded

by me. BUT, I know many others who

worship at its altar (money), constantly 

going back to finagle more, using up 

every moment of their life and time to 

increase their lucre. Every effort that can

be put forth is put forth - to increase the

supposed accumulation of riches which

can be generated, and every waking 

moment is judged and reviewed by

what can be made of it and at what

return.

-

A nice stand of trees, say an acre or three,

(I've witnessed this), as nice as it may be,

if NOT viewed for its niceness. It rather

gets valued (as a must-have) because of

amount of harvestable timber on it. (They

call that like this: 'Those aren't trees, that's

timber.')...Eight thousand dollars, three 

weeks later, is turned over to him, for the 

trees, (cherry, oak, whatever, each tree

is valued differently) this new owner, who 

now possesses a stripped and newly bared

'plot' of land - chewed up, ripped and gouged

too. It's enough to make me ill, but it goes

on all the time.

-

(OK, gar, let's move on)....The Princeton

people were smooth, I admit that. There

were weird firestorms too, which swept

through for, to me, seemingly unnecessary

reasons. Like the issue of shoplifting. The

issue here was more of 'suspicion' than of

actual shoplifting. Yet, the bookstore here

implemented a shoplifting alert of sorts,

among all the Princeton students milling

about and waiting for the local, loose,

coursebooks on display. A few of us were

placed as 'book police' (?) to watch the 

stairwell and the activities going on. Like

paint drying, it used up time and not much

else. You'd think the Princeton kids had

enough money, and privilege, and also

University programs to lessen their 

oh-so-horrid book expense burden, but 

they always wanted more. Their recourse 

to theft, I was told, was paramount if 

unchecked. At B&N in Clark, we'd get 

shoplifters in, with booklists of what to 

steal and which titles to focus on, who

were, usually if not always, seen if not

caught. Cops occasionally would pull 

someone over leaving the parking lot, 

after a phone call was made with a car 

description and/or a plate number. Times

there were when such apprehension,

upon flipping open a trunk, was rewarded 

with a trunk-load of stolen books, along 

with maps and lists of which Barnes & 

Noble stores to hit. But this whole 

Princeton thing was different. Frankly, 

I think it was more unease and paranoia

that anything else. I don't think these

Princeton brats even had it in them to

steal, at least until they became bankers

and stockbrokers and hedge-fund managers

and pyramid-scheme operators. Actually,

more of the problem was within the store

than without. I always thought it was

pretty porous.

-

The Huck Finn character I mentioned? 

She was still around, yes, and pretty 

much had muscled me out of the way. 

I just gave up. At first it all was cute. 

Then it was annoying, and I realized 

I was doing all the grunt work, and 

he/she was gaining all the glory. No 

matter, and I mention it only for factors 

of documentation So I began being more 

friendly with the outsiders I'd deal with  -  

the drivers, freight guys, UPS and FedEx 

guys. They were definitely cool and more 

real-world anyway. Huck Finn had an in

with the 'girls' (?) which always baffled me

because she was purporting to be a male,

and they were females-only adherents. 

It all confused the fuck out of me and I 

realized I didn't know what a Lesbian, 

at heart, really was. Which was OK by 

me in any case. But, problems arose. 

She started sleeping there, overnight, 

in the store. I said nothing. The couch 

was nice enough, I guess. Her home-life 

was a shambles  -  some odd apartment 

in Trenton, and with a new, wild dog

too. Perhaps she needed the space and

the silence. I kept quiet, figuring there'd 

be no sense in making noise, and the way 

things went I'd end up having to defend, 

not the issue, but why I spoke up! 

- 

In the beginning, each 6 or 6:30 pm exit

from a day's work was misery. I'd walk

from the bookstore to the train or to my

vehicle in an abject fear that I'd failed

again and that I'd soon be losing my

job. It seemed every day there was

another crisis and nothing as an

explanation, and it all just kept getting

worse and worse. Being scolded, or singled

out, well, it just all seemed wrong to me.

I was part of nothing, and all was running

against me. Selling books (which I wasn't

doing in any case) was a nightmare, like

doing dentistry with no training and no

license. People were walking around

with sore gums! Because of me? Huh?

In any case there seemed to be so much 

self-righteousness going around that

little else mattered. The early-morning

maintenance guy became my best friend

there. He was at least normal and sedate, 

even if we merely talked tools or

lightbulbs. One ally I found I did have,

in the store and on staff, for which I was

thankful  -  at least while she was there,

and then she was gone  -  was he nice woman

running the Kids' Department. I hated

children's books and that whole menagaerie

of stupidity they represented, but she was

a stalwart, smart, and prescient person.

-

There were things going on I never even knew

about. One crazy guy we had, who later went

to Philadelphia when he finally got assigned a

parish to rule over, was a Princeton Theological

Seminary grad whose wife was also the Princeton

University Chaplain. One day we were talking,

and he found out I traveled from Metuchen each 

day, by train, and then walked the rest. He became

euphoric over my efforts (they were not 'efforts'

at all), and he said 'Oh Man! That's so great!

Who have NO carbon footprint at all!'

-

Excuse me...carbon footprint? I had no

clue by what power he thought the electric 

trains ran on. I took TWO! He reminded me

of those electric car people always ranting

on about their saving the world. You can

only be blindsided when you're blind.

 

 

16,265. DAGGERS

 DAGGERS

Maybe you'd want to listen more if

the shoelace was around your neck?

Authority figures never impress, but

sudden violence might? I've watched

the three of you here for 15 minutes,

and nothing that's gone on has made

me happy. A field-sport like Ignorance

just angers the sort of person I am.

-

Cheap and tawdry. Yes, good description,

but that leaves out all that you do not

know, and the presumptions you come 

forth with. Have another donut; that will

help your cause, chubby.

- 

Your friend there, the African cowboy, he's

really good at throwing matches. I wonder,

are they 'strike anywhere?' or is that too scary

for him  -  you know if you put them loose

in your pocket, they can ignite. 'My pocket

matches skimmed my pecker.' I can hear him

say that now, though I'd never see him blush.

-

'Let me stand next to your fire?'

16,264. MY TROUBLE

 MY TROUBLE

My trouble now is finding things. Paintings

and books galore. No indexing system and

now a memory that's been scarred by scalpels

and operation. What the Hell use am I?

-

All I do is ask for patience; there's a lot to

go through and I really don't want your money

until I locate your goods. Like the man who's

always asking question, I want to say, 'Does

water float or sink?'

16,263. HARDLY ANY WATER

 HARDLY ANY WATER

Nothing at all comes through here. They

leave the wandering to kids and animals.

A guy with a slung rifle went by five days

ago, saying nothing but throwing a wave.

'We've got control now', he said. I had to

check what he meant, so I looked at the 

news but nothing was there. Maybe some

new hunting season to wipe out more bears?

-

Or maybe there'd been a gun-toters revolution.

I don't count the calendar days; I just always

reference the changing Moon.

16,262. WHENEVER THE NATURAL SHINES

WHENEVER THE NATURAL SHINES

Whenever the natural shines, I run home

as quickly and as perfectly as I can. There's

a huge rock at the base of my roadway where

small animals gather and clutter. Right now,

the true doggedness of Nature shows  -  so slow,

everything grows to fruition though it's taking

as long as it takes these cold rainy days to stop.

-

Situations  -  like doggerel  -  patter on. In

whichever language the chipmunks chatter,

their tongues bespeak their new concerns.

The daily morning firestart is wearying now.

I lost my interest long ago.

-

For miles, there are dirt roads and cataclysmic

falls. That place called Peggy Runway? It's been

open again about half a year, and nothing's fallen

yet. Punks in blue cars leave skid marks, and

tired mothers drive over it with new care.

16,261. RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,285

RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,285

(the original Breck Girl)

One of my many Small World Mornings, 

I met the original 1967 Breck Girl : The

young, then, model, blond and beautiful,

who used to be on magazines everywhere.

It was all accidental. There was an immediate

attraction, both ways. I'd seen her around, 

even knew where she lived, from passing it

just about daily. On Chestnut, next to Pine.

We got to know one another a little bit. Don't

go jumping to conclusions, it all stayed proper,

though it certainly didn't have to. She had her

own little groups, morning coffee-klatch types,

so we often mingled. While I knew her, as well,

she went through losing a large dog, which she

had walked every morning, and how this all

started. She said it died in a very short period

after cancer was detected. She mourned, and

then replaced it with a happy, little, tiny by

comparison, lapdog. Meh; but I was happy

for her. She had lots of money, lived with an

also fetching female roommate in the house. 

It was a very stately looking, small, colonial

and historic house at the Nassau St. end of

Chestnut. She liked the porch, and was often

sitting out there. We talked often, she liked 

my art  -  which was hanging ( or so 16 

pieces), all properly framed and designated 

(though not 'curated') and which hung on

the bookstore walls as the store's 'decor,' 

4I guess you could say. She'd stroll through

and look at them, and once promised me a

local show, a hanging, in town, of which,

of course, nothing ever came. Though I

did get a lucky break, which I later 

regretted. More on that in a minute, but

here to the woman I'm speaking of. I'm 

not using a name, though I know it, nor

am I following up on her present and near

past. Suffice it to say, she was wonderful

then and, I'm sure, and I hope, she still is.

She had career money, from the 1960's,

and must have made a bunch.

- 

My paintings were hanging all over Labyrinth;

which gesture I really appreciated and was

thankful for. They were very nice to me for

allowing that. I'd never thought about selling,

nor even pricing them. One day three visitors 

to Princeton came strolling in. A professional

sort of guy, and his wife, from Beijing, China.

The third person was the guy's sister, from

some oil company in Dallas, Texas. I got

buzzed on the phone, downstairs, and was

asked to come upstairs, to meet these people

who were interested in my paintings. The

two from China spoke not a word of English,

but the sister from Dallas spoke English and

Chinese, perfectly, and acted as translator and

moderator. They were very serious about my

work, and wanted to buy 12 of them, there 

and then, off the walls. I walked them around,

and we got to the downstairs area once more,

and we sat down to further this idea. I was

confused, and had some trepidation. The guy

was a bit bizarre  -  he thought the paintings

were superlative, and was even weird enough

to ask me why he did not know my name,

from in the 'art world' of famed names.

This as a guy who couldn't speak a word

of English (if that was true). He was pushy.

He was adamant. He and his wife asked me

to come up with a price, one big price, there

and then, and add shipping costs to the total,

to Dallas. (He wanted me to pack everything

up and ship it to his sisters address at the oil

company, UPS, insured and documented).

-

Of course, I was flabbergasted. I asked for two

hours, to figure out the packing and the shipping, 

and the price I wanted. They said OK, they'd 

come back, fully prepared to deal. The other

bookstore people with whom I worked were as

flabbergasted as I was, offering congratulations 

and encouragement. That was just as weird. 

I felt that the entire, ridiculous spotlight had 

been pointed to me, because of some weird

Chinese guy and his sister and wife who had

blown in. I was able to do all the packing and

shipping myself, and with the UPS computer

able to fairly guesstimate weights and shipping.

Gruesomely, I came up with a number for the

entire deal. To me, it was a large number, in

two parts. Paintings. And packing and shipping.

The other thing, believe this, was the pain I

was feeling in having to part with these. They'd

all always been dear to me, I saw them every

day, and I treasured them. Reluctantly, I decided

to do it. When they came back, I gingerly gave

them the price, and I asked for at least two weeks

before processing the packing and shipping, as

I knew I'd need time. It was to be tedious.

My dollar figures seemed bizarre to me, even

in just saying them. The Chinese goons accepted!

The Dallas sister wrote me a check, on some

oil company.  (As soon as they left I went down

the street and deposited it at the bank. I wasn't

going to do a thing until I knew it cleared).

-

I related this tale to a Princeton friend the next

morning, and he said, 'Even if you only sold

two, just think, you've already sold more than

van Gogh did in his entire life.' (I didn't know

if that was true or not, but I didn't quibble).

The check cleared. I did all the packing and 

shipping. And then. And then. Regrets.

-

Someone told me that I'd made a big mistake;

that there were entire villages in China, villages

of artists who spend all their time copying and

reproducing foreign paintings, crediting no one 

or no thing, and that big stores, worldwide, buy

these after cheaply printed reproductions are

made and framed, as house-furnishings. He said

not to be surprised if someday I see my work

being sold in a painting-decor bin at Walmart

probably for $18.95 each. Talk about the air

going out of my bubble. I wanted to die. To

date, and many years later now, I've not yet

seen my own work for sale anywhere. This

guy made me feel like I was selling my own

babies for some gruesome loss in a baby-mill.

I even though about, a la van Gogh, cutting

off my ear. The money  -  don't get me wrong  -

was a stunning bonus, and out of the blue,

but I felt, again, suckered. I've since sold

maybe 15 more paintings and drawings,

and now I don't even think twice on it.

-

One time, driving in, I saw a deer get hit on

some secondary road off of Rt. One. It was

pretty gruesome, and it didn't die, which

made it worse. A cop, on morning patrol,

pulled over, and I watched as he took his 

pistol out and shot the poor deer in the 

head. I saw a few accidents, gas station 

altercations (during one of those gas-crisis 

and high price shortage situations), and

enough aggressive-driving assholes to

piss me off for a lifetime. I often brought

my dog, when driving, to work with me;

going early, as I did., we'd always stop

along the Rt. 27 way, at the canal, or the

lake. Sam my dog, loved all that stuff, and

water too. She'd always, even in the cold,

take advantage, and all day, in the store, she

was real good and stayed around curled up

or sleeping near to me. Everyone loved her.

16,260. NO TIME FOR SERGEANTS

NO TIME FOR SERGEANTS

Nor rabbits in the grass, nor tsunamis, nor

anything having to do with reality here. It's

so vast it's all over. The old bookshop has

closed up, and Book Row is gone. Fourth

Avenue has been returned to the buzzards.

-

At St. Marks Place, the guy was buckling

up his filthy pants, having just taken a dump

in the alley. Two cars were trying to park 

where neither could fit, and the old Spanish 

guy watched from his beach-chair perch just 

in the 11th street doorway. On the corner 

now, there's a mosque. Two Muslims were

approaching, in matching headsets.

-

Shit fuck Goddamn, I don't know where to

turn. This modern day has different lightbulbs,

and the light just isn't the same.

16,259. MARVELOUS MARV THRONBERRY INTO THE EERIE LIGHT

MARVELOUS MARV THRONBERRY INTO THE EERIE LIGHT

He was a baseball player, and I was a kid. So

much I cannot remember; maybe he was a Twin?

But that can't be so, because they came much later,

like '62. I'd say then, a Cardinal, between me and 

you. Orioles, Yankees, and Mets  -  all slam by in

Marv's quick procession. He was the only one I'd

seen on out of uniform life. And then came Yogi.

-

I saw Yogi twice. Once on the Macomb's Dam Bridge.

He was in a little Ford, in traffic like then rest. It was

after a game, and the teams were leaving. The visitors

went home on a team bus, while the Yankees went home

alone. It was evening the next time, getting dark, on a

very dim, rained-out day.

16,258. TOO MANY LYRICAL JERKS

TOO MANY LYRICAL JERKS

Tendencies of liberation? They sit the

snakes in rows so they can hear and

cheer. High school mavens writing

about exes? Their shined fat wriggles

at the doorway.

-

Here we blend the happy with the sad.

Subsidized losers, role-laying grand games.

 Woodbridge Township is mad again!

16,257. RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,284

RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,284

(sell them more than they can afford?')

Alongside everything else, Princeton was a

pretty town, though way too snooty and aware

of itself  -  in a way old towns aren't supposed 

to be. They are meant to inhabit their 'grace' 

silently and then follow it up without pretense. 

It had plenty of old, protected, trees. And then 

they began cutting them. It had the Witherspoon

District which, through the 1980's was pretty

much left alone, as a black ghetto. One with

memories. Then they started wrecking that, 

tearing down the old, and putting up stupid

condos, wall-fronted window rows with rents

and purchase prizes sky high. For prestige. It

had a few really old pizza places, and then 

they dwindled, taking a lot of that old charm 

with them. An Army/Navy store that was truly

great. Some crazy guy who drove around town

in some Army surplus Jeep with a machine gun

on the rear pivot, still mounted and for all I

knew, live. I just figured (or hoped?) that it

was merely advertising for his war-surplus

shop. A few of the old restaurants and hotels

and drinking rooms were traditionally kept, 

and with real awareness of their eras. The three

or four frame shops that I knew, even they

operated in old and traditional ways; nothing

slap-happy or goofy about them. Same with

the camera shops and their photo-finishing

annexes. The Post Office kept all of it WPA

styled construction...until some later fool

brought in a lobby television. Everything

degenerates; though I've probably said that

10 times before. The previous bookstore, the

one named Micawber, much better fit the 

tenor of the town; in a way that bright, 

whiteness and more plain and modern 

assault of Labyrinth never did attain. It

was always too steely, too bright, and too

well-kept. A month or so after that 'soft'

opening that I'd mentioned, there was a

'grand opening' for the local town, Boro, 

and University crowd. It worked out OK,

maybe a little heavy on the glitz and 

ceremony. That was back when Shirley

Tilghman was the University President.

-

She left about 2012, which pretty much

also ended any terms of the old and the

graceful for the town itself. After, that, it

all got streamlined and made sleeker by 

the newer attributes of today's mores and 

culture being overlaid onto and over it.

It was past a certain point that I too simply

said, 'It's over now everywhere, and it's all

too much.' I mainly went by atmosphere of

the local coffee-shop. Small World, it was

called. Somedays, Small World and Labyrinth,

both combined to make me not want to do

a thing. Face it, I didn't care, and I was

unimportant too. High-falutin' talk about

the Marxist 'working class consciousness'

and some other form of an enlightened

labor class worth its rewards went by the

wayside. One day, my friend at Labyrinth,

from Italy, Sal, had some issue over wages

with the proprietor's wife, who ran the store's

day-to-day operation. She turned on him and

ended that conversation brusquely by saying,

'What do you think this is, Salvatore, Europe?'

He took it like one takes getting a black eye.

-

That 'grand opening' gala was a low-key,

evening affair. Wine and crumpets, and the

rest. The University President blah-blah'd

us all through it, as did the two owners, who

went on about their 'hopes' for the future, the

continuing work of the University, and all that.

There was even a band  -  small-scale rock,

with a member of the Princeton faculty on

bass. The band's stage name was 'Rackett'

and the bass player was a famed poet of

some grand renown. Now, there's a rating 

for you.

-

I got home well after 11 that night, but 

had spent the evening listening and 

watching.  All sorts of interesting 

people and claimants to that name

had stroked there way in. I had been

appointed as a 'doorman' for the evening.

It was nothing at all, really, but it was

something to do  -  nothing to do actually, 

since, truly, the doors both opened and 

closed themselves, as people strolled in 

and, later, strolled out. Cursory hellos,

and nods, to those I knew or had seen,

and an occasional official 'greeting' to

others. TaDa! And then, the next morning,

we were again open for real business!

-

Much of my defining Princeton time was

spent, when not with Labyrinth Books,

either strolling about campus, or the town.

Or at Small World Coffee. As did many 

others, I used it as a homing base for my

free time.  There was also a new library, 

and it too was a draw, just down the street.

There was also a crazy-man, running a

sort of Asian Sushi place. He kept his

own hours, but it was cool, and he was

one of those proprietors who could be

rude and even cruel to his customers,

mainly to make that all part of its draw.

The group at Small World was great, 

and I got to know a few of them too.

There was also a Starbucks along

Nassau Street, but for whatever reason

it never filled any need for me. Small

World had it outdone.

-

The University had a daily newspaper,

called The Princetonian. It was in the 

news boxes, along the street, and as 

each new issue came out (daily, weekdays),

I always, or mostly always, grabbed one.  

Every so often some froth would rise to 

the top, as a snide article or a saucy letter 

to the editor, mainly and usually about 

the shortcomings of the new campus 

bookstore, or how crummy the newest 

'coursebook' service-set-up was at 

Labyrinth. Here were l9-year old brats, 

privileged, and entitled, bitching about 

buying books, waiting in line, the 

tendency for long check-out lines. 

Never about any of the dumb-assed 

mob-manners of the damned students, 

as they all flooded the place at one 

time and demanded instant service 

and satisfaction from us benighted 

twerps serving them, as they chattered 

and gurgled on their phones, paying 

little attention to what they, or we, 

were doing. For geniuses, they really 

sucked. And then, a little while in, it 

was all taken to the next level. The

complaints started being about the

expense of the books, as if WE had

anything to do with that. The prices

were printed on the books, but the

little dickheads didn't realize that.

So, over time and after some drawn

out negotiations and terms, etc., some

plan was brewed where 'Tiger Cards'

were to be used, as a sort of fake money,

for the purchase and then tuition-based

reimbursement of coursebooks I, of

course, had no part in any of this, so

my explanation here might be off some.

The point is, the huge endowment on

which Princeton University sat, even

in 2008 was looked at with gluttonous

eyes, and these rich-brats, by their

complaints and groundswell of new

discontent, got their way. Lest I

forget as well, the 'store' also 

achieved some breathing room 

about its own profit and pricing,

and thus was more able to concentrate

on retail bookselling. I always wanted

to tell someone, anyone, this quote

by Charles Everitt: "It is not much fun

selling books to people who can afford 

to buy them. The real pleasure is in

serving the true students, those who

are hungry for books that cost more

than they can afford."

16,256. I EMPTIED MY TRAY OF METICULOUS THINGS

I EMPTIED MY TRAY 

OF METICULOUS THINGS 

The old man turned to his wife and I heard

him say, "I need a GPS that tells me not the

where and how to get places, but why I wanted

to get there." She said, "Oh Frank, you're so

foolish." I figured maybe they were buying

a car, but they even seemed too old for that.

In fact, I wanted to tell him not to waste money

renewing any magazine subscriptions they may

have had. It's a difficult world when one is forty,

let along after one is 85. Ask yourself, at that 

point, what 'needs' to matter, and why.

-

If things begin breaking down, it's a sure bet

it's gets progressive. The next thing you know,

you're forgetting your kin and where you are

going and where you have been?

16,255. PLEISTOCENE MAN?

PLEISTOCENE MAN?

I've always liked Homo Faber better.

Man the Maker; the tool guy, the

carver, the builder. Did he also

build jails and houses, the first

men to capture their women and

lock them away? I have to wonder

about that. When did those big,

flying animals finally leave the

sky? Any overlap. Birdcages too?

-

Scientists dally in eras they like, 

and I think the ones they're not so 

fond of they race right through.

16,254. DON'T LOSE YOUR DOCTRINE

DON'T LOSE YOUR DOCTRINE

The skin on the melon peels off easily.

But why? It's too thick to roll back and

just leaves you the pulp. Do they put

melon on pizza now too? Polynesian

Pizza is preferred by Polynesians?

-

I wouldn't adjudicate the matter; it's

hardly a consequential item  -  like 

reading a map while riding a train.

16,253. RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,283

RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,283

(I had to deal, not gripe)

I've told already how I got to know the

conductors of the trains and how, in the

morning, the conductors never took my 

ticket. It was the 5:06, first train of the day.

It ran out of NYC, and hit all the Jersey

stops along the rail corridor, with Metuchen

as its, maybe, 7th stop, and then 5 others, to

Princeton Junction. At Princeton Junction,

a main hub, anyone to be headed for the

University had to wait 10 minutes or so

and catch the 2-car, small, connecting

train called 'The Dinky' (Originally the

PJ&B, meaning, coyly, 'Princeton Junction

and Beyond). [see video too, of the 1963

staged 'train robbery']. The two conductors

on the early main-train, always together,

were Newark girls, quite friendly. Black

girls from Newark, who are large, talkative

and pleasant, have a spectacular charm, not

often found this side of, say, the old portraits

of Aunt Jemima. In their conductor outfits,

these two were cool. On that early morning

train, as well, there weren't many other people

except a few construction workers and train

maintenance crew type guys, laborers, also

black, with their big boots, work and tool

boxes. They were all friends, and stayed

mostly together, unless one wanted to be 

sleeping. Newark insiders, all. I've already

mentioned the box of chocolate Entenmann's

donuts I'd occasionally bring for the two

conductor girls. It was always appreciated,

and they went right at them gleefully. As I

said, these 2 girls were 'big'. Newark fat.

One of the black guys, that day, pipes up,

in best Black-ese :"Why you give them that

for? You be make them fat!' Oh boy, I had

really done it this time. I'd never mention

fat or size or anything of that with the two

ladies. Leave it to one of the guys to do so!

It got laughed off, and fortunately, was never

made mention of again.

-

All of these railroad yard worker guys got off

at the Jersey Avenue stop, which is one stop

after New Brunswick. It seemed to be where

trains were stored, worked on, repaired and

serviced. New track-laying railcars, etc. all

started out from that yard; so I guessed that's

where those guys worked and what they did.

-

I always enjoyed the rail rides; even when I

took those same trains up to New York City.

There was something about the rail travel 

that allowed contemplation and solitude. BUT,

I must add, it soon deteriorated, as a cultural

condition, everywhere. It wasn't but a year or

two later that everything was altered. I'm not

sure what happened and/or how it occurred,

but like the rest of American culture it was

quickly headed downhill. After a while, it

made me stop riding the trains and go back

to driving. The quality of the ridership just

seemed to just fall to Hell. They tried 'quiet

cars' for a while, but those were more of a

pathetic joke than anything. Rife with the

challenges and bombast of 'just try to shut

me down, fool!' There were food drippings,

food smells, families of New Brunswick

Mexicans getting on and off, noisily, and

without any regard for others; slackers and

losers too; drugs, alcohol, and the rest. The

entire premise of civil travel was gone. And,

of course, there was endless phone chatter

-

I guess it was pretty much the fate of all

things, to degenerate and devolve. Nothing,

apparently ever goes 'up.' We go from

Beethoven, to 'Roll Over Beethoven,

and give Tchaikovsky the news!'

-

I've always liked solitude and quietude too.

My entire life's been more like a study hall

than anything else, by design. I hate sports

and noise, crowds and mob scenes. Adulation

and boosterism make me sick. One of the

first crappy things that happened to me, at

the Labyrinth store, about a year in, was the

World Cup Soccer matches of, I guess, 2008.

I'd never even heard of that crap before, and

all of a sudden here was our boss, the guy

running the store and having all the intellectual

pretense of some reigning genius, running from

pizza counter to sandwich shop (they were 

right next door, and all over Nassau Street),

where these soccer matches were being 

broadcast and people were cheering, 

watching, eating and hooting without

end at the excitement of...soccer, just

so he too could stand there and gape up

at a television. To me it was like going 

from a high-class  University, to a 

kiddie carnival. What a let down.

-

An individual has to admit to the

importance or non-importance of things.

I knew that and I therefore was always at

work trying to balance all this out. Early

on in my new employment, I was often

enough in trouble; getting taken aside 

and talked to, being asked about what the

problems were as I saw them, etc. It wasn't

personnel, and it wasn't work environment.

I think it was more just fit. The two female

managers who kept bagging me seemed 

unable to read between the lines, and I was

not about to be the one to start beefing and

complaining about things, nor about others.

If none of it was apparent to them, then it 

was contingent on them to just throw me 

overboard. No one made a move, and a

simple stasis soon just took over. Issues

of quality and personnel have just never

interested me. My work always got done,

in my own strictly predicated manner, and

usually without the input of others. Fact was,

others were the problems, but how can you

tell that to a boss? 'Ah, look, I just wish to

be left alone and I'll do all my work in the

best way possible to get it done; on time 

and without the undue influence of all

the other pesky people you keep sending 

down here.' That, my friends, was a

true no-fly zone. In fact, it was

almost Barnes & Noble redux, with

added conflict. BUT, a person can't

just go running around with a quality-

meter and a checklist, judging all that 

he sees. (Actually, I wonder. Perhaps

that's what everyone does, and all the

time). Anyway, I kept cool, managed to

hang on, made friends at my own level, 

rode the train, played the parts needed, 

and hung in. The only real problems, and

they came only after a while, stemmed

from that Huck Finn person's intrusion,

and all of that grew eventually to crisis

proportions. More later, and it's a long

story. 

-

Low-level and interpersonal politics never

attracted me, nor did I ever care what in

the heck anyone else ever did. I guess,

on paper, that right there along throws me

out of any hope of being in the Managerial

class. Yes, there I was, and torturously failing

at it. I'd had lots of experience with blowhards

before, so it wasn't too much to deal with.

Back in the printing business, half of the

people I'd deal with  -  salesmen, shysters,

cheats and double-talkers  -  had all

the stripes and colors of that ilk, and they

used to really burn me up. But there too

I had to deal, not gripe.