RUDIMENTS 359.

RUDIMENTS, pt. 359

(avenel's TKO)

Sometimes I just run down : the

last item before fisticuffs is a

TKO, and I'm finished without

ever hitting the mat. (Yep, that

was about as clear as a bell, sure

was). One of the words my mother

always used was 'sparingly.' I

never knew where she got it from;

it certainly wasn't characteristic

of her  -  voice or language. She'd

be ironing (spray irons were big

then) and she'd use the mist to

spray the thing she was ironing,

but only 'sparingly.' Or she'd

butter toast or something, but

only 'sparingly.' (She had a

penchant too -  also always

interesting to me  -  for never

actually 'completing' a task, but

getting the idea across and then

thinking of it as done. Like the

butter on the toast  -  just a dumb

little butter-blob, in the middle

of the toast, and to her mind it

was buttered  -  'sparingly,' but

buttered. It was never ladled on,

or spread around). Now, I'm not

nit-picking; I guess everyone has

their foibles. Like the guy who likes

pickle and peanut-butter sandwiches,

because that's what they ate in the

Depression. (You don't hear that

stuff much anymore, because

they're all dead now, but back

when I was young they were still

around  -  all those Depression

people. They'd always be going

on about how they used ketchup

for tomato sauce on spaghetti, or

how they only got milk once a

week, or how they stole chips

of ice from the iceman's wagon

while he was somewhere else.

All sorts of things like that. I

used to wonder what in the Hell

had been going on  -  how could

all that everyday crap have ever

been so scarce? Goes to show,

Buffalo Bob.

-

Space and place sort of always

went together. In Avenel, when

I was about 7 maybe, the local

First Aid Squad (what it was

called) held a 'Burning of the

Mortgage.' That was a new

one on me, and very strange

too. It seems the ramshackle

place called Avenel had a group

of people who responded to

emergencies  -  injuries, car

crashes, all the usual stuff.

The had previously operated

out of something on Park Ave.,

about 1/2 mile off, referred

to as the 'Sideways' house. I

think it was a house built

perpendicular to the street,

with two garage bays at the

front, instead. Ease of access

and all for the Cadillac

ambulance they had inside.

All of these emergency squads

back then had, as ambulances,

long, low Cadillacs, every so

often maybe a Buick, with big

lights on top, sleek and svelte

fast. None had, until the mid-70's

when it began, those now-common

EMT wagons. That didn't start

until later. It was always a long,

stretch station-wagon, luxury

equipped for a medical journey.

Then, as the town grew, they

moved out of that and had a

structure of their own built, on

Avenel Street. (It's since been

wholesale changed, expanded,

grown and widened. Now none of
it bears any relation to my tale.)

At this new, organizational

location, they'd had a mortgage,

and the town celebrated when it

was 'paid off.' By saying 'Burning

of the Mortgage,' they threw me

off. If they tried that now, the

Fire Department would swarm

them. (Hell, everybody's looking

for SOMETHING to do).

-

Anyway, it was a big, noisy,

block-party. The side street was

shut down   -  music, hot dogs and

hamburgers, watermelon, clowns,

games, and a parade. At this time,

I forget exactly, my father was a

'Vice President' of that squad, maybe

for one season or term, whatever.

He never got along with anyone,

believe me, and it didn't last long.

But, I still have his little pin, and

he was involved some in this

undertaking. At this time, the

little building was by itself  -  all

around it yet was open field and

a wooded patch. The President of

the 'Squad' (that's all they ever

called it), was this cool guy named

Bob Snowfield. Cool name, neat

guy, I remember him well. There

was a ball field too, out back on

the open meadow, and they held a

softball game and this Snowfield

guy  -  I remember vividly  -  could

hit the longest, high, arc'ing home

runs that I ever had seen. Some good

stuff. (That open field thing was

later built upon, as was the next

area a convenience-Krauszer's and

a hair-salon place, etc. At the rear,

another squad guy, and a family

friend, Steve Bomback, built a

small, ranch-style home, which

still stands). Everything is

different there now. One of

my sisters claims to be afraid

of clowns. They never bothered

me in any way, in fact they were

seen as rather hapless goofs. But I

remember one being there for that

day. A 1950's version of 'clown'

basically meant twisted balloon

shapes, big red shoes, and a red

nose with a brashly-painted face.

Certainly nothing very essential

there, no side-road to horror anyway.

and none of that movie-stuff had

been invented yet, maybe there

was Vincent Price, but I hated him

like she hated clowns. There was

a certain part of the decade  -  and

probably this was it  -  of the 50's

where national 'Irony' hadn't yet

arrived. Everyone still respected

stuff, at a distance, all that IKE

stuff (President Eisenhower) and

his creepy wife, Mamie; nothing

had a wink, everything was yet

straightforward (except maybe

for Jayne Mansfield, Marilyn

Monroe, and pointy bras from

outer space). If there were any

'sweater girls' at the first-aid

squad, I never saw them. BUT,

funny thing, 30 years later or so

the whole place was shut down

and taken over for a while by

some other part of the municipality

because the Avenel First-Aid Squad

guys got caught using an abandoned

skating rink for porno-photos and

other sexual purposes, with the

town ambulances too. Now that

was amazing, and kept pretty quiet

too. A humbling moment for all

those big-mouth local pricks

who always bragged about

righteousness and goodness.

I should have known there

was always something up

with this crap  -  all those

beds and cots and recliners.

Ambulances as rolling

porno-palace boudoirs.

Now when I get my yearly

fund-raising requests in the mail,

first aid and/or fire, I'm always

sure to send them a condom.

They mail real easily.

-

Yet, I don't want to ladle it on,

the harsh criticism; I want to do

it sparingly. BUT, places that take

refuge in their own rightness kind

of make me sick. Back in Bayonne,

the cops were on the take. Over in

Newark, Mayor Hugh Addonizio

did prison time (hey Mayor, join the

crowd  -  the municipal officials'

wing is off to the left). Here in

Woodbridge, Walter Zirpolo, and

Bob Jacks, they too joined the

jailbird crowd for selling out the

town  -  just like is happening

again here now. How is it the

French put it  -  'plus ca change....

(the more things change, the

more they stay the same). Ah!

The French. Now, back then, as

for Brigette Bardot and the rest,

let me tell you this story.....