RUDIMENTS, pt. 124
Making Cars
Life can be a dynamic, or it can be
a static. Comfort and ease are always
static. I think that the 'comfort' factor
eventually takes over - most people
after a while just cease seeking change,
and opt for the routine and the regular.
There's nothing wrong with that, but it
becomes a slower and duller world. One
of the problems with 'running in place'
of the problems with 'running in place'
is that you quickly enough wear out the
ground upon which you are by that
ground upon which you are by that
running-in-place, stalling. Some people
accept that, and they end up happy
enough - in the same unknowing way
they end up with a basic vocabulary that
probably uses the same 450 words over
and over but in different variations.
I've always felt, by contrast, that a
punch was better than a massage.
-
A year and a half ago, I was driving
down to Florida and stopped for 'night
two' along the way (no rush here) at some
plain-flake Motel 6 or Budget Motor
Lodge along the way, in Georgia. My
driving was calm and serene, the passing
parade of places and sights was grand.
I had what I needed, and was just on the
move. A placid world like that sets you
up for surprises, since it's not like that
for everyone - there are countless
others in the midst of churn, deviating
along the way, smashing into one or
another obstacle or problem, constantly.
Such 'running in place' is fraught with
the strife and the sadness of loss, need,
and want. (Don't get me wrong at all,
I'm in those same straits, but I handle
it differently and do not consider myself
stalled or static). In any case, proof-to
point, that evening, about 6pm (it was
January, and early-dark) there was a
tap at my door - seriously. And a
thin, presentable, but sad-looking,
black girl was at the door, asking if
I'd like any 'services' for the evening
and that she was available to be back
for perhaps 10 pm or so, pending the
arrangement (and money). I felt extremely
sad, for her, realizing instantly that her
prediction of money-making had somehow
hooked her up with the motel proprietor,
(who probably got a cut) and probably
the 4 or 5 other motels there within a
stone's throw as well. This girl's plight,
whether under the heavy-hand of
whether under the heavy-hand of
some pimp or not (whatever they call
the guys who run stables of girls and
the guys who run stables of girls and
get the proceeds), was saddening to see.
[A pimp is the owner, a John is the
end-user - had to check that out]. I
have nothing actually against tossing
end-user - had to check that out]. I
have nothing actually against tossing
it down whenever and where, but this
format of hire (even if she was, perhaps,
a 'entrepreneur' and just doing it for
herself) really threw me, and, once she
saw there was also a 'wife' inside the
room, she skedaddled. Perhaps it
would have been a set-up for a robbery
or fleecing. Had she known my wife, who
might have said, 'Yeah, come and join us.
How much ya'want?' - she might not
have fled so quickly. I do not know. But
the instance has since stayed with me.
might have said, 'Yeah, come and join us.
How much ya'want?' - she might not
have fled so quickly. I do not know. But
the instance has since stayed with me.
-
Grinding American, Georgia-type
poverty? Despair and abuse? I
wouldn't know. Dynamic or static,
the poor girl's life seemed already
set, and this was no more than 30
miles from Savannah, where all that
Southern history and bucolic old-city
charm made mention - on a hundred
placards and markers - of the high and
steady historic value of the places and
the city itself, with groups of tourists
from here and from there. Not once
was a mention noted or made of the
obverse side of all this out on the crude
and cruel interstates rolling by. I wondered
of some sort, perhaps, of a remnant of
black-bondage or slave-servitude.
of some sort, perhaps, of a remnant of
black-bondage or slave-servitude.
-
I'd known and seen ('known' meaning
'hi hello again,' not the other, biblical,
sense) my share of street girls in NYC,
and they were always full of it, the
bustle and frankness of rock-tough,
take-no-shit New York doggedness.
('Look, Buster, ya' want this or don't
cha?' Don't fuckin' waste my time
otherwise'). They were different, in
the sense that, first off, never was I sad
a minute for any one of them because
they'd apparently and brazenly made
their choice and were enjoying, probably,
what they were so good at. There was
no hint of a sorrow or a hesitation in
their voice or work, and they probably,
for a few good years anyway, hauled in
fifty bucks an hour for themselves,
AFTER their guy's take. American
small-business ethos at its finest and
underway - no matter the occasional
violence, disease, death or beatings.
They were ready, and I'd often break
toast and coffee with them at any of
the three or four lower west-side dock
diners back then, where the waitresses
were most probably retired versions
of the girls themselves. It was all tough,
banter, chatter, and bluster. They knew
each other and they talked. Later, the
Javits Center was built right over their
prime performance area and work-grounds,
and by the seventies, much of the
'service' factor of that enterprise had
taken to the insides of cars, large cars,
the morning street there was littered
with condoms. 'Careful where ya' walk,
Charlie. It gets slippery around heah.'
-
It's funny when 'illegitimate' labor
gets its own workplace. Even for that
tired, sad, old girl in Georgia, there
was such a location even if it was a
normal, routine Motel 6. I began
wondering how many other people,
over the years, have been faced with
this and whether or not the inherent
Georgia-racial-bias here was a remnant
of the past, or just an exceptional
moment of now? Was she herself
bored and disgusted by her routine?
Was there any real money or friendship
in it? So many questions, so few answers.
I was almost tempted to just say, 'come
on back later, we'll just talk.
