10,847. RUDIMENTS, pt. 330

RUDIMENTS, pt.330

Making Cars

I guess I was always an

absurdist at heart. Not one

in a prolific, obvious sense,

just in a more subtle manner.

Nothing ever really made

sense or added up for me,

and I simply made that

my raw material. Why fuss

otherwise. It was all around

me, every chance I saw was

for an absurd statement of

reality. Absurdity is a quite

difficult thing to categorize

and explain, and that's half

its charm. A reader can feel

it, and not get the rhythm

at all of what's running

through them. This entire

series of, for instance, bar

things, can run along the

borderline of the absurd, for

that is what they are. Each

barroom I ever entered was

like a theater of the absurd

playlet in action  -  characters,

dialogue, scenes, and fade-outs

too. The absurdity of Puffy's

for instance was as an

orphanage of a tavern: the

industrial basis that once had

been all around it, and the men

who worked therein, was all

gone. The machine shops,

blacksmith and wagon shops,

hardware and mill supplies,

they'd all closed up  -  all their

yards and trucks and wagons

and carriages. Way earlier on

too, all their horses had been

removed, carriages and wagons

for that too. The initial street

layouts, the cobblestones and

alleys, stables and dead ends,

they all once had served a

purpose that was no more. I

used to sit and try to think about

that transitional era of New York

City, something about the time

between horses and cars, one

set coming (as they died off,

I guess) and the other just

rolling in (mechanical vehicles).

What a changeover all that must

have been. No wonder men drank.

Did one have to take sides?

Were there some stalwart

diehards who resisted? Who

refused to give up Old Paint,

the horse, the horse team and

wagons? Did they stay and just

get in the way? How many horses

died from that? What was it like

to witness that scene? How did

gasoline filling stations and car

shops first get situated? Who

decided what was in the way

and what had to go?

-

How absurd was it then to be

sitting in a downtown bar, as a

fixtured wanderer, in a place

beyond usefulness and living

on, barely, within its textured

past  -  but only for and to those

who knew about it. Most of the

pinheads who came in  -  in

both of these bars  -  knew

nothing of this. The goofball

stocks-and securities-guys with

their two-toned shoes and

hundred-eighty dollar shirts

had no clue at all. They'd just

gotten out of bloomer school

in fact, and were probably fancy

entry-level order entry guys

hoping for Goldman-Sachs

or Morgan-Stanley to ask for

them as soon as they got sober

and un-handed that 22-year old

lassie they were manhandling.

There were some guys to whom

all this sex was brand-new and

just arriving, and then there were

the muddled schoolteachers I

mentioned -  always on prowl,

completely knowledgeable about

it, and probably with kids of their

own, but wanting whatever they

could get if it came their way.

Apparently, they would try to

remain polite within their pact

of telling nothing about anything

later on. Divorced unhappiness,

and estranged unhappiness, is the

same as any other unhappiness.

What happened in Puffy's 
stayed in Puffy's.

-

I was always driven by something 

else, determined to make what I 

saw as reality actually be my reality. 

It never worked, just as it was never 

easy. I was mostly unbalanced, 

But anybody near thought I was 

all right, perfectly on point and 

running my own game. Still  -  

questions got asked of me, and

still do, about things I don't 

really know anything about. 

Prophet? What do I know? 

Farming and animal slaughter 

and husbandry? Politics? 

Education? It's was like a 

wonderland fantasy in a folded 

hand of cards. All these things.

People expected much of me,

but I was just me. Sometimes 

I was just wishing people 

could just accept that. 

Mechanical stuff? Tools?

Motorcycles? Racing? Love 

and Life? Huh? It was all 

mixed up. All the stuff I did, 

I just did what came to me, or

through me. It wasn't any special

wisdom, I had no secrets to impart,

no special knowledge. It was mostly 
dedication, and hard work.

-

Each of these bars had peanut 

machines  -  it was a thing back 

then. Like gumballs. You put a 

quarter, twist the nob, and you'd 

get a big handful of cashews or 

peanuts, or whatever the selection 

was. It was good stuff, and it kept 

people busy and yapping, and, 

of course, just made the person's 

mouth thirsty, for more beer. Yeah,

all that was figured out ahead of 

time. Like life itself, but on the 

perpendicular, and we were 

never let in on the real angle, 

or the joke, or the big, miserable 

mistake either. I couldn't always 

handle that, nor cope. Some 

people kill themselves. Some 

kill others. Some make life 

miserable for everyone around 

them Some run far off and hide. 

I kind of did all four in one 

fell swoop. And it all just 

kept me thirsty for more.

-

One day I walked into

Puffy's, I guess it was after

a few days, and something 

horrible had happened a 

night or two before. No 

one was much talking, it 

had to do with money, the 

basement, the owner, one 

of his crazy jags, off in a 

bad mood and all that, and

Nancy, that 40-something  

bar lady I'd told you about 

who'd worked there forever. 

Never seen or heard from 

again, though I knew she 

lived pretty much right around 

there and I'd been told where. 

There are some people, in 

these situations, you just 

never follow up on, nor ever

care to. Different lives; things

converge for a moment and

then they don't. Anyway, she
was the last thing I wanted
in my life.

-

The way I figure it, like 

New York and its past, 

anything that ever walked 

those streets right there, any 

old drinking workingman 

still proud of his rough clothes, 

any old tumbler headed west 

to the Hudson River, anytime 

and anyplace  -  they may have 

crawled, walked in, or sat here 

for hours  -  they're all long dead. 

The past lives on always; it's 

just  the present that dies. And 

the  future, I don't know nothing 

about, but it only lasts for a minute
anyway, and then it's the now.

10,846. BALLET FOR WOLVES

BALLET FOR WOLVES

Some will hum and some will

pray; dancing between staves

on an open-ended day : Wily this

wolf guy, slinking along. Happy 

this bear, playing his song.

The hills are alive, with the

sound of music?

10,845. RUDIMENTS, pt. 329

RUDIMENTS, pt. 329

Making Cars

When you get out of Nancy

Whiskey Pub and roll yourself

down to Puffy's, that's a whole

other story. Or was then; it's been

a while now since I've been there.

Puffy's used to have, displayed in

its front window, an old photograph,

maybe 16x20 inches, framed, and

that photo showed old Hudson

Street, maybe about 1935, when

it was a working-class street, lined

with small shops, lofts, and factories.

All for the kind of guys who used

to work there, and drink at Puffy's.

Across the street was the Western

Union Building made famous by

the writings of Henry Miller, and,

nearby, a Bell Tel place and, across

from Puffy's at the corner exactly,

the grand, old, 1880's building that

was once the headquarters of the

New York Mercantile Exchange.

(In the 1920's and before, someone

in my wife's family line was the

President of that Exchange, go

to find out). That building was

pretty awesome, in that it had

retained all of its original look

and architectural meaning. In the

1980's and 90's it housed one

of those fancy, elitist restaurants

where a baked potato can cost

you thirty dollars. I don't know

what's there now nor the present

state of the building. (Easy enough

to go check, and I will someday,

probably walking right into Puffy's

too, looking for a phone booth).

In the 1990's, somewhere, and

during the period of time I was

still going there, the place had

been used (Puffy's) for the filming

of some movie called 'Cocktail,'

[Tom Cruise]. It had been all

done up, even moreso, for the

film, to present the look and

visual feel of what they wanted;

the wood polished up, the bar

freshened and cleaned, maybe

even re-coated, glass and mirrors

behind it made perfect, all those

bottles  of booze and the taps

and spray heads too. It already

had a wonderful checkered-tile

floor, wide windows, a beautiful

rearward area of seating coves

and knotty pine, etc. Perfect stuff

all around, and any advance-team

for scouting movie locations would

have seen that right off.

-

I wish to make a slight detour

here, to cover something perfectly

germane -   two things I always

had wished to be. One was an

advance man location-scout, as

just mentioned, for movie sets.

So like when some auteur director,

of any level, Spike Lee to Woody

Allen to Godard or Bunuel, had

an idea, I'd be sent out to scout

locations and places, rooms and

sites, for the movie filming. It

always seemed it would be fun

to scuttle into some old gas station

or tavern or drawing room, and

talk with the owner about the use

of same, with payment, for the

film. Nice job. The other one, as

a job, I always figured could have

been cool, was as an agent for

truckers. A truck driver, say, goes

to Indiana or Mississippi with a

load of bananas, or shoes. The

freight gets delivered. The idea

in the trucking industry is to never

'deadhead' (return home with an

empty load)  -  so the agent has

contacts everywhere. You as

'driver' would work through (me,

as) the agent who would have

already arranged for your return

trip to carry 70,000 two-penny

nails, crated in barrels, for the

return trip to New Hampshire.

So you make the pick-up and

are able to then come home full.

Cool, right. And really, the only

overhead for the 'agent' would be

a home office desk (at home),

and a telephone (well, nowadays

computer I guess). As agent,

I'd get 2 percent, or something, 

for your deal and sign-up.

-

Anyway, movie location scout or

not, I always enjoyed Puffy's for

its, what's now often called, 'ambience.'

Which just means some fake hipster

smartass would enjoy wooing his

babe there (or the other way around,

ladies, yes). It's often used now as

a positive touchstone. Yet, really,

Puffy's had little to do with that.

The people there, staff, owner

and management,  (they worked

and did their little accounting and

ordering, etc., from a strange,

cubby-hole sized office/room in

the basement  - cramped and

wandering, a hallway leading to

Hell. No real 'stairway,' just

rather a hole at the floor end, all

from probably 1885, through

which you had to drop and watch

your head, walking the warren).

Oddities abounded too. There was

a regular, older (40's) barmaid

there named Nancy (nothing to

do with Nancy Whiskey Pub

up the street). She was tough as

nails, and shrewd. Direct, and

with a definite take-no-shit

attitude. Her main two problems,

aside from, she said, being alone,

were that she drank (to an excess)

and when she drank she got

morose and sulked. Cried. Wished

for death. I'm also sure her

effectiveness-factor as barmaid

went way down too. No one ever

seemed to mind, or pay her that

much mind. But it became, to me

anyway, annoying after a bit. The

other girls were a far happier lot,

all attractive, young, and actually

naive and/or innocent. Which was

strange for New York, I always

thought. The place filled up, at

its own 'filled-up' level, but the

crowd here was totally different

than the one at Nancy Whiskey

Pub. Lots of serious lovers and

relationship people, well-developed

drinkers, and a more proper crowd

by far. Here and there an overdone

dowager too. Lady schoolteachers

out for the night, amazed and

gaggly-eyed at what they'd see.

(Neither of these places were

biker bars either; though I did

give, at Puffy's, the Nancy lady,

after she pleaded, a thirty-minute

ride around town once; on a night

she was there as a drinker, not

working. It was boring as hell).

-

There was a certain period of time, 

in the early 1990's, it seemed, when

things were, so to speak, turning

over. I think a lot of it had to do

with the end of the Republican

and Reagan/Bush era, and a more

sensitive blighting into sensitivity

and gentleness. Or, in another way,

a disgusting political correctness

just being introduced societally.

All that was well-represented by

whatever incoming mortar-fire the

Clintons represented. The he and

the she; although I often thought

of it more just as the two she's,

at least until the sex started happening

underneath the desk in the oval

orifice. OOPS! I mean Oval Office.

Let's see : 'One man's butt is another

man's cigar?' No, that doesn't work.

Anyway, Puffy's in the mid-90's

fairly well represented that new

mind-set, and I was able to feel

it just walking in there. Everyone

started having a symbolic diamond,

some signifier they wore to show

they were just at the right spot for

the times. The drinking guys in

Puffy's just always started looking

weak and sensitive, as types. You

wanted to say, 'Look, that's OK Bud

(beer joke?), but take it somewhere

else, OK? So we'd sometimes come

in and just end up sitting by the big

windows, drinking and looking up 

at the old buildings. I'd try to begin

filling some guys in on the significance

of old Hudson Street, the buildings, 

the way things used to be. But it all

fell flat. It got pretty useless. It was

no longer a good place to be drunk.

10,844. MARINATED METTLLESOME

MARINATED METTLESOME

Some men walk through walls and

carry fevers where they go. Their

plaque hits town like fearsome 

guts : Epidemic proportions and it's

catching too. Ashes, ashes, we all

fall down. As such, contagion

wears a lightweight coat beneath

which hides the spreading fire

10,843. HITLER'S EMBATTLED STATION

HITLER'S EMBATTLED STATION

The man with the stick is in trouble;

he's battered the ram with the battering

ram now one too many times, and they've

tried forcing him to go home. One day

it will all happen like it's supposed to.

The creamery will finally draw its butter.

10,842. FELICITATIONS

FELICITATIONS

In Perth Amboy proper, I

bought a horse, and it soon

took me to Freehold. I don't

know what I was thinking  -

not the racetrack, just some

field. When we got to the

Trenton Bridge, after Freehold,

yes, of course, it said  -  if

if I can properly remember  -

'Walk Your Horse,' though 

maybe it was 'Horses Not 

Allowed on Bridge.' That's 

quite a different meaning, to

be sure. Yet, I can still go back,

someday, by car, to see which

of the two it is. In such a 

conveyance then, it will make 

no real difference at all, and I'll 

be off to  Pennsylvania anyway.

10,841. I SWEAR TO YOU

I SWEAR TO YOU

I swear to you to tell

to touch, this universe 

does not exist. Too much.

You and I can tell our

stories and make things 

up, but the world responds 

to not this touch : the Sahara

and the Gobi are no match

for us, combined. All my

dominoes have see-thru

viewing holes, and I can see

another world beyond.

10,840. KITTY

KITTY

Now Kitty takes a leaning to

the lamppost, and I don't mind.

Her cantilevered layer cake has

fallen off the edge  -  the icing

on her fingers tasting sweet.

-

I'd like to lift my own lantern

to the poor and destitute, but 

I can't do that either. Not friends

with this world yet am I. I wear

a solid coat of chain-mail, to

keep myself protected from 

the lethal blows of Man.

10,839. RUDIMENTS, pt. 328

RUDIMENTS, PT. 328

Making Cars

I didn't often like to sit still;

therefore I always kept on 

some sort of move. Idea-move.

Something would hit me,

and I'd get possessed, of

some notion or idea, and 

drag it right to completion.

Sliming myself through the

muck, if that's what it took.

I had no other ideas about life.

It still drives me crazy to see how

some people can sit around for

five hours, in one place, yapping

over their food, cake and coffee;

about nothing at all anyway.

-

Spectacular results? No, never.

It was just a means, for me, of

staying alive. I'd get enamored 

of not so much the things

in and of themselves, but the 

ideas behind the things. One

time, over by the area where

Canal Street intersects with

Hudson Street  -  a spot I was

at twice a week, at least, for 

some years  -  some guy, as an

art installation one Summer,

erected this hand-built hut or

shelter or whatever, authentic

and made from wood, tree-limbs,

anything. It was incredible, but 

it was also nothing at all. The sort 

of hut, the explanatory sign said,

that was all over the distant

rural roadsides of his homeland.

Slovenia, or Serbia, or Slovakia.

One of those; I actually forget.

Itinerants could sleep in it, stay,

rest. Some were made into shrines

and pilgrimage spots, others just

kept as ruddy and poor shacks.

It was all pretty cool, and, at the

time then, right across from it in

the old American Thread Company

Building at that same Hudson 

Street Square, they transformed 

it, for a few years until it was 

outgrown, into the Manhattan 

Brewery, and made beer. This 

was in the mid-80's. One time 

they had their grand-opening 

party, and a few of us went. 

It was pretty cool; plenty of

beer, and I even got a memento

6-pack of the night's event, of 

the beer. Collectible, supposedly  -  

though how one ever knows 

that is beyond me. Hype, public 

relations, and wishful thinking 

all combined. Trouble was,

in the idea of 'collectbility' I

just never opened it, stored it

away, and in my hot attic, and

eventually it got heaved, like

10 years later, for being probably

skunked (real advanced beer term

for going sour) from the heat.

By the time I didn't care anyway

and the company was gone.

'Brooklyn Brewery' made it big.

'Manhattan Brewery' did not.

-

On one side (south, below it)

was a cool old bar named 

'Puffy's', and above it (north),

was another bar called 'Nancy 

Whiskey Pub'. Both were the

sort of venerable old places

that had legacy and stories

behind them. The preference

was for Puffy's  -  for it was far

finer, older, wood, much more

traditional. Nancy Whiskey Pub 

was sloppier, more slapdash, 

and rowdier too. Those who

frequented Nancy-Whiskey

were a rowdier, looser crowd,

more apt to be snarly, or even

decrepit. Nosy old guys from

when there'd been more of a

neighborhood there. If they

didn't know your face, the

instant assumption was that

you were an idiot tourist 

passing through and along.

Which didn't cut it for them.

In my own case, the people 

I'd be with usually mingled

over to the pool table, or the

shuffleboard thing, or outside

to the little drinking porch they 

had. I tended to just sit at the

bar and stay there, thus getting

mixed in with the locals  -  

who, seeing my camera stuff 

would assume I was perhaps 

from Dubuque and awed by the 

sights I was taking photos of.

Then they'd get all interested

as I disabused them of their

dumb notions and matched 

them point for point on the 

sights and places I'd scene. 

Background information,

history, names and events 

they'd never dreamed of. I'd

eventually charm them over 

to seeing me as the answer to

their prayers (if they prayed).

A number of the old guys

were as gay as clams, and 

they'd get all chummy with 

this 'new' wunderkind in their 

midst. I'd steer clear, because

I'd seen all that operation in 

action other times and certainly 

didn't wish to get in their 'mist' 

either. And anyway, there were 

always some credible enough

babes around to share my 

attentions. (I wrote 'attentions'

not 'intentions,' fool). Nancy

Whiskey Pub  -  and yes, there

actually was a Nancy, whom I

met once or twice there. She 

had bar-name backstory, but I
forget it now. She'd gotten the 
place, there on Lispenard Street, 
in a divorce, or settlement or 
something.  Maybe she was a 
widow-owner. Lispenard Street
was once a busy spot, but over 
time, with the larger streets and

the re-routing, and the 'square' 
built there, it was all like a leftover 
outpost,  not much more, just beyond 
Canal, Street (busy always). And, 
if you sat outside  drinking, on their 
little porch, the view went straight 
down to the Twin Towers, looming a
little ways off, which was  pretty cool. 
To the left was a plain, busy Chinese 
take-out (no seating) with bicycle 
guys always madly dashing on their
bicycle-basket, Chinese food, 
deliveries. Next to that was an
abandoned parking lot which had 
mostly been taken over by serious 
flea-market types, selling, out of
suitcases, what seemed like acres 
of live, bootleg cassette tapes of 
rock n' roll concerts  -  'You like
Clapton, in Toronto? Jethro Tull,
in Edinburgh?'  -  all catalogued 
and listed; used clothing and 
furniture, musical instruments, 
bicycles, etc. There's a funny

side note to all this, two, actually:

For years I'd pass Nancy Whisky

Pub, and be terrified of it. It

seemed a real hardcore, serious

drinking kind of place that I'd 

be a'foul of, sticking out like

a sore thumb. My fear kept me

far from it. There used to be, 

right next to it, at sidewalk 

level, a walk-down place that

sold Southwestern artifacts,

for the Georgia O'Keefe hidden

away, apparently, in each New

Yorker  -  New Mexico and

Arizona bleached steer-skulls

and cattle bones, belts, turquoise

jewelry, artifacts  - any and all

of that stuff. It was always too 

dear for my wallet, and I never

sought any of that stuff, but

I'd linger there to have an eye

on the comings and goings at

the bar next door, and then,

one day, I just first braved

it and entered. It turned out 

to be nothing at all. I fit

right in, as did my friends,

and I never looked back. One

of the 'attributes' of frequenting

a bar (I had about 6 like this)

is that over time and steady 

attendance the bar-keeps do

begin throwing you free drinks,

and the more they 'like' your 

presence, the more they do so.

Of course, you're still tipping, so

it really hardly matters. But a

good level of acquaintance can

get you to, maybe, every fourth 

beer. Which isn't too shabby at

New York prices. The more

you drink, too, the easier it

becomes to be friends. Or make

friends, or whatever. As a drunk,

you can live in a sort of bi-level

Paradise of glibness and

ease, as long as you don't

go getting yourself in trouble

with your mouth, opinions,

reactions, politics and/or 

wisecracks. Or (another hazard

of the bottle) by getting to

close with, or touchy-feely

with, some oaf's babe who's

suddenly seen how bright your

light is compared to the half-wit

moron who 'brung'em in.' And

it's all downhill from there.

Next chapter? Puffy's. Oh joy!