RUDIMENTS 271.

RUDIMENTS, pt. 271

- Maple Tree, pt. 10 -

And then one day it was gone.

I can't remember the actual

day of closing, or of demolition

either. It would have been sad,

had I been there. But (here my 

own story takes a turn) I was

done. By the year 2002 I'd faced

a breakdown of my own. My 

wife kept going, Friday nights,

Saturdays, on her own. I could

no longer bear it. I stayed home,

usually listening to Sibelius CD's

(Scandinavian/Finnish classical

composer, who earned himself a 
lot of trouble over his 'Patriotic'
Finnish-national, music). His
2nd symphony seemed it was

about my while, life back then It 

carried me along. My nerves 

were shot,  I'd had real problems 

coping, people bothered me, I'd 

closed up ABATE and had to 

discontinue everything, plus the

eight thousand dollar personal 

loan I'd taken out to try and 

continue was a long-lasting
marker dogging me, to which I
answered by working in a nice
capacity for Barnes & Noble; lucky 
break at the time. Plus it helped 
me alter my world, back towards
books and intellectual/creative 
pursuits. It was the push I needed. 
The Maple Tree? I can't remember

my last time there  -  can't really 

remember a thing. I'd totally 

retreated, was unreachable; I

wasn't answering the phone.
I'd completely broken down.

People would come to visit, 

and  I'd not come out; my wife

carried the ball for me. Joey,

Gary R., Jackie R., Harry, sorry 

for all that. Those were among

the people who came knocking

and were turned away.

-

One day Harry came by, and spoke 

to my wife on the porch  -  full of

condolences, offering help of any sort

as needed. She didn't understand. The

word was, evidently, that I'd cracked

up, gone nuts, and was dead. She

stayed non-committal, more in

the shock of the story than in

anything else. This is all true; I

make none of it up. It took me 

a good 5 years to get back  -  by

that time working still at B&N

in Clark. And occasionally, still

reluctantly, people would now 

and then come around for hello

or talk. Then I moved out of there,

in 2007, to Princeton, and started

everything anew. No one knew a 

thing. I was a different person.

-

You come back from something 

like this scarred for life, burned 

by a holy ember, like Moses at 

some stupid mountaintop coming 

back down and everyone's around 

the bar worshiping some golden calf.

At least if they still made Ballantine 

beer, you could say they were 

worshiping Ba'al. If someone 

were to ask me, I'd have to say, 

really, NO, I hadn't survived. I killed 

that person; I buried myself and 

those fiery embers, and walked. 

First off, if I had half of the money 

back that I laid down and pissed 

away on bars over those years, I'd 

have a ton of needed money. 

Second, maybe I did screech it 

all to halt in time to salvage my 

gooseneck life. I moved on, 

decided what I really wanted, 

and went steady at it, ever 

since and screw the rest. I 

surely could have died. One 

time, a Hell's Angel prospect 

friend, Frank, and his girlfriend 

were visiting for some reason 

or another. I think it was an 

Englishtown Swap Meet and 

Bike Race day  -  by the end 

of the long day I was toasted 

and so was he. And her. He 

asked for the way out, back 

to the Parkway and Tunnel to 

the city. I said I'd take him. 

I was so piss-drunk I could 

hardly think, and he and I 

saddled up and took off. I 

stayed with them, along the 

Parkway up to Union and the 

Rt. 22 turn, and then stayed 

with them, and then stayed 

with them. (That's a deliberate
repeat). My brain had locked 

(it used to happen), alcohol on 

two wheels had taken over. Frank 

was usually a hard-ass, wildman  

rider, but I amazed even him. And 

her. In a total booze-haze, I'd left 

them in the dust. He said he 

watched me, saw me, maybe 

kept me with a quarter mile if 

he could. In a fairly-packed, 

Sunday Summertime north 

flow of traffic, between cars, 

in and out of cars, around cars, 

I was doing 90. On a 4-speed, 

shitted-up first-year 1984 Softail, 

that was a lot. Pushing a hundred 

was beyond control. I don't know 

how I did it. I don't know where 

or why no state troopers or cops 

bagged me. Frank was ready 

to shoot me when we got to 

our extended good-bye point. 

He just shook his head. His 

girlfriend was in shock. She

mumbled that it was 'quite

arousing.' And I still had to 

ride all the way back yet, alone. 

I felt like Hunter Thompson on

one of his gonzo-journalism trips.

That was the last I saw of Frank, 

until one day, some time later, 

he was out front of Third Street 

posted as watchman for the 

H.A. bikes out front. I rode 

back, slightly more sober, 

and made it OK. It was 

my miracle. 

-

There are a lot more stories 

I can tell; real-life stuff, not

stories. I lived all this shit and

got nothing for it but the telling.

No drop-bag of money ever came

with a bagman my way. Just dead

people (they started dropping like

flies, for a while). Wakes brought

me out again, but I kept being afraid

of getting bumped off or beaten

by someone for something. Now

I'm old enough not to f'n care a

whit. Let the bastards have me,

it'll be a fair fight. You want

more stories; you pay me, OK?

-

Somewhere in that time, I honestly

don't know when, the Maple Tree

closed up and was torn down. What's

there now is a level, flat field upon

which has been erected some generic

sort of senior-housing tower. Not 

worth much, not even to look at. If 

those people only knew. The town

has put up some half-assed excuse

for a plaque about the old days. I'm

not even sure what they're trying

to say, and those lying sack-o-shit

bastards would never own up to the

truth of old Avenel anyway.