RUDIMENTS 240.

RUDIMENTS, pt. 240

Making Cars

I learned to juggle valuations.

That sounds like a trendy thing

to do, now, but back in 1963,

it wasn't done  -  especially, I

guess I should say, in the bowels

of a boy's seminary. Catholic

doctrine proclaimed things to

be one way, and that's that. No

deviation. It soon became

apparent to me that they were

wrong; very wrong, in their

dead-reckoning by stars that

no longer existed. Like starlight,

all those ancient and tribal

meanings and lines of thought

were still in thrall to light that

was far off and old, and had

originated many, many, years

before. It probably reached us

a little bit off-course, and, for

sure, out of breath and out of

meaning. If time bends things,

as it surely does, than the merits

of each unknowing moment 

which came to us was being 

misinterpreted and misunderstand.

And passed on to us, in that

erroneous state, as doctrine, and

belief and reality. Those are the

things I saw and noticed, and the

ones that really irked. I hated error.

-

This became most apparent to me

one night  -  as part of the seminary

crew of whatever  -  cleaner-uppers,

gatherers, scavengers  -  we'd ended up

with a truckload (1952 Chevy pick-up

truck, driven by some black-guy,

round-faced priest) of scrap metal

and debris. It was determined that

the next evening we'd be taking this

truckload of scrap into Camden, to

a scrap yard, salvage-yard, for

weighing, dispersal, and payment.

That was cool; I'd never before 

known that they even did that 

stuff. So, there was the driver, 

myself, and three other kids, and

this truckload of junk. I forget the

exact arrangements, but myself and

two others ended up riding in the

open truck bed with all this junk.

We were supposed to find a way to

be sure nothing rolled out, or got 

blown around, and, it was hoped, 

we'd find a way to somehow sit

or make ourselves otherwise

comfortable. I remember it being

dark out quickly, maybe a November,

or a late February. It was chilly 

but not terribly cold. Nor am I 

sure exactly how far off Camden 

was, 25 miles maybe : I knew 

nothing of it, what roads existed, 

nor how long it took.

-

We made our way to Camden as

darkness entered in. It got dark

quick, I recall, and the lights of that

small city were already on, everywhere.

It was quite a site; an exposure in

fact, for me  -  still a young kid, in

a large-by-comparison city. I was

taken. We my have talked a bit

among ourselves, but I can't

recall. Our route took us actually 

'around' Camden more than right

into it. All the scrap heaps and

junkyards  -  and there were many  -  

were on the outlying areas. The 

place we were headed, I'd been 

told, was an old scrap dealer with 

whom they'd dealt for years, Max 

Weiskopf, [or Weissman, I forget; 

nor do I really know the spelling],

Scrap Metal. He was a short, 

brusque, cigar-chomping, 

no-nonsense guy. He took the 

order slip or weigh-station thing, 

whatever it was, looked the load 

over, grunted, looked over the 

truck, and us, said 'get out' 

and had the truck driven off 

about 100 feet or so over to 

some sort of scale. I think they 

weighed it laden, and then 

un-laden, after being emptied. 

I don't know what metal it was, 

iron scrap steel, or blends or 

aluminum, or any of that. 

We didn't have to handle 

anything  -  there were people 

there for all that. We boys 

just stood around, looking 

things over, sort of reveling 

in our free time, unleashed 

and untethered, to take in 

the sights and sounds of 

something else, anything 

else. I myself was watching 

very carefully, and noting. 

- 

In the seminary a certain 

whiteness prevailed. Students

there were white. Not much was

ever said at all about race; we 

never had to face that off, in 

those race-years, '62-'66. The 

driver of our truck on this trip 

was black, an oddity in itself. 

(I remember this priest fellow,

as black only because I used 

to get fascinated, as he spoke, 

by the think pinkness of his 

tongue. It was quite noticeable). 

The workers in these junkyards 

were all black. In fact, I realized, 

driving out, Camden itself was 

a huge, black enclave. As we 

slowly passed, in and out, 

along the deeply jutted and

rough dirt rads and lanes which

led to these junkyard areas, there

were rambling old houses, down 

on their luck but inhabited still, 

as well as shacks, sheds, and

other marginal domiciles, along

with dogs, wrecked cars, debris,

old furniture, and piles of junk.

On each of the houses that had

a porch (most all of the large

ones did), there were people.

They were just hanging around, 

hanging out, as if Summer was

neigh and they were standing

or slouching around waiting for

ice cream. The truck slowly plodded

through, with us, maybe a little

uncertain and nervous, in the back

in the half-light of lamps and 

porches and occasional streetlights.

The people simply stared, endlessly

staring; gaping at us. It was, except

for the lack of any 'real' heat, like

driving through some part of the 

wilds of Alabama. I realized, in 

a flicker, and by design, a strange 

and secret relationship between 

things that I'd not realized before. 

Unspoken codes, secret meanings.

Our driver was black. All these

people were black. (Of course, 

we boys were all white). Was our

driver chosen because he was

black, to deal with these workers,

and locations, more easily? Was

this Weisskoff guy one of those

literal, old-world, Jewish guys

relegated only to this dark 

underworld of junk, scrap-heaps,

ghetto areas, and black people?

Anyway, all those ideas jumped

out at me that night. Unspoken

codes, secret meanings.

I had a lot to learn.