RUDIMENTS, pt. 215
Making Cars
There's one sort of authenticity
that always goes well : the Truth.
There's a guy in the Princeton
Cemetery - flat stone down in
the back, and on it it says, with
his name and dates, 'See, I told
you I was sick.' That used to
crack me up, whether for it being
funny or stupid I could never
determine. The thing about it
was that I could just picture this
crazy guy, saying it, but it was
only something you'd say, I
suppose, after death. So what
was the stance? And what made
it even weirder was that, in the
Boro of Princeton itself, it was
a really 'un-Princeton' thing to
say, in that the sort of haughtiness
there that mostly went around
would never directly approach
such a subject in that fashion. It
was akin to, say (for us old-timers
who know the reference) Henny
Youngman being awarded a
Doctorate in Philosophy. Of
course, Albert Einstein (the still
reigning superstar of Princeton,
'still' being a double-entendre
because, young folks, he's dead
too. And if you don't know who
he was, he invented the bagel),
used to chase his secretary around
the desk. It was never a relative
problem back in those days. But,
this guy with his funereal crack
about 'I told you I was sick,' that
really was the prize-winner here.
Sublime to the ridiculous, maybe -
in the same cemetery as Aaron Burr
and Jonathan Edwards, father and
son and grandfather of each other,
John O'Hara, Kurt Godel, Paul
Tulane, Sylvia Beach, and Grover
Cleveland (and his daughter, Baby
Ruth too!), and George Kennan.
-
So, the search for the real was
always underway. I was kept
looking. There was some Catholic
priest I'd often see walking in the
early morning. He said his name
was George, and as we talked,
any number of times, about the
peacefulness of the mornings, he
one day blurted out, 'If you ever
stop seeing me out on these walks,
it will only mean I am dead.' OK.
I took note; more reality. Then there
was my friend on the garbage truck.
He finally retired, and then I'd see
him each morning about 7am,
walking his fine dog and telling
me how much he enjoyed his
new life. Then there was another
old guy, living upstairs in an
apartment above a Nassau Street
clothing store, or the Princeton
Running Store, whatever names
they went by - a nice string of
very old lodgings - he was, I'd
guess, about 80, Irish maybe or
Welsh, bad teeth, bucked in the
front, very prominent (but still
his, and cared for, at advanced
age too). He come out most
mornings, with his walking-stick
that doubled more as a cane, always
he was smiling and happy, greeting
a new day. Yes. Then he died, but,
so it goes. The loudmouth guy
who always went into Starbucks
at 6am when it opened, always
wore shorts, no matter the weather,
talked loud and full, never shut up,
and was in everyone's business.
Him, I kept a distance from. Just
never liked - I never frequented
the Starbucks anyway, unless Small
World was closed (once or twice a
year they'd close for a few days to
do something inside) or it was bone
killer cold outside and Small World
hadn't yet opened (the opened at 6:30;
Starbucks at 6). Get 'em when you can.
-
That Catholic priest guy named George,
by the way, I could never figure him
out. The church itself was on Nassau
Street, with its own cemetery (the one
where John Nash and his wife ended up).
He was never up that way though. This
section of town was down, lower. Also,
(he was about 70), he was always in
grubby old street clothes, looking like
anybody. I never got the priest thing
exactly. But he too was authentic. So,
the summation of all these people and
names is that here, in a gloried, money
community, boastful of itself and a
certain sustained level of intellectualism
it kept, is that it was NOT impossible
to still find real people, real characters
true to self and just going about their
work. Tried and true exemplars of
everyday living. I remembered, back
in the 60's when Sly and the family
Stone had a big hit with their song,
'I...am everyday people.' Yeah man.
-
In Princeton, there were bicycle tours
and walking tours of the town and the
university, good weather, maybe 12
bucks. Little groups of people, you'd
see them walking around, with a guide,
who told them this and told them that.
There were gigantic buses of people
always coming in, Japanese and
Chinese tourists mostly. They were
all crazy-nuts - militaristicaly
staying together, clinging, as they
walked and stared, or stayed still
and stared. Cameras, selfies, and
all that. In the bookstore they'd
swarm, looking and touching, but
no one ever really bought anything.
Then they'd cross the street and, with
the guide, go into Nassau Hall and
get the whole revolution spiel. The
American colonial history and
Continental Congress stuff that
went with it - historic rebels and
leaders of the revolution who'd come
through there. It was always weird
to me, because all these Chinese
tourists, if they tried that stuff at
home, they'd be locked up like
for 30 years, yet here they were,
jabbering away, taking phone and
camera photos, and selfies too, in
front of prime American revolutionary
stuff. I guess they all just went home
and forgot all about it. Weird.
-
Like they say, rank has its privileges,
and in the local American scheme of
things, this 'boro' was pretty high up.
It was always fun to be there, and at
most any time there was some sort
of unexpected occurrence. One time
three Chinese people came in. Two
were from China - Beijing. They
were being led around by the guy's
sister, from Houston, Texas, affiliated
there with some oil company. In the
bookstore, as I worked there, they'd
allowed me to have 20 or so paintings
hanging, as decor basically, with a
small sign about 'for sale' upon
request, etc. Maybe I sold two in
two years. This Chinese guy calls
me over, and wants to buy 18 of
them right now, right off the walls.
For his building in Beijing - lobby
and restaurant stuff, to hang. I didn't
really want to sell; these things were
pretty dear to me, even though it
'said' for sale. I declined, and they
kept pressing the point. Name the
price. So I came up with a number.
Of course Mr. Chinese Businessman
has to start re-negotiating and trying
to bring me down. With flattery too -
'Who are you?' - 'Why not famous' -
'I not know your name' - etc. Craziest
shit in the world, and I'm not making
it up, my co-workers witnessed. To
my surprise (and sorrow) we actually
came to terms (mainly because he
wouldn't leave), and the sister wrote
me a check, then and there, on a
Houston oil company, with two
stipulations, included in the price
- one, that I deposit the check,
and get it cleared, and then - two
- that I sign and carefully pack
and ship (none of these were
'huge' canvases, and three big
cartons of UPS took care of it),
to her oil company address, in
Houston, where they'd catch up
to them, and he'd take them back
with him to China. Sounds odd,
and I was sorry I did it, but I did.
I never saw the paintings again,
nor did they, or the oil company
sister, ever respond to my
missives or emails, and pleadings.
I have no idea whatsoever what
I allowed to happen. Others,
however, have told me that I
probably screwed up - that
there are villages and towns
in China where artists do
nothing else but make
reproductions of art and
mass-produce home decor
paintings, framed and ready
for hanging, sold in American
big-box stores and elsewhere,
for like 10 or 12 dollars. If I
ever see my own stuff turn up
in something like that, I'll die
- or to Beijing I'll fly (I swear)
and give that guy a piece of my
non-Chinese, but authentically
American, revolutionary, mind.
