RUDIMENTS 514.

RUDIMENTS pt. 514

(trouble in mind, but I don't mind)

I got to NYCity with my

integrity intact? I tell

myself yes, and, having

survived numerous and

lengthy, hazardous

moments, I look back

now with senses of

awe and wonder. I

always felt I flew like

a bird from that bus-stop

in Carteret for my first,

get-outta-town-Mr. Brown

flight from Avenel. And

saints be praised. One of

the first real problems I

had, which was freaky

for me, was getting a

pick-up proposal  (which

I will NOT entirely get

into here). I simply was

taken by surprise and

did not know how to

react, nor what was

happening to me. This

very refined, nattily

dressed, and almost

'Oxfordian,' black guy,

of middle age to my

18, as I was passing

his outdoor dining

table, at a village

eatery, spoke out to

me  -  to come over. He

asked if I was hungry,

as hungry I appeared.

I took his offer, sat

down and ate some.

He asked me some

questions, innocuous

stuff, and then veered

into hippie concerns,

asked or stating that IF

I was one I was the most

naive Hippie he'd ever

seen. Then we walked,

and ended up to his local

residence, whereat I went

inside. Stupid me. You

may imagine the rest  -

vivid, raw, shocking and

fast. I told him to please

put Mr. Large Purple away,

and I got up, no longer

defanged, and ready to

kill this guy if need be.

He let me leave. All

these years later the

scene unfolds as I write

it. Had I the ready means,

and had he resisted my

leaving, he perhaps would

have been dead. I did

certainly learn the value

of a sandwich. Not worth

that much, (unless maybe

he had a sister or a daughter

to offer in his stead. I did

have my personal honor,

and integrity, again, intact).

So what is it about all this?

Over at Tompkins Square

park, this went on often too.

No one knew whatever to

make of all these weird

psycho-ward runaways and

young-kid hippies anyway,

so a lot of it soon became

predatory sexual playground

stuff, as well as the prevalent

drugs and alcohol scene. I

was always a fairly liberal

guy and I never really cared

who did what with whom

and to what, etc. It never

mattered to me, as long

as I was left alone. It

was  when  sex became

predatory, and the predatory

was usually onto the male

on male drive, that I got

disturbed. To my astonishment,

in a few years all that became

a movement, and then an

accepted practice; which

was all pretty amazing to

unschooled eyes like mine.

Now, years later, it's even

got its own demands and

is everywhere. And good

for that, I say  -  just leave

me alone. I'm an egotist

like that, you know.

-

Tompkins Square Park

was  a ground-zero of

this movement and conflict

stuff. Hippies, kids, zombies,

freaks, called by any name

you'd like, swarmed over,

in 1967, what was still a

large, paralyzed, morose,

and depressing population

of east European  survivors.

World War II, internment

camps, death camps, poisons,

bombs and shock. Some 

of them never came back 

out of that deepened fog.

It used to be amazing to

see them, there, and all

along Upper Broadway

too, for that matter, at

the west 70's and 80's.

Benches filled with them

as they sat about, staring, 

small heavily dressed 

and stupefied. The airy 

flightiness of all these

new kids distorted the 

rest of life all around 

them  -  to which

they'd just been trying 

to acclimate  -   and it 

was gone again. They 

were in an induced and 

silent fury. Their war was

over  -  that one at least  -  

and this new one was

worse.The world was 

weird. Then. Yes. too. 

I had a Polish concentration

camp survivor near my 

corner at 11th  -  he ran

the tiniest little sandwich 

shop and counter. Mornings, 

afternoons. Opened at like 

5:30, rolls, coffee, donuts, 

oatmeal, eggs. A lot of the

Con Ed generating station 

people from over at the end 

of 14th, they'd be in there

before shift  -  8 or 10 chairs 

and a few tables, and the 

counter. This guy had camp

numbers tattooed up his arm.

He was nearly pink; lightly

colored, and his eyes were 

always tearing. Little pink

lids and rimmed-beady

Polish eyes. My heart used

to go out to him. All he did

seem so burdensome and

sorrowful. He fed me, days

on end, for a quarter  -  a

morning roll, a small bowl

of oatmeal, and coffee. 

Never asked for anything 

really  - I'd swab a table 

or the counter for him, 

now or the, but that was

it. We had a silent alliance:

I'd never ask, he'd never tell.

That world, that world was

really something else.

-

Maybe it's all just me and

I'm way wrong. I wouldn't 

care if it was  -  most of 

that gender stuff is not 

my problem, and I'm

certainly not about to let 

it be that  -  and such is

my right, the right to be

let alone. If they get shitty

with me, I tell people my 

parents were gay  -  they 

believe me and walk away.

I tell them, as well,  when 

they ask the breed of my 

dog, that she's an 'American 

Short-Haired Lazy Bones.' 

Maybe they do a double 

take, yes, but they mostly

believe me. They're that

stupid, sometimes. Today's 

NY Times has an article 

written by someone named

Andrea Long Chu. Fine, and

good for it  -  it opens with,

"On Thursday, I will get a

vagina. The procedure will 

last about 6 hours, and I will

be in recovery about 6 months."

Yep, and I hope so.
-
A part of me wants to say,
'What do I know, and what
do I care?' But I can't bring
myself to that point.