RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,299
(cementing the level field; cue balls, part TWO)
Diamond Jim has a chip in his nostril -
not like a dog-chip or anything, but the
kind of stud kids put now in their noses.
Etc. That 'etc.' is important now because
stuff like this gets put anywhere, and I've
seen them all. But on Diamond Jim?
What a schmuck. Back in the ABATE
office, I used to have a girl who lived
upstairs, with her truck-driving boyfriend
who kept his big semi there, and he'd take
to the road for 10-day trips and whatever.
It got pretty treacherous for me, her being
alone and all; because every time she got
a new piercing or a tattoo also, she tap on
the door and walk on in. To show me!
Yep, you can imagine, from top to bottom,
and everywhere else, I had to be 'shown
the new addition. By goodness, that got
pretty strange. 'Mama's don't let your babies
grow up to be piercers!' Might be a song
there, I don't know.
-
Back in Elmira, those local motorcycles I'd
see were all knuckleheads and Shovelheads,
the nosy and clattering kind - open primaries
(sounds like politics?), too-loose drive chains,
and the rest. It was the early days of any
Harley resurgence, and AMF was prevalent.
Motorcycle made by bowling-pin setter
machines were a real charm. But, none of
them ever minded, it was all fun. I never
saw violence, nor even police goings on.
Everything seemed sedate. Those days were
far different than now; patterns and niches
had not really been established, and anyone
could range anywhere with what they wished
to do. Incense and Chinese Food was still a
big deal. Back then, Route 17 was still called
Route 17 (now it's got a few names and titles).
It was essentially a big, flat straightaway, (there's
actually a town near there called Big Flats. You
can look it up). Cars and bikers reveled in all
that - people trying to push 90 on some old
piece of crap Harley that should have never
seen 55mph. No one ever crashed and burned,
that I knew off. It seemed that what stoked the
fires was just the enjoyment of 'crazy' - that
word again - attacked from all and every side.
Goodtime Charley NEVER had the blues!
-
If I had to compare then to now, in Elmira
anyway, there'd be no comparison. Something
has obviously happened to our national fabric
that has changed all cohesion. I'd have to say,
now, that there is no Truth left. Everything
presented is a lie, a twisted Carvel of drivel
meaning to send people somewhere else -
to some sort of artificial paradise of space
where in a person says nothing, just accepts.
It runs the gamut - politics (look at the
current roll-out of new candidates; crooks
and schmiels all, up to no good antics, with
false presentations and misleading intros.
Not any one person ant longer has the
courage of a conviction. Those that do
among us, go to jail).
-
Outside of working and going to 'school'
(sounds funny), most of my time was
spent clacking away on an old Royal
typewriter. The most irksome thing
for me is that I had like a 50 page
manuscript, entitled 'Irvine Place'
(which was the street Nelson and
Chris lived on) and it took in all the
rich incidentals and personalities of
that part of Elmira where we lived.
I last saw the manuscript in about 2015,
when moving, and it's never been found
since. It may be junk, and I may be
blowing it all out of proportion, but
damn, I'd sure like to run across it
again. If not that, we'd just drive around,
going most anywhere. Back then, Elmira
gasoline was 64 cents at the nearby corner,
until all that oil embargo and Opec and
Carter stuff all hit. That pissed everyone
off, and when it got to a dollar, I thought
there'd be mass suicides from what I was
hearing from the locals, but one dollar
came and went, and then two dollars!
As usual, no one did shit about any of it.
That's the American way.
-
I had learned a lot, and gotten plenty of
Practice with feints and jabs. My everyday
matter went from 'here' to 'there.' I'd go to
Mark Twain's grave sometimes to just
stand there. There was something honest
and reverential about it, to me; but in order
to know that (nothing was given freely),
you had to know the man, his works as
well, and what went on inside his head.
He was one of our first, American,
home-hatched celebrities. There wasn't
much people knew what to do with a
character like that. He came from nowhere
and just burst out, somehow unfettered
saying whatever the hell he wanted. Points
of view were unmatched, and that was
all part of the charm. And there he was,
most everyday I chose, stretched out
before me in the odd family plot, with
the marker and the bas-relief. Almost
enjoyable and steady. Sam Clemens
was more of a 'performer' than anything
else - yes, he wrote the books and all, but
it was his stage presence and recitals that
marked his fame and character, all over
America and Europe too. He'd perfected
this entire persona of home-spun and
blunt; a country gee-whiz sort of
American icon, even before anyone
knew what that was, or even of
'Uncle Sam.'
No comments:
Post a Comment