RUDIMENTS 418.

RUDIMENTS, pt. 418

(avenel high-wire)

For a non-descript little

hustler from Avenel, in the

big bad city, I made out OK.

A good part of it, as I see now,

was because of the upbringing

I'd given myself, in spite of

the odds and in spite of the 

opposition of most everyone 

else. Avenel was a senseless

place out of which to grow; 

the possibilities were hemmed

in by atrocious assault at every

turn. I knew I held the key only

to myself, and no one else did

and I held no key to anyone

else, and didn't want to, ever.

My solution was straight-line:

I never became an adult. 

I think that may have been 

one thing in my favor. A 

physical adult anyway. I 

was always a 'mental' adult. 

Physical adults have lawns 

and driveways, care about 

paint schemes and decorations 

and design. Worry about their 

foods and keep lists of 

restaurants where they've 

eaten. They have eaves and 

gutters and keep them free 

of leaves. They buy new clothes 

and watch their manners. 

They shovel walks and repair 

damages. Follow the rules. 

Accumulate things and share 

in the popular assumptions 

of the day. That all keeps me 

out  -  by contrast my circle 

of being is the dark and the 

foul. That sort of stuff takes

a lot of intestinal fortitude,

which is like the strength in 

your guts to tell others to

to take a hike.

-

When I got my apartment at

e11th street, it was a big surprise

to me to notice then that right

next store was a motorcycle

clubhouse and hangout. Just

previous to that 1967 version 

of itself, it had been a famous

Beatnik apartment complex,

complete with an arch'd gateway

to enter, a garden alley/walkway,

little places to hang out, etc. It

was, in the old Beatnik books

and all, called 'Paradise Alley.'

You can find it in most any 

reference. In fact, Jack Kerouac 

used it in his book 'Desolation

Angels,' as the scene and setting,

but, fearing lawsuits, his publisher

made him change it all to a San

Francisco location. I used to

watch it carefully (never then

realizing my own fate 20 years

off with all the biker stuff to 

come). They had bikes and

motorcycles and choppers

all out in the courtyard and

some on the street, though

that wasn't first choice. They

patrolled their own area, so 

for sure no local was about to

mess around with club stuff,

and live anyway. (Most of

these guys later became the

famed NYC club of note, over

on 3rd street. This was way

early on, when it was just 

an idea). I used to watch down

too, see the courtyard some;

the people coming and going.

Rough stuff; girls and guys

making out against the building,

and all that. It was pretty cool,

sometimes noisy, but no one

bothered and I never saw any

violence. Just really left it

alone, because in 1967 it 

wasn't really my scene at all.

-

All that changed later on, and 

here's one example : During 

the mid-1990's, maybe '96 

or '97, I got involved with 

a weekly NYC publication 

called The New York Press  

-  like an alternate, snarkier 

maybe, Village Voice. A reporter

fellow I met there, Mark Eneret, 

for a while became a regular 

pal, sidekick, whatever. It 

used to be said, back about 

1965, by Honda motorcycles, 

in an ad campaign, that - 'you 

meet the nicest people on 

a Honda'. It was their way 

of showing that those new, 

small-displacement Japanese 

motorcycles were fun and 

happy  -  no brutes or 

riding-rapists nor outlaw 

bikers or thugs need apply. 

Mark Eneret was a plain guy 

from the Big Apple Circus  -  

where he got his NYC start 

anyway. This was a much 

smaller scale, but still 

vital and strong, version 

of the traveling Ringling 

Brothers Circus which 

used to travel with the 

seasons from town to 

town back in the old 

days. Supplanted later 

by big arena and sports 

places, where they 

could encamp and 

perform indoors 

whenever they chose. 

The Big Apple Circus was 

a NYC institution; setting 

up on abandoned lots, 

waterfront acreage, uncared 

for parking lots  -  whatever 

large enough locations they 

could find. At first it was a

sort of guerrilla circus, an

urban phenomenon, taking

over spaces. No one knew

what to do about it, so nothing

was done. They'd plop down, 

erect a tent or two, or not, 

charge a little for their 

performances  -  high-wire, 

a few lions and tigers, 

elephants, monkeys, 

clowns, flame-eaters 

and all that. It all used to

just materialize and take

over vacant places for a 

while. Regular circus stuff, 

traveling around all of 

New York season in the 

good seasonal weather. 

Year after year, their 

regularity became a 

feature, and it helped 

them grow and prosper. 

Last I knew, they'd 

been established in 

some Lincoln Center 

back-lots for long 

Summer-duration 

performances  -  but that 

too was, by now, years ago. 

Presently, I have no idea 

of their whereabouts 

though I know he's 

easy enough to find 

on the usual links and 

clicks. Mark Eneret came 

out of that  -  he may 

have been a clown or 

a hired hand, at first. 

But then he grew into a 

regular, stalwart; a traveler 

and part of the team. We'd 

gotten to know each other 

a little, over time, here 

and there  -  through NYC 

stuff, the newspaper, a 

few articles I'd written, 

a couple of notes. One 

day he contacted me  -  

this was back in the heady 

heights of my motorcycle 

gang days  -  and asked if 

he could tool along with 

us,  riding hither and yon, 

drinking and carousing, 

so that he could do a story 

on the Biker culture as he 

saw it, or experienced it. 

I said sure. I should have 

known. There's always 

more than what meets the 

eye. He smoked pot like 

most people drink water. 

On again and off again 

but always and whenever, 

and this particular day 

he'd  been out in his 

mother's convertible K-Car, 

a bizarre, fake wood-grain 

side of a car that looked like 

a block, with a windshield 

sticking up. It was actually 

pretty funny  -  seeing a 

crazed young, dynamically 

bristling counter cultural 

hipster type tooling around 

in what was basically an 

'aunt's' car by look. His 

mother had died, and 

he'd gotten the car  -  his 

first set of honest-to-goodness 

wheels. Being a NYC guy, he 

kept it garaged elsewhere; 

somewhere in Jersey, 

Jersey City or something. 

He'd gotten it out for the 

weekend here, and brought 

along with him an equally 

strange,  brazenly sexy, 

black-haired and 

black-featured Brooklyn 

babe  - tattoos, piercings, 

attitude, all that.  She was 

quite the site (I mean sight). 

In this real junker of a 

crazy car they arrived. 

Mark didn't really have a 

license  -  he showed us, 

pridefully, some weird 

sort of military ID from 

when he was in Kansas, 

for use on base. But, whatever. 

He didn't care, and certainly 

neither did I. His story was 

that he'd been some sort of 

oddball military police guy 

at Fort Leonard Wood and 

never really left base except 

to chase down AWOLs 

and such other runaways, 

petty crooks, sex fiends, 

thieves, and things like that. 

He'd never had to see any 

real action or go overseas 

or anything, and he said 

the military-base boredom 

was what drove him to 

smoke almost lethal 

amounts of marijuana, 

pretty much provided for

and government-supplied 

and, like any other contraband, 

easily accessible on base  -  

booze, porno, pot, dope, 

guns, whatever. Never no 

mind to him. He'd made 

mention, in fact, of how 

marijuana was pretty nearly 

almost a currency on base  -  

one of the mainstays; that 

and wife-swapping. I guess 

it certainly paid off to stay 

stateside. As a 'currency' 

pot was used about and 

moved about like 'small 

change in a pinball arcade', 

just all over the place and 

once the habit had gotten 

him it never had left and 

now he just liked it and 

took it as natural, like 

water or breathing, and 

it took constant efforts 

on his part to stay high 

all the time and that 

was all he wanted  -  

circus life, military life, 

regular life and the rest 

be damned. 

-

They'd taken the car 

out that day  -  the girl 

and him  -  to smoke 

with the top down all 

the time as they drove, 

see the Bikers, see the 

famed Jersey shore and 

its creepy attractions, 

get drunk and stay in 

one piece  -  all like that, 

together.  They figured 

they'd end up in the worst 

places and not really have 

much to do except groove 

on it all  -  nothing much 

to do with the ocean 

though they had already 

seen it. So they dragged 

along with us, about 12 

motorcycles strong. Route 

35, Route 36. First thing 

was the Sandy Hook 

Lighthouse and the old 

officer's homes along 

the bay side of the post. 

It was a real hoot 

finding myself in 

some strange National 

Park Service setting  -   

in an abandoned array 

of battery emplacements,

bunkers, military bases 

and homes  -  with a 

renegade outsider high 

on pot. The modern day 

was a spinning wheel of 

its own, and right then it 

had come down out of 

the sky and landed right 

on me. 

-

Having been part of a 

traveling circus, and 

having done circus 

emplacements on the 

Coney Island beachfront  -  

talk about weird and off-putting  

-  none of this should have 

really meant anything to 

Mark by contrast; but it 

somehow did. There was 

a time, perhaps early on, 

perhaps right up to and 

through the First World 

War era, when the forts 

and emplacements at Sandy 

Hook were very important 

parts of the defense systems 

of the USA  -  the east coast, 

always vulnerable, the entries 

into NY Harbor, the sneaky 

German subs and all that. 

This place really did once 

scream with activity  -  

maritime and military 

emplacements, ships, guns, 

cargo and tonnage  -  the 

waterway was vital. Since 

modernity arrived, it all 

had changed  - as had 

that grand, old ethos of 

the very way of life which 

went with all this  -  the 

slowness of time and rank, 

duty and protocol, the polite 

commands of officers and 

commanders who'd live and 

walk the waterside  -  bay on 

one side, ocean on the other, 

personifying the U. S of A. 

Parade grounds, bandshells, 

and  -  through the 1950's  -  

NIKE missile emplacements, 

mechanized underground 

launchers, huge cave-like 

underground cuts leading 

to sub-surface ammunition 

batteries and storage units. 

This was one crazy place  -  

even right then, with Mark, 

in its ruinous state (and his).