RUDIMENTS 210.

RUDIMENTS, pt. 210

Making Cars

Going like gangbusters sometimes

gets you nowhere : everything ends

up broken and you're licking your

wounds. Frantic words of haste, and

worries about demolition seem all

around. One time, almost in despair,

I took a job at a car wash. Yeah, like

an idiot. It's an automated line, they

hand you a rag, say stand at the end 

and swab the cars down, and hope

for tips. The car wash itself was a

simple fee, like $2.50. We got a dollar

and a half an hour, for working, and a

75 cents, say, three quarters, was seen

as a monstrous tip. Shared in a pot,

supposedly, to be split later for 

everyone on that shift to be cut in.

I never watched it close, never cared,

and never knew if I'd been cheated.

It didn't matter, and such were the

ways  -  half the tips never made

it to any bucket anyway, and I wasn't

going to be the one to go up against

any one or two of these clowns. Man,

these guys invented Brawny, back 

than  -  paper towel or not. New York

street-smart, car-wash, protocol.

Seeing up girls' dresses and stuff

was more fun anyway  -  it was a 

game. Skirts, and dresses, but skirts

really, in that era were about 14 

inches long if you were (un)lucky. 

Everybody knew this stuff, so no

one was fooling anyone  -  any little

stretch or bending over, yeah, of

course, mostly got you a view. I

see London, I see France, however

that rhyme went  -  man, were times

lame. But working a car wash routine

for any number of hours, a person

was crazy in a minute, had to have 

something going, and by today's

standards anybody there who ever

touched a rag would be locked up

or sent out of town for half the

stuff that went on. Whatever those

screaming women call themselves

today, back then they, I guess,

would have died of apoplexy. 

The place was killer. Pity the poor

girls working there too. The wet,

damp locker room, sitting area,

for breaks and hanging out and 

lunch, God forgive the transgressions.

NYC for sure. There was some

really jerk-off song around then too,

I think it was a parody song of a

Beatles thing  -  'Lucy in the Sky,

with lots of what you want....' -

it just went on from there and 

was a terrible song but it was 

like the theme song of the stupid 

break room. That and another

creepy song called 'Incense and 

Peppermint,' (Curse of Mankind)....'

another mindless 'huh?' song 

in my mind. But, this whole

car wash thing was quick and easy,

come and go  -  no one cared how

long and when you stayed, came, 

or left. Mostly, it was something 

to do and come away with 8 or 

10 bucks. I didn't do it long. I

hated it. And it seemed to have 

nothing to do with the city either.

Why bother? It was working there, 

 to be distant, or be one of the 

idiot street-goofs, if you cared to

be. Nothing mattered. This was

Broadway and Houston Street,

like the center of the lower 

echelon world : there'd be taxi

guys in a hurry, weird guys in

no hurry at all, street-people and

street-ladies, fruit-pickers, dope

fiends, nut-cases, half-sexers and

all that mis-alliance stuff that's 

now taken for granted but back 

then was was just totally 

freaked-out weird. Failed rock

and rollers, and failed mass 

murderers too. 'Yeah, yeah, dude,

you can have the tip, go ahead,

it yours; I'm here for my God-damn

health OK?' Two hours later he's

out of his mind somewhere, on 

your money. Square deal, my ass.

-

The role of a car in New York is,

and was then too, pretty odd. I

always wondered why people 

bothered, but I can also see why -  

mass transit's like having diarrhea 

in Calcutta and not being able to 

move. Stuck in place; and it's real 

bad.  I'd rather sit alone in my 

car any day, traffic or not. BUT, 

no excuse is that  -  having a car 

in New York, and then  -  to boot  -  

wanting to have it washed, is a 

pretty clear straight line to foolishness. 

The place, first off, is like dent-a-

minute unforgiving, so any worries

about the state of your auto is a 

waste of time; shiny or not, it's 

going to dent. The streets are 

clogged; you can't park, unless 

you're willing to fork over a 

million bucks for fifteen minutes 

of parking time, or close. Cars 

are always getting blocked in  -  

double-parked truck deliveries 

and guys who have no clue 

about time or the clock. Nitwit 

people passing out at your 

bumper, or in the gutter, or

eating on your hood or pissing 

on your bumper. Between-car 

activities  are a real riot. 

Besides the crime. The place 

is made  for the vertical, 

for UP; everything is vertical, 

and any of these little lateral, 

cross-currents of streets leading 

to clogged entries for bridges 

and tunnels is like a well-designed 

torture, plus there's no freaking 

bathrooms really, anywhere, unless 

you know the secret map of things, 

but even then you can't just park 

and pee. Might be a million bucks 

in that idea, if someone could 

figure it out. Most people just 

end up pissing in a big bottle 

or plastic container or soda-bottle, 

and the bottles are placed at the 

curb, looking like flat  beer, later. 

God helps those who help 

themselves. Maybe.

-

The biggest idea in New York is

about survival  -  for the regular

person, living there, or trying to

eke it out  -  like a thousands 

dollars a day should about do it.

For all the other people, the ones 

who come and go, travel in, travel

out, trains, cars, subways, and

buses, it's about money instead.

Making a bundle,  career-stuff,

going along with all the current

trends and riding the money-wave

while it happens. 'Going like 

gangbusters,' is the way, I guess,

I originally phrased it, here, when

I began  -  yeah, that works.