RUDIMENTS 968.

RUDIMENTS, pt. 968

(time passes, and only fools stay on the bus)

One of the first things I

noticed, once I got there

and began living a somewhat

normal NYC life, in the

'poorest of economies' ways,

was how I'd oddly enough

stepped back a bit in time.

That's hard to explain a

meaning for, but you need

to visualize: I'd come from

a more than stupid place,

in fact the differences were

planetary. The things each

location valued were miles

apart from each other in

proper thought. I'd just

been relieved of, in

August 1967, the vestiges

of suburban blight and glitter

to the extent that, in, say,

Avenel, the value of a

combined idea of supermarket

and parking area was considered

gold, whereas in NYC the same

was considered a laughable joke,

without meaning and having

no referential reality. Part of the

'continental' urban experience

was the walk and the street-life

during that walk to get supplies,

foodstuffs, fresh vegetables,

fish and meat. The shoe-shop

and the watch-fixer, the hat

store and the dry-goods store.

Hardware. Plumbing. Each

sort of place, small as they

may have been, had their own

specialty, niche, and usefulness.

It was really old-world, and it

was, in its own 'urban' way,

stuck behind some sort of time

warp ball that, in suburbia, was

speeding along to bring forth,

to the happy minions of whatever,

drive-through convenience, fine

packaging, pre-packaged goods,

self-selection, supermarket aisles,

shopping carts, electric doors, and

and the rest, they sought. A shopper

need not interact or deal on a

personal level with any one

person, if they wished to not

do so. I found, in the city, that

things were entirely different,

in spite of the maligned image

that New Yorkers had, it was

all social; people talked - the

grocer picked your goods, filled

your salt or sugar or loose

purchases into little bags, each;

hardly anything was pre-packed;

scales hung from ceilings, sawdust

and animal drippings festooned

the meat counter floor areas as

loins and roasts went into white,

waxy papers and were taped shut.

Perhaps, with a grease pen, weight

or price was written on the outside.

All this time, it seemed, somebody

would be talking, at you, near you,

past you, for you. The locals knew

the locals, their concerns, and

what was recent or current about

most everyone or everything.

People took time, comparing,

looking. Along the street, nearby

cafes and small eateries took

people in and became rest-spots

after a shopping-walk-excursion,

with young children in tow or

not. Some days it felt like 1880,

and other days, perhaps, 1924.

As I walked along, not near to

shopping, I took in all the sights

and sounds and was amazed -

both at what I experienced, and

at where I was. How had I

done this? How had I gotten

myself here? I'd think to myself

about being in this great city of

tumult and turbulence amidst

masses of people scurrying

every which way. In my

presence too! I was living

history, walking through a

milk-honey of old times and

places; a still-vivid tableau

of a world mostly dissolving

outside of these two rivers.

I'd somehow done it - I was

basically a damn-fool 17-year

old runaway, scraping and

managing to get by - making

my momentary and weird

alliances with all sorts of

people I couldn't yet fully

define. For I'd never seen

them, or these situations,

before. If one had no money,

I found it wasn't really needed.

There were a hundred ways

around things, from the sorts

of bottom perches I was using. I

was, somehow, afraid of nothing.

Stealing, pilfering, caging

leftovers, sleeping outside in

Summer parks, rooftops and,

in my case, atop marquees.

A simple 25 cents could get

one survival, and if a person

looked hard enough, there was

always a quarter and more on

the ground, melted into the soft

tar, or in fountains and pools,

those stupid places dreamers

threw their coins instead of

giving them to others. I never

robbed, nor held anyone up,

but that too was always an

option. Sex? It was free.

When you're 17, anything

will do.

-

Taxi drivers most always,

back then, were white guys;

white 'gentleman' guys - you'd

often see someone who could

have been a grade-school

principal, what with their

bearing and shirt and tie. Men

thought nothing then of their

'overachieving' in dress what

they were actually doing.

Pride, I guess, and appearance,

counted. People still seemed

high and straight and stern

and holy. Yes, even the taxi

drivers. Everyone was living

a drama, yet these guys were

always serene, down to it and

up to the task. They knew the

city like the back of their hand

and seemed afraid of no part

of it. (Unlike now, when some

screeching Ghanian will start

screaming to you about places

and directions he'd rather NOT

take or take you to. It's a far

stupider world; more like a

headache. They have their

damned perfume-sensor bottle

on the dash, and some motley

collection of national home-flags

or sports or starlet photos; with

their assumed cultural-locus

superiority staunchly in place,

even in a dead-meat location

like NYC, which ONCE maybe

had been the actual capitol of

all this stuff and now is, instead,

a noisy bucket of swill).

-

I remember a guy named Emil

Hazenhall, from Nutley NJ.

He was an older gent, like one

of those taxi drivers, except he

was an old-world letterpress

(the old style) printer. In his

work, he'd be in work clothes,

and with a leather printer's

apron on. But damn it all,

when he arrived to work, and

as he left work, he was in a

suit and tie. He'd go to his locker,

and change his clothing, for, as

he put it, he'd 'never be caught

on the street in these soiled

work clothes.' And he'd have

his street fedora on, every

time, coming and going. He's

long dead, I'm sure, and I

never got to know him well

through these passing now

and then moments, but, as

I think now, if he was 60 or

65 back then, which he was,

in 1967, he was born then

about 1901 or 2. Kind of like

my grandmother too, who

was, I think, 1900. How

much I'd like now to have

the opportunity to pick

through their brains, Emil,

and my grandmother too.

There would have been so

much to learn and get. But,

whatever; time passes and

only fools stay on the bus.