RUDIMENTS 817.

RUDIMENTS, pt. 817

(learning on the fly)

It's always a 'hard-tell'

when you're doing stuff

and there's no one to stop

you  -  which is what being

on your own is pretty much

about. Sometimes, with

mistakes and incorrect

intentions, that's how guys

end up in prison. Jails and

prisons are filled with

missionary types; just

going on and on abut

wrong  things. It's a

misnomer to say a wise

man is wise  -  sometimes

they too are simply stupid.

It takes a catch-word and

a basin of good sense to

bring people to their senses.

That's what I've found anyway.

I've also found, lots of times,

that when I begin writing

something, all of a sudden

there it is! Right before me,

and built into what I've just

written  -  the catchword or

the sentence needed to pull

someone back from some

brink of infamy or other. I

just hope they get it.

-

In NYC, I used to know guys

who would stroll past a pizza

joint, and in about 100 seconds

have the place totally spec'd

out : How the cash was handled,

where it was put from the register

to the manager's office or safe.

Even more than that, they'd go in,

sit down and order something;

like anyone that you see in a

streetside pizza place  - sitting

there, eating their slices. But,

their key was observation. (It

didn't need to be pizza, by the

way; this same thing went for

felafel stands, sub shops, and

the rest. NYC was famed for

rows of these things, street

after street, every food and

food-chain known to New

Yorkers, with wide-open,

walk-in street fronts). They'd

be observing the frequency

of phone orders, how that

cash came back in; the

customer traffic through

the door; how the take-out

order people who stood at

the counter positioned

themselves while waiting,

and how many there were; 

the sorts of orders, and the

dollar amounts. Who cooked,

and how? What presence had

the manager? Did he or she

work the register? Was it

some dumb kid instead?

They'd look for doorways

and exit patterns, etc. It

was kid of incredible to me

to realize that such people

existed and thought that way.

-

It often felt like a movie to

me; one of those noir films

with some dark characters

mumbling into their black

coffee about their plans to

knock-over Hennesey's

warehouse. One or the other

guy would say, 'You can't

overlook anything, gotta'

know it all beforehand; this

is the most important part of

the deal. I want to know if

they have a clock on the

wall, and what time it keeps.

Get me?' The whole expanse

of old Second Ave. was

made up of these little

places  -  shops and eateries,

often with fumbling, old

people still running their

own place, which they'd

had since the 1940's. Why

bother with that, I'd think.

Why muss up some old

couple by stealing three

hundred bucks? There were

furniture shops, toy stores,

bodegas, record shops,

even head shops and the

rest  -  bakeries, grocers

and more. A person, besides,

could get themselves killed.

I wanted no part of any of

that, and just wished they'd

shut up about it all. New

Yorkers were a loathsome

bunch, at this level.

-

My first few weeks there

taught me innumerable

items of interest : There were

laundry service trucks, all over

the lower east side, for some

reason  -  restaurant linens,

cleaners, suppliers, laundry

services; and they all had

one look, like a monopoly.

Large, boxy panel trucks,

with a picture, on the large

sides, of a white, frothy,

waterfall, and their name,

'Cascade' Laundry Service.

I was amazed and I saw

them most everywhere. It

was a thousand degrees out,

very little was air conditioned;

people and things wilted, the

tar on the streets was like mud;

pennies dimes and nickels, it

seemed embedded in the tar

everywhere, along with countless

bottle caps. Especially prevalent,

as this was, at corners, where

people waited for lights and

crossing. The Cascade trucks

were like a welcome respite

from the intense heat : cool,

white, and refreshing. I soon

realized that, to get by, one

here had to live in one's

imagination  -  make the

places that you wanted.

Otherwise there was just

too much misery. There

seemed as if, beside the

constant heat, cheap noise

was everywhere. Radio

stations playing from

tinny-sounding plastic

units on stores counters

and building fronts.

Peaches and Herb. Love

Is Strange. Strawberry

Alarm Clock, Incense

and Peppermint, Curse

of Mankind. Man, I was

sure I disliked all of it.

I had never before gotten

past the idea of the imagistic

'exceptionalism' of New 

York City not really being 

that at all. What one hears 

about, growing up as I did, 

are the success stories, 

the rich and famous, the 

legendary; all those artists

and writers and characters.

That's all the aspirational

stuff, and, yes, I had aspired,

and been attracted to all that,

my own quest, etc., never

realizing, until I actually GOT

there too, that the same place

was filled with thousands of

pounds of everyday misery, 

crass and angry and cross, 

people; failures, lame, sick

and dying, elderly, those who

had to work for their survival,

at 9 bucks a day and hated it.

I found the streets weren't

paved with gold; rather mold.

And the sidewalks? They were

traipsed by marginal types

sizing up pizza joints, and

mom and pop sheets-and- 

towels-and-linens stores to

see which ones they could

rob, and maybe, while doing

so, ruin some poor working

slob's life more than it

already was.