RUDIMENTS 454.

RUDIMENTS, pt. 454

(russ the dane)

Never sticking your neck out,

as they say, means never getting

your head cut off at the neck.

I guess there's a nice, quiet 

complacency to something 

like that, but I don't know 

why a real man would want

it. It seems to me that we're 

now surrounded by fake men;

little guys who hide behind

the scenes and set off their

incendiaries while taking no

initiative ever to own up to

the things they're doing. That

goes for women too, I think

that's what they're called. As

I was a novice, coming up

through the dank folds of the

cloak of Avenel, I remember

people who would just punch

people. They were the best, 

just getting right to the point.

There's so much conflict around

anyway  -  I remember, in about

1961, this guy Clifford Gary, a

real pain in the ass kind of kid,

and he had a sister too, name

forgotten. In Catechism or

Confirmation class, one of 

those, one after-school day 

when we had to walk over and

attend that crap, mandatory, his

father came stumbling into the

church, about 5:30, drunk or not

I don't know, loudly demanding 

his kids and verbally cutting up

this Sister Josephus troglodyte

nun we always had to put up 

with. He verbally berated her,

the church, the sanctuary, the

entire operation, real good; 

letting her have it right between 

the eyes, saying it was dinnertime

and he wanted his kids home, not

at some overdone church seance.

He got his kids and stormed out.

All the while she was babbling

some drivel about whatever. See,

all she ever had done before was

lord it over 10 year old kids,

with her clicker and her screechy

voice and that fat face she had

the bulbed-out over the sides of

that white nun thing that she

wore. I don't think she'd ever

had to take it in the face before

by a regular, crazed, normal

guy. Good for him. I almost 

cheered! Boy, she was a wretch.

-

That's what's good about a

comeuppance. The deserving

always get it. It was a good

lesson for me and  - even though

I fell back into the well of the

same church idiocy in a year 

or two  -  the lesson always

stayed with me. Nuns were

pretty useless anyway, and

this episode simply had

underscored that for me

too. I always wished the

world really was flat so that

those sorts of people would

have somewhere to fall off

from, or be pushed!

-

Municipal and government 

types are the same sorts of

people. You can't just demand

allegiance, and you certainly

shouldn't be 'buying' it with

stolen funds in the guise of

graft, corruption and influence,

but it goes on and that how 

it does go on. That's why

Avenel stinks. Go ahead,

look at for yourself, don't

take my word for it. I ask

you. And then I also ask, as

I would ask of those who

purport to be running the

social-site the town has  - 

(whoever would have thought,

35 years ago, that a place like

this would produce a thing like

that or a bunch like those 

running it) - to answer to 

themselves what in the hell

they think they're doing.

That was before spines and

backbones, I keep forgetting,

went out of style. Nobody's

home, because nobody 

apparently lives here any 

more. The razor is sharp,

and Kelso belongs to me.

-

In Avenel, this Father Egan

guy  -  he of the speed-process,

17-minute Mass  -  had a brother

named Ben. Ben was the erstwhile

church organist, and he lived in

Metuchen. Right out through the

mid-80's maybe it was. I lived

in Metuchen for 37 years, mostly

because of the train station, its

proximity to Princeton and NY

by rail, and the rather, back then,

strange, old, southern and tribal

feel the place once had. It's all

gone now, but when I first lived

there my end of Center Street 

was like the deep south. Across

from me lived a guy named 'Russ.'

He was referred to by everyone as

Russ the Dane. He was an old

drunken Biker guy, about 55 or 

60 then, back in the late 70's.

He came over one late afternoon

and introduced himself, just like

that  -  'Hi, I'm Russ, the Dane.'

His house was cool, adjacent to

the park that fronted my house,

and back then many a warm 

Summer night went by with he

and his brother (perhaps 'Don

the Dane? We never met), 

played banjo and/or guitar, 

and harmonica, all sorts of

really neat old Appalachian type

tunes with one or the other of

them on vocals. (Their family

originally came from Tennessee.

It lived on). Usually there'd

be a late night fire going, in the

the pit they had. I never went over

there, the guy used to creep me

out, I admit. A little too drunk 

and friendly, one of those in

your face confessional guys,

when drunk. I never liked that.

He'd go on about his own

motorcycle days, the Indian

motorcycle he used to ride, the

stunts and the mishaps. And,

of course, the tales of ladies.

One night, here's the sort of

terror he was, a family had

moved in at the end of the

block, unfortunately for them

right across the street from 

him. The Clyburns; nice 

people, and I knew the 

family. They were black.

Russ went out, gasolined

their lawn, and set it afire.

It burned out quick enough,

but oh what a glow it made.

-

Just a little ways off from us,

over Rt. 287, which was a

relatively new road at the

time, the little bridge (Durham

Ave, back then still unpaved

until paved a year or so later),

was the Danish Home For the

Aged. Russ claimed it as his

own, saying it had previously

been the clubhouse for his

motorcycle club, in the 

1950's. He being Danish 

and all, I just believed him 

and let it all go. Metuchen

had lots of unsolved tales

back then. This one I left

alone. Near that bridge also

lived an odd family, the Pepe

family. It's still there, at 287

on the Metuchen side, last 

house at the highway, a large

sprawling 1950's split-level.

The matriarch of that family,

(she was the only one left)

drank often at Cryan's, when

it was nearby. She'd tell me

bunches of stories from those

old days  -  though she never

mentioned Russ the Dane.

-

This Ben Egan guy had a

decent enough house, and

Father Egan, from Avenel,

was often there. For R&R,

as they say, just kicking 

back a little, rest and all.

It was weird, but my father

often drove him back and 

forth to these visits. The

funny thing was all this was

before my time there, but it

did converge, and my father

hated Metuchen, because, as

he put it, the streets were too 

narrow and everything was 

congested. He liked Inman

Avenue because it was extra

wide. (He should see it now.

Drag-strip speed-lines, lined 

and pumiced, one in each 

direction, with a sign at each

end that reads, 'Welcome, 

Speeders.' But, that's another

story for the lip-synch crowd.

They probably love it. You 

would believe what these 

folks put their lips around.

Guys too!).

-

It doesn't take much to stay

calm. The funny thing, for me,

now, at this later stage of my

life  -  well, two things actually  -

are knowing what day of the

week it is, and realizing how

in the world I ever got to

this point. I remember my

father-in-law, before he died,

just grinning at me and saying,

'How'd I ever get to be 84?'

I'm not there yet, and I doubt

I'll ever see that decade, but

I know exactly what he meant.