RUDIMENTS 1154.

RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,154

(transcript...)

"...And then like some unsought-for

pterodactyl he would suddenly seem to

come to life and be around everywhere

I went. Like some hillbilly in disguise

with a flannel shirt for parents and

two mud-boots for twin sisters, he'd

just be there hanging around listening

and misunderstanding and then

misrepresenting things and talking

out of turn and he'd never read a

newspaper - he said - that he could

believe and even the 'car ads were

mostly wrong' but he'd sit around

eating candy and hard rolls whenever

he found them to be available and

the crusty old people at the general

store down the patch by the river-bend

started taking to him and letting him

in on rainy days and the like, and he'd

become such a fixture at Bilobay's

General Store that no one ever flinched

anymore, even if he came in covered

in concrete and cement dust and with

big patches of dried stucco and paste

stuck onto his shirt - as long as he

could still talk he would. And then

he started smelling as bad as he

looked but no one would ever tell

him; but there WERE people (it was

said - after a while) who wanted

him dead and who'd talked about

shooting him during hunting season

or mistaking him for a deer or

whatever, (but I said 'whoever saw

a deer with a fluorescent-orange

farmer's cap on?'), and then they'd

argue over where to put the body

or how to dump his remains (and

I'd say 'take him back home in

your wagon and dump his dead

ass in the corner of that shit-shack

he's living in and leave him there

covered with leaves for a month

or two, until some bear or animal

gets him and then blame that -

NO ONE ever convicts Mother

Nature!" and they laughed me off

and said "shut up or there'll be

two to kill") so I did and - maimed

stupid or dead or not - I began

seeing much less of him after

this sort of talk got around.'

-

'But people always told me it's

like that in small towns and

small places where everyone

gets in everyone else's business

and there's no reason for talking

except to answer others' questions,

and if you start talking to yourself

they'd just say you were crazy anyway

and it would all be the same thing;

and I realized that was true in its

way but so was the big city - every

elevator floor on every stupid landing

with people at every doorway,

watching who you are and what

you bring or who and the deft little

suggested things they mention in

the elevator alone with you - who

Mr. Johannsen's been seeing or

how 'loud' that Betty Jansley in

224 gets sometimes: (the subtext

of that being she's a true sexual

animal with all sorts of men laying

pipe to her doorway 'if you know

what I mean'). And so, just because

the subject matter is a little different

it's all the same too- the communal

doorway of some crummy walk-up

smelling of soup and potatoes or

incense and peppers, and the boots

piled up in the alcove belong to no

one at all, but the garbage bags

thrown about never move and Melly

Katz in 28 is a nasty bitch screecher

and Murray Sabol on the third floor

runs around bare-ass naked all day

in his rooms, and the O'Bannion

Brothers keep a filthy place and

should be for certain run out. It's

everywhere the same but in the

small country-places. I suppose,

MAYBE, it's easier to just SHOOT

someone and put the problem aside

but America's always been a place

of weak constitution - pun, I guess

intended - and the Bill of Rights

ain't never been paid and marked

'overdue' it's probably ignored.

It's more like a Bill of Fare now

anyhow, getting all eaten up now

as it is. If you have to do something,

you first have to grease the palm

('good ole' Americanny cash please'),

of some or another local magistrate

intent on the boozing and with his

finger in some dike, some Dutch Boy

from Hell, bamboozling Mrs. Fedders

while her husband's away. But the

INFERENCE is never the same as

the obvious distraction of what's

being said - and just down the

road is the turkey farm with

two thousand white gobblers

alive in the yard-pens every

year until October comes around

and they start taking orders and

BOOM BAM just like that by

mid-November there's not a

fresh one to be found all orders

for Thanksgiving having been

already filled: 'fresh kill is the

best kill' the motto being. And

the cutest thing around for sure

is the babe who tends the

turkeys and it's her family farm

that's been around for generations,

and they were the ones who started

the entire mess by going commercial

and paving some areas for parking

and trucks and turning their farm

into a death-factory for turkeys

and quail and geese and the rest;

but whatever she's beautiful as

she goes about her late September

chores looking like some homing

angel from Heaven with a gleam

in her eyes. But she never steps

out never gets about and the

only boyfriend she ever had

is the guy she met at Ag School

and he now lives 45 miles away,

but all that stays in her mind as

memory fresh, and she scoots

off every chance she gets to see

him once more and his maroon

BMW too is quite often on the

scene right there in the yard,

and it's often been known the

things she's done and the

bedroom light upstairs comes

on at the damnedest times -

and right next to it that little

bathroom light they keep. And

now, out front, they've put a

'Help Wanted' sign and everyone

knows what THAT means Ha Ha

Guffaw Guffaw : that's the talk

at Billobay's when they get the

chance to talk, and when every

small-town crime like this is

always the same: LUST AND

ENVY AND SLOTH all being

mixed together like some

gruel or slop one feeds to

livestock and hopes it sticks."