RUDIMENTS 819.

RUDIMENTS, pt. 819

(well, until it's over anyway)

I sometimes like to think that

death will be nothing but a

re-run; akin to re-visiting old

memories, the things you yet

think you can barely remember,

have but a faint recollection of,

but aren't even sure about. 'Did

that happen?' In a stop-time

of death's way, and time, you'd

re-enter those pasts and places,

like a peeled-back layer of

something, given back to what

you were, for a moment or two.

It all makes little sense now,

but would then, fine. That's

what this is all about. We run

taut circles around the forms

we once thought we knew.

That's like; 'that's what all

the people say. Riding high

in April. Shot down in May.'

-

One time, about 1990, a cousin

of mine, whom I'd seldom seen

and had little contact with, sent

us an invitation to a combination

birthday party (hers) and Halloween

Party - dress and costume optional,

your choice. It was in some hall

or something, up where they

lived; Maywood NJ. I pretty well

remember the whole thing -

we took a motorcycle up

there, headed towards Newark.

After that point, the precise

directions to Maywood were

unclear. It was damp and chilly

out, October cold, drizzly here

and there, and I didn't feel like

being lost forever plodding

around on two wheels in that

crummy weather - so, passing

a firehouse that was open and

had a few guys in it, I stopped,

asking for a better idea of the

way to 'Maywood.' I got the

lowdown, Route 21 (McCarter

Highway, through Newark.,

etc., etc.). They let us in, to

warm up, dry off a bit. A nice

deal; little else transpired. We

then departed and made our

way along, up past Clifton

and all that. And we did find

our way to this Maywood

location, I think it was,

in good time. I was scraggly

looking, had some riding

leathers on, everything was wet

and dripping; same went for

my rider. She too was a drippy

sight, jackets, leathers, scarf.

We got to the place, and entered.

It was a roomful of Cinderellas,

Batman and Superman, ghouls;

all sorts of contemporary, and not,

costumes, etc. And a few folks

in regular clothes. So we did the

greetings, said hello, and all that.

Chatter and drinks ensued, the

usual loud music, food. Eventually,

two people, young 20's, a couple

came over, all apologetic and

the rest. I was confused. Their

embarrassment, and nervousness

too, it turned out, as I realized,

was that we had come in all gnarly

and sloppy wet, in riding garb,

and they'd at first thought we

were just another costume duet;

in biker garb - which was THEIR

exact costuming, but obviously

fake and never having even seen

the high side of a tachometer and

handlebar. Thinking we had

redundant costumes, my cousin

had just clued them in that we were

NOT in costume; had ridden there,

were wet and chilly too! Every

cliche in the book, at that point,

came out - they thought, now,

that we'd be killer-mad at what

transpired, furious at the mockery,

and ready to maim and kill

these fakers. It was actually

funny, as I slowly watched the

color come back to their faces

when they were told (ha ha)

we'd let them live. It was funny,

and all I can really remember

saying was something like,

'Sweetheart, I only wish I was

you right now. I'm wet and

feeling crummy.'

-

Later on, I took a tire iron

to their Chevette. (Joking).

-

I guess the only reason I

brought that up is because

it's a good example of

something I'd like to

re-run. Do-over. See again.

Those chances don't much

come back. There was so

much delicious feeling in

that ride and that night - Rt.

21 runs along the river there,

the Hackensack or Passaic,

whichever it is, and the lights

and boats, and the old, rotted

industrial ruins that then dotted

the riversides, both, reflected

in the water; cars zoomed by;

the old motorcycle was humming;

only a few cars for an 8 o'clock

night. It was all pretty cool.

Riding a motorcycle in the

rain is something special, and

to be explained. Whatever the

rainfall is, it's magnified tenfold

at least by the fact of your

moving - into it - assaulting

it, as it were. The rain peppers

your face. (I wasn't a safety

helmet guy, ever, and merely

wore the least passable helmet

cap I could buy. In fact I only

had one during all those years,

and it had seen ground action too).

The rain seeps in, to your neck

and collar. It can sometimes hurt

too; If it's cold out, it really

gets crummy. You also need a

greater awareness, in the rain,

of traction, leans, turning, and,

not the least, stopping. Oils coat

the roadways, and you don't

always know that until rain

brings it out. You're riding on a

treacherous coat of lubrication,

floating over the surface. (Oil

does that)....So, plenty of extra

care goes into a wet ride. It's far

more taxing, and, in addition,

does, or should, because of

these factors, shut down your

speed some. Darkness makes

all of this worse - both to

speak of other cars, the usual

asshole drivers, splashes, puddles

and spray from jerks whizzing

by you at 84 mph in a 45.

-

So, arriving at my cousin's

soiree, the last thing I needed

for joviality was two pretenders.

-

If I ever did meet someone

like that - from the far past

and one of those memory

dilemmas I'd have to say to

them - 'Hi. That may be you,

but this isn't me.' Something

oblique and incongruous like

that, to get across the idea that

I am not what I ever may have

been then, and will not be then

what I may be now. That gets

all pretty strange because Time

begins overlapping back onto

itself, and f you're not careful

everything gets all swooped up

together and you start hearing

all that hurdy-gurdy 'We are all

one' 'it takes a village' crap,with

the organ grinder and the

monkey - except that they

never make mention to you that

they expect YOU to be the

monkey. If you begin hearing

that stuff, flee; no matter what

costume you are wearing,

because all the other costumes

are the Grim Reaper, over and

over and over and over...

Until it's over.