RUDIMENTS 26.

RUDIMENTS, pt. 26

Making Cars

On most every corner along the

lower east side, back then, that Summer

of '67, there was some sort of bus or

truck or caravan-looking vehicle. The

plates were usually, if not New York

(only sometimes), than California, or

Oregon, Idaho, New Mexico. A lot

of weird places for old downtown NYC.

Vermont was also often represented; that

was sort of a national east-coast 'Free State'

that carried a lot of respect. If you were

running with Vermont plates, locally, it

meant something. I remember my first

trip to Vermont. I was awed; I mean

knocked over as soon as, the instant as,

we crossed the border. I can still vividly

remember the transformation. Somewhere

from the Northway into the area of

Bennington, there was an entry point

 along some pine woods, and hillsides.

I swore, and still do, that at that simple

border crossing everything changed instantly.

The sky went to an immaculate, deep, clean

blue. The hills and mountains instantly went

to 'majesty' mode as well. Everything was

clean and crisp and clear. It was just different.

We were in some rickety, 1962 VW, a red

one. That model year, 1962, had that little

badge on the front at the front hood opening

handle, with the Wolfsburg logo, showing it

had been built there. It was a prestigious, VW

thing, back then  -  though it made no difference

of course for the running of the car. Getting to

Vermont for that car had been a real struggle.

Once we got there it seemed all anyone drove

in that north country were these little, hump-backed

looking Saabs. A Swedish car supposed to have

been masterly in the snow. Maybe so; very many

people drove one. Ten or twelve years later they

became more mainstream cars, changed their

body styles and went 'regular.' The same with

Volvos, in fact, back then. They too were big

up in Vermont  - real sedate-looking 1950's

sedan things. Very business-like and dated.

-

Way farther up north one day, I stopped at a gas

station at some far-out mountain-top gas place.

It was January, totally cold, dead cold, and the

guy came out to do my fill and take the money.

He simply asked 'how ya' paying?' I had no idea

what he meant. It turned out that way up there

some people paid with American money, and

others paid with Canadian money, and he had

to be ready for and with the difference. I'd never

given it a thought but, Canada being right there,

people just crossed over to do their chores and

shopping, and everything was fluid, no one cared.

It was a funny way of living, very 'international'

at that level. They thought nothing off it, your

sister Mary might have married Jake, the

Canadian, and they lived over there, across

the bridge and over that road. Very natural. In

that high north country, there were no rules and

whatever rules there were were quite different.

In fact, for me, it was sometimes difficult to

even imagine what people did up there to

survive. Cold s cold, and money was scarce.

It was sure different.

-

One time, at the Bennington Hotel, there was

a guy there, the desk clerk  -  nicest guy in the

world, back then, when rooms were like $12.95

a night  -  he had a softball-size indentation right

in the middle of his forehead, the bones and all

just looked like maybe he'd once been normal and

had been at a softball game or something and got

clobbered right in the middle of that forehead by

a 10,000 mile an hour batted softball that just

left its speeding indentation there. In all other

other respects he seemed normal and functioning

well. A little skinny perhaps. A little eerie too.

Trying to talk to him was weird because your

eyes, you know, just kept going to the forehead

indent while they should have been making

eye-contact and listening (well, eyes can't listen,

but I hope you know what I mean). He was there

every time I went there, always the same. Skinny

dark suit, like a funeral director or something,

running this old-style hotel  -  the key hooks

with the numbers, the mail-slots behind the

desk, the little bell, the polished, dark wood. It

was a big, rambling place, right in the middle of

the town (its gone now), and it had a few grand

staircases, all quiet and carpeted with these

bucolic Vermont-country scene painting at

each landing. Maybe five floors high. I can't

remember an elevator but there probably was

one  -  there were a lot of lame people up there

in Vermont, crusty, old veteran farmers all bent

over an crinkly, walking slow and lame, sometimes

missing a limb or some fingers or something (farming

s a dangerous pastime and for these guys, past it all

now, it had been a lifelong ton of work. The place

itself wasn't mansion-like or anything  -  you knew

it was a hotel, with hallways and alcoves and things.

It was always quiet, quieter than any library, and had

a big, crackling fire going all the time (Winter, I said)

and big arm chairs and stuff  -  a real nice big center

room. I'd bet it's in at least 20 old movies, somewhere;

1930's or 40's. Right across the street and over a little

too was a W. T. Grant's 'Dining Room'. Pretty weird.

A regular, old Grant's store, like a Woolworth's but

instead of just a lunch counter there was this big,

serious, carpeted. kind of bizarre, with deer heads

and game-animals on the walls and some kind of

ersatz Vermont-country national decor. But people

actually went here to 'dine' like it was the Ritz or

something. All these oddball specials, alliterative

too  -  Tuesday Turkey Platter, all you can eat,

for $3.00  -  vegetables, potatoes, coffee and pie

included. Stuff like that. Monday Meatloaf Special.

You could pig out with a week's worth of food in

your gut and feel good for it too.

-

Bennington is way down to the bottom of the state,

not so near to Canada like at the top. I'm pretty

sure W. T. Grant's only wanted American money.

One time, in the middle of the same January, and

with the same red VW, I went out early one morning

to get started. It had to be 14 below, just still and

bright and icy cold. There wasn't any warm outside

air to be had. I got to the VW and it was totally

frozen up, like solid. I couldn't even get in it until

about 10am, when whatever sun there started to be

made whatever little difference it could have been

to let at least the doors open. But it didn't matter.

The engine oil must have turned to solid matter  -

nothing would turn over, no starting no how. It

was incredible how cold it got, and stayed.

Everything did eventually thaw enough to get

me started, the next day anyway, and I for some

reason just started driving east, on some roadway

that runs across the bottom of the state. The next

thing I knew I was in New Hampshire, maybe

an hour later at most. Totally took me by surprise.

That was some real traveling for me.

-

Back at the lower east side, all these other vehicles

were from faraway states, having crossed the country

mostly in these hippie caravan sorts of crawls. There

were people everywhere, serious hippie types, I

mean serious they did it for a living. Trying to get

all that sun and happiness transplanted to east-coast

New York City was a tall order, but they tried. There

were times when it maybe seemed to wok, but it

never lasted  -  too much rancor here, it just never

mixed well. Like trying to mix, say, (dated references 

here), Richard Simmons with Darth Vader. Whoever

said opposites attract? This was war between the

states all over again; except one was the state of

California bliss and one was the state of New

York City homegrown attitude and ire.