RUDIMENTS 725.

RUDIMENTS, pt. 725

('ain't got time for the pain') pt. 2

One time about 1980,

I took my parents, by car,

to a Yankee game. My

mother was always a big

fan, surprisingly. I don't

think my father cared 

either way, but the story

here gets to be, soon

enough, about his 

characteristic intensity.

As an aside, at my mother's

funeral, 2004 or whatever

it was, I was asked to 

eulogize her, and, among 

other comments, I related 

her affection for the Yankees.

And then I (cleverly?) added,

alas, she plays for the Angels

now. (The Angels are, or were,

another baseball team). It

went over real well; people

thought it was cool. She

had a favorite player too, I

forget the name, through the

1990's  -  no, I remember,

Tino Martinez. Anyway, in

the usual bustle, we got to the

stadium crowd, the entry gate

and all. My mother, as was

usual, was made nervous by

the crowd and noise, all the

vociferous sports fans milling

about, talking and the rest. My

father was on his usual high alert,

for any challenge or infraction

to which to react. Well, as luck

would have it, a small fight

breaks out sort of alongside

of where we were  -  two guys

who had had too much beer,

going at each other over

the size of a baseball, or what

Babe Ruth said to Schmanky

Jones in 1932 when they were

on the same team together. I

have no idea, but my father

took it as a challenge to him,

and dove right into the little

melee  -  to break it up or add

to it, I never found out. My

mother starts wailing, and the

whole scene breaks down, until

finally security came over and

stopped it all. We managed to

get my father away from the

scene without trouble. I said,

'Dad, you've got to get over this;

not everything that occurs need

be your concern....' etc. Shocking

words, coming from me, since my

entire life has been about sticking

my fork into other people's food,

sort of. 

-

One time, later in life, my father

and mother were visiting California.

My father rents a car and decides

he wants to see Mexico. He rents

the car, drags my mother along,

and they do the border crossing

at Tijuana, wherever that wide,

multi-lane crossing is. My father had

rented the car with the stipulation

of no international insurance, no

crossing the border, etc. But, he

didn't care about that; gets to the

border, actually makes the crossing

and then (my mother related the

story to me. My father was still

too angry to talk about it), gets 

pulled over  -  no paperwork for

being there, etc., etc. The Mexican

cop (which cop my mother said

was a nice enough fellow, until

my father got him all flustered), 

takes my father, after some

intense argumentation by good

old Dad, out of the car, writes 

him up, gives him the fines and

paperwork, etc, and tells him to

follow. To the headquarters of

the Tijuana Border Patrol local

cop-shop. Whatever. By this time,

once again, my mother is wailing,

my father is furious. They get

to the headquarters and he starts

his rant, refuses to pay, etc. My

mother's afraid they're going to 

shoot, him or her with him. They

actually lock them up for a few

hours; he cools down, they talk,

he coughs over the American

money, and they heave him out 

of Mexico. Back in the US of A

soon enough. He always claimed
it was nothing but a shakedown.

-

That's a real story. I did not

embellish, nor fabricate, just

in case one of you California

border know-it-alls is already 

busy looking up the protocols 

and procedures of the border.

Dad's dead, and Mom, as I said,

plays now for the angels, so I

can't much do any follow-up

or verification. Take it or leave

it. Or maybe try it for yourself.

-

So, at most every turn my life

was peculiar, from the start. I

began this section, the previous

chapter, with some notes about

timing, or my being somewhat 

'out' of time. It's a serious matter,

but also very mysterious, in

so many ways. One has to begin

to wonder about 'chance' effects

and how that happens. Like the

train wreck  -  think of it. That's

some pretty spectacular and

almost cosmically precise timing,

or bad timing, whichever, to be

in Mom's car, in a snowstorm, 

skidding over railroad tracks

at a crossing with no gates, and

perfectly timing it to meet a train.

I'd have a better 'chance' of things,

for the good, I guess, then, if I were

to simply proclaim, as an 8-year

old, 'Ma, the next box of Cracker

Jacks I get is going to have a 

thousand dollar bill in it instead 

of some dumb, plastic toy.' Of

course, if I had announced to

my mother that she was about to

run smack into a train, she'd again

have started wailing, and that

would have maybe changed the

entire sequence of time, enough

anyway for the train to pass 

without us there. It gives, too, 

a whole meaning to the phrase,

'I ain't got time for the pain.'

-

Sometimes, terrible moments

pass in the blink of an eye; other

times, they seem to hang around

forever. I got somehow into a 

mesh of both extremes, and 

have never gotten out of it. 

Timing is only one aspect of

it, for good or bad. There are

a few spectacular moments

in my life I've never been 

able to get past, and the

therapy, for me, has been

always to create, keep sailing

right past it all, writing it all

down, as best I can, and never

look it in the eye. I mythologize

every moment until it looks

more true that when it was

true. Part of me still resides,

like that sports guy, in a large,

almost empty, psychic room

with just a few things of merit

but a lot to look at, even if it

is on a tiny screen-of-self.

You know it's always said

that people either see the 'glass'

as half full, or half empty; one

or the other. I see both and, if

you really think about it, in

either case that glass is twice

as big as it needs to be.