Displaced Snippets of Bayonne by Edward Drobinski - HTML preview

Page 122

#27- My Non-Life not on Goodreads

This entire, weird chain of events had no clearly defined starting point. But I suppose that if you choose to commence yapping that you are stuck in having to pick some arbitrary point to start the yap at. ......... Never mind; I guess I already have. ....... But, not really. That’s got nothing to do with the story. It’s just one of those clever lead-ins a competent writer tries to hook innocent readers with.

In fact whether or not there is a story is in itself a highly debatable subject for anyone paying any attention whatsoever; with the possible exception of that person who keeps leaving those messages folded under the red flag attached to my mail box. Inconclusive “proof” of that allegation is offered in the absence of an actual photo and is displayed thusly below,

“enhanced,” and very much more or less Adobe.

Mailbox; the kind courtesy of Pexels,com under their CC0 license; modified.

Displaced Snippets of Bayonne Page 123

Got the picture? Not exactly. The color picture has been rendered black and white, as color printing results in the cost of printing to quadruple; and I’d much rather my fans use their imaginations a bit and not feed the printer. As a hint, the flag is actually a vivid red.

No, it is not the hanging of Frosty the Snowman. It’s my fabrication of a letter attached to my mailbox.

Excellent. You may have already astutely noted that this book is a periodic, attempted condescension to the many dissertations upon post-modern literature written by people no one ever heard of, and published in consideration of the

“necessary” $35,000 annual fee extracted in the interest of great literature by Dalkey Archive Press, insofar as the genre which came to fruition with DFW and died when he did is still lionized by two or three septegenarian critics; their anticipated raves not personally measured in Jacksons; not even in Washingtons, the fathers of this great country; but in brilliant un-elected Franklins. I am confident that the disserters will approve. Hope does indeed spring eternal.

All that out of the way, please allow me to go back a few months ......... or years. I don’t recall where or when it was.

I don’t recall who else might have been there. The inconsequential details have faded. But, I know that it’s true

Displaced Snippets of Bayonne Page 124

because I briefly mentioned it to my psychiatrist 32 years ago.

It doesn’t matter all that much anyway; except to the

“democrats” who are using and abusing me only for their own gain; or possibly their own perverse desire to thwart and malign someone else. Then I took their advice and got this lying butch lawyer. Me bad. Right now, I wish that I had never gotten involved in the whole thing, but it’s too late for me; as the market has already been swamped with these incorrectly deemed-to-be same genre things; and I can only get a percentage deal.

No advance at all. I really shouldn’t speak until the old, unspecific matter has been thoroughly investigated by a neutral source; if one exists. In the absence of “good” choices, I guess that I’d like to suggest the engagement of a metaphysicist.

Bottom line, I wish that I had never written anything, but

.........

A Condensed Recollection of Banalities Which Trigger Thoughts of Suicide in Silly Seekers of Elation; an Illegal and Insistent Intrusion from Another Book; Proceed at Your Own Peril As soon as I came back home from my Walmart excursion I flipped on my laptop and shuffled around anxiously while the contrary thing took forever to boot up. What seemed like an hour later, I finally navigated to Kindle Direct Publishing. I put in

Displaced Snippets of Bayonne Page 125

my e-mail address, the password, and clicked “Reports.” At the bottom of the screen, in very small letters, I got the message;

“There are no sales to report for this period.”

Being a rational person I concluded that there was some sort of mistake.

Hi, precious and possibly non-existent reader. The name’s Ed; and the first thing I’d like to do is complement you on your good taste.

The second thing I’d like to do is dash off this e-mail to Kindle Direct Publishing, saying that they will not be allowed to steal from me. There is no possibility that in this entire world of five hundred billion English proficient people; if you count the Brits; that not one of them has purchased my book.

Fraud!!

Every single one of the other dog walkers I met while walking Daisy down by the river said that I’d soon be on TV with the likes of Franzen and DeLillo; Wallace had he chosen to continue to hang around in hope of the laurels disproportionately attendant to posthumousity. Okay, they didn’t specify that it would be on the same show; so I sort of made a reasonable assumption about that, if you have to get picky. It certainly wasn’t Jerry Springer, as that was cancelled by then.

Hi again, astute reader pal. I just want to be clear that that e-mail I mentioned sending out was in the past. It has

Displaced Snippets of Bayonne Page 126

already been sent, and was truly intended to mean the exact opposite of what it actually said. But, my hi to you is in the present and true, for the second time. ............... Don’t ask. You may have already noted that I’m easily confused. It’s not lying mind you; it’s confusion. I have a doctor’s note.

Those mailbox messages were a continuing thing. I remember the first one well. I had just written and self-published my first book; “Deadly Doornails,” a month prior. I was really bummed out over having had no sales. This is a little bit later than what went before, but is conceptually the same as what went on that very first day and now conveniently defies criticism of any kind, except for that trolling mailbox message.

It was still September, but well on the way to October, the time when Albuquerque has its biggest event, the Balloon Fiesta.

I don’t live in Albuquerque, just nearby, but that doesn’t really matter as every year that I’ve been here, someone puts a flyer in my mail box flag around this time to say that they’re having a 7AM breakfast party on the first day of Mass Ascension, and that I’ve been invited.

It is not nice to point out that some of these genteel, butter-wouldn’t-melt-in-my-mouth, re-located mid-Westerners can be quite sarcastic. Besides, you always have to bring your own breakfast booze, and I can see the balloons from my own windows, without the benefit of any invitations, anyway.

Displaced Snippets of Bayonne Page 127

So, it was like that; but instead of one of many identical

“bring-your-own-breakfast-invites” the paper on the box was handwritten and unsigned. It said that this person appreciated having read “Deadly Doornails.” I was excited at first, and reproduce the note here.

“I know how most writers go unappreciated. I wanted to drop this note just to say thank you for the fine work you’ve done on

‘Deadly Doornails.’ I enjoyed it immensely and look forward to your next offering.”

Well, the second thing I thought was that the brat from two doors down who doesn’t like me was making fun of me. My third thought concerned how anyone had seen a book which had zero sales. My excitement was impaired by the creepy aspect.

Perhaps by now my sweet reader is wondering why I didn’t put Goodreads in the title of this chapter. Actually I did, and perhaps preceding it with a “not” was confusing to one of us. In either case, that’s too good a question for me to pretend that I know the entire answer. Why hasn’t Goodreads been mentioned in the body yet? I don’t know that either. I may have intended to once, but now I’ve forgotten.

Displaced Snippets of Bayonne Page 128

But since you didn’t ask, I’ll tell you all I know. I had already been writing books for three years as well as reading them for a somewhat longer time when somebody introduced me to Goodreads. That event coincided with a severe drop off in both the quantity and quality of my work; and if I ever remember who the saboteur was I’m going to crack an egg in their mailbox.

That website contains some of the horniest devils on the planet. And despite all the direct and inferred lewd commentary allowed, GR went out of their way to delete me. You see, there are rules of conduct imposed by the management, rather than the owners, of the “social media” sites; which are implemented by disinterested and self-important flunkies; on Goodreads designated as librarians; feral adjective generally unspoken. As a result, you can actually be convicted of a crime for saying something on social media which is perfectly legal to say out loud. Mercifully, there is no punishment other than being banished from hell.

By the way, does anyone else agree that the old, face-lifted, Senator from Connecticut would make the perfect lead if anyone decides to do “Nosferatu III”?

Displaced Snippets of Bayonne Page 129

#28- Bombers

Bayonne had one public high school appropriately named Bayonne High School which covered grades 9-12, and had four possible itineraries; college preparatory (one called academic, which academics hated), technical (machine shop, auto body, et al), general (for future book-keepers, seamstresses, nurses, aspiring and existing sluts), and Bombers.

Bombers was the one that wasn’t well defined and I doubt if that was its official name. It occupied the first floor of one of the school’s buildings, and I never saw anyone enter or exit; though I did know that it housed one of the school’s varsity basketball players. Today it would probably be called “Special Education,” but back then nobody talked about it except Robert Maguire. He was one of about 13 members of the Catholic Maguire family who lived on 17th Street between Avenue C and Broadway. I knew a number of them and Robert was the one who got shorted in the brain department. He wasn’t retarded or anything serious I don’t think. It was just that his voice sounded slow and dumb, and he was talking all the time.

He’d tell jokes no one found funny and say things like; “You see that dog jump that curb.” I was never looking for any trouble; so I’d politely laugh whenever he did. But some people didn’t and eventually a sort of argument would break out. There were always a

Displaced Snippets of Bayonne Page 130

group of kids around, so these arguments didn’t get resolved like a one on one tete a tete or a Senate Supreme Court approval. The arguers would play to the crowd trying to get them laughing at their opponent. ....... Maybe it was like a 2018 Senate hearing, but we didn’t know that yet.

Invariably Robert Maguire would start losing the argument.

He’d then put his arm on one of the observers, point at his opponent, and say; “He goes to Bombers.” I could never help but laugh, perhaps giving the wrong signal as to whose side I was supporting. I mean when he said it he would sound as if he went to Bombers.

However, it would be a mistake to sell Robert short. He may merely have been displaying a superior sense of humor which always won the “argument.” I’m sure that if he was a commentator today, he’d ask an unanswerable question like; “If that wasn’t supposed to happen, why did anyone bother to invent roofies?” or “How old does a girl have to be before she figures out what’s going to happen being the only girl at a drinking-drugging party? She must go to Bombers.”

The few times his older brother was around, he wouldn’t argue. He’d slap Robert in the head. Robert would start crying, and big brother would repeat “Stop whining,” until Robert went back home threatening to tell their Dad.

Displaced Snippets of Bayonne Page 131

#29- Bad Pizza Revisited

Bad pizza has taken on a more complicated posture in Millennial enlightened 2018. Inferences are drawn from imagined metaphors. Jeez. I was just talking about pizza. Okay?

I’m sorry that I brought the whole thing up, as it doesn’t even happen all that often. ....... Hehehe. You’re supposed to say that. Right?

Displaced Snippets of Bayonne Page 132

#30- The Beginnings of My Fabulous Writing Career After Amazon made it excruciatingly easy for any idiot to self-publish and sell one or two of their books on their website, every idiot did; including me.

That being the whole story, I figured that I’d fill out this chapter by skipping to the end; that requiring a context not herein provided. I guess that makes it either experimental or a Nabokovian puzzle; either stupid or extremely high brow stuff. Any other assessments are most welcomed if accompanied by a proof of purchase.

I noticed that in the course of one of the Attorney General’s (hereafter referred to as AG) reviews he helped out the author, by suggesting he delete some word and put another one in its place, ostensibly after AG looked it up, thereby assuring the accuracy of his assessment. I knew the word and didn't understand the fuss at first. But I'd like to return the favor.

There is one word AG often uses which always throws me; solipsism or solopsism, solipsistic, and even some other derivations. I don't know what that word means and have never heard it or read it in the course of my 69 years, and therefore doubt if anyone else has. The first time I saw AG use it I looked it up. Since I had forgotten what I read I did that the

Displaced Snippets of Bayonne Page 133

second and third times too. I'm not doing it again.

So, if AG still has any literary aspirations beyond doing on-line reviews; and may even want to dare to be an "accessible"

writer, he should do himself a favor and use another word. And, please don't tell me what it means because I NO LONGER GIVE THE

SLIGHTEST OF FUCKS, YOU PRETENTIOUS PURPLE BASTARD.

Displaced Snippets of Bayonne Page 134

#31- Brooklyn John Gives the Rubes an Education In my humble opinion the best story is the one about the guy who moved to the neighborhood from Brooklyn, ostensibly after having romanced every woman there except that 800 pounder who never got out of bed and had like 15 rosaries. Bayonne, NJ

must have represented a new pasture. He proceeded to help out the love lives of the rest of us yokels.

But, I’m getting ahead of myself. Let’s circle around the beginning and preface for a bit. Though the ending is surprising, which would allow it to stand on its own, the telling of the story is greatly enhanced by the skillful writing dashed off in the writer’s customary manner. If you fail to make note of that, I am certain that you will not be able to miss the entertaining utilization of objectionable profanity, sufficient to obtain “InfoWars” treatment from the prudes at Facebook.

We first saw John when he’d ride his bicycle around the block. That wouldn’t have gotten much attention had he not done it on the sidewalk while blowing his whistle. It was not only his receding hairline and grotesque clothing that made us think that he was at least forty, and induced many parents to keep their distaff progeny off the street. One side block he seemed to like was already the domicile of two demented male adults, one supposedly having relocated from Sing Sing, under some

Displaced Snippets of Bayonne Page 135

Liberal promoted non-work release program. The mid-sixties will always be remembered as a time of liberation.

We and the rest of the neighborhood experienced good fortune when an irreparable bicycle issue later coincided with a lack of funds needed for tire replacement. This resulted in John’s coming around on foot. When I wasn’t there someone apparently talked to him, which he chose to interpret as a welcome. John informed us that he was 16. It was not until much later that we realized that John supplemented his Turret’s Syndrome with a bit of a futuristic issue concerning the truth.

He interspersed his infinite supply of “romantic” stories with periodic dabs at the puss oozing from his terminal acne craters. I couldn’t resist being encouraged that maybe one day; I too might be able to attract so many women. It seemed that at some point John felt un-explicably challenged, as he suddenly began supplementing his tales with action demonstrations.

When he saw a girl or a group of them walking by, he'd get up, do a bit of a pelvic thrust, rub his crotch and yell out;

"Come on over here and suck on this a while." He was really ahead of his time as Michael Jackson copied it and didn't do a watered down version until the 80's or so.

John’s big day came when he was doing his thing to get the attention of the old polock chick walking across the street. She must have been 19 at the time and didn't speak any English. She

Displaced Snippets of Bayonne Page 136

stopped and looked at John for a few seconds probably not comprehending his overture and thinking about how the romantic rituals might be different in the USA. Whatever, but after a few seconds of motionless thought she started rubbing her crotch too. .............

It goes on some, and my conclusion involves some interpretation, which could well be wrong. But, what happened surprised inexperienced me. Rather than crossing the street, John animatedly started asking the rest of us; “Did you see what she just did? Did you see what she just did? Did you see that?”

She was about 100 feet away, so I couldn’t imagine how anyone missed it. Consequently, as was the case with the rest of the group, I made no reply; thinking something sophisticated was going on. In a few seconds the polack walked on and John sat back down.

I have no doubt that the lesson female irresistible John taught us was; “Get their attention and interest. Then play hard to get.”

The woman who had walked on was the oldest of two sisters.

The younger was one who kept more to herself. She went to high school, spoke English adequately, and most of all communicated perfectly through her eyes and facial expressions. One day she was packing up her things at a back table after math class. I

Displaced Snippets of Bayonne Page 137

was entering the room for the next one. I saw her and tentatively thought that I might try to get her attention and then play hard to get, but I was much too shy for that. So, I just said; “hello,” as after all we were neighbors of sorts. I veered in her direction and when I was about three feet away she looked up at me with a face which clearly said; “How’d you like this protractor in your eye?”

Well, you may have detected that I’m generally liberal about these things, but like everyone I do have my limits. As I darted away from her instinctively utilizing a Dracula-like-light-protective posture, I pondered the social aspects of the event. I thought that it was quite unfair that she was probably judging me as lacking, by the standards of the company I kept.

They’re not me. But, for the sake of social proprieties I considered an upgrade in hopes it would make skinny, frizz-head, polack bitches at least say hello to me. Sadly, within a few more minutes my mind was totally overwhelmed with how Mrs.

Wright’s blackboard demonstrated how through operations which obliterated A and B, one could solve for X.

Anyway, got this on another subject if one thinks that there is another subject. So I hope you have enjoyed this while I return to my shy and lonely toil.

Displaced Snippets of Bayonne Page 138

#32- Respect

Eventually, I came to understand that some girls wanted to see me, but didn’t want everyone else to know about it. Respect.

Like that older woman who worked in the lunchroom, Tasheeka.

Ahead of her times with that Afro Bermuda Triangle and later her more conventional even older friend Tawanda with the hairnet. I used to call them T&T, and that I would not be tittered at.

Sometimes the pictures tell the whole story, but I took them out of here because I’d like to retain an aura of mystery.

Frankly, Amazon expressed some reservations about them too. I really didn’t understand how they could allow certain types of alleged pornography, while simultaneously getting all fussy about a few dark fuzzies. But the Huge Snake is not one who responds well to questions; so I didn’t ask any.

The reader is thereby condemned to the oubliette of obscure words. T1, T2, and I would get together at T1’s apartment on 21st Street between Broadway and Avenue C. Insert your own perverted fantasies.

Displaced Snippets of Bayonne Page 139

#33- Show and Tell, Scavone Re-runs, and the Necessity of Guns and Knives

Mrs. Moran’s second grade “show and tell” was the first and last time I got to participate in one. That was a personal disappointment as the day was spent without having to again go through the times tables I had memorized 3-4 years prior. Mild amusement was occasionally obtained when someone fucked up the sixes, for some strange reason difficult for many when approaching the sevens and eights.

I brought in Dad’s old baseball glove, which he had turned over to me. He had been playing the game, teaching where needed, with and to me for a few years I have lost exact track of. I really wanted to show the other kids what a big deal playing baseball was, as I could not play the game anywhere, but with Dad. The Little League had a minimum age of eight; and in those days, they had not yet sponsored tee ball or small fry leagues.

Frankly, the tee ball configuration would have been beneath my dignity.

To my chagrin I received blank stares and even window gazes when I explained the intricacies involved in catching a ball.

There is a lot to it, and is nowhere near as easy as it looks. I mean when the throw comes in high you have to have fingers up and when it comes in low you have to have fingers down. Most dexterity is required when it comes in in-between, as you have

Displaced Snippets of Bayonne Page 140

to make up your mind quickly or risk a shot in the balls. I won’t even explain how one can easily “smother” a short hop as the kids didn’t care either.

Fatty Giambrone was the day’s big hitter, as he brought in his father’s gun. Just imagine the ramifications if that happened today. It was new then and didn’t yet have all the built in assumptions. Mrs. Moran seemed more un-prepared than scared or brave, and the other kids were cooing over how cool Fatty’s show was, which made me jealous.

At some point Mrs. Moran left the room and came back with Mr. Scavone, the gym teacher. His early, style-conscious bald head shining in the morning sun, he went to Fatty, took his gun, and checked it. “It’s not loaded,” he said, as he walked back to the front of the room.

He stood there, slowly shaking his head from side to side.

He then struck a boxing pose worthy of a John L. Sullivan photograph, and started jumping around while saying; “When I was a kid we only needed these.” He then recounted a story or two from when he used to train boxers down in Puerto Rico, before going back to teaching some disinterested kids how to take a basketball free throw underhanded.

This was to be my first introduction to a routine he had perfected and would later replay whenever a kid initiated his own show and tell performance with a knife.

Displaced Snippets of Bayonne Page 141

#34- The Time Dad Whacked Me

Broadway was the center of activity, most heavily between 19th and 25th Streets. Before malls and Walmarts women did their shopping there. It was time consuming as they’d have to stop in 5-6 different stores to get all of what they needed.

By the evening the flurry of shopping activity was diminished, though most of the stores remained open. Some guys my father hung out with pre-marriage were still stationed on 25th Street. There was a movie theatre, a bowling alley underneath, and a hot dog and news stand outside.

Mom, Dad and I would drive there most every night to pick up the paper from “Newsboy” Rackley, and Dad would shoot some shit with whoever of his old cronies was around.

Most of the guys wore hats back then. No baseball caps yet, but something I’d call a fedora; like in a Bogart noir. Dad would always take it off while driving and place it on the back seat with me.

Well, one day I got one of my bright ideas. Actually, I can’t take full credit for it, as there was a goofy character on

“The Jackie Gleason Show” who always had the brims turned down on his hat. It looked stupid, and I guess that was the point. I think that this character was called “The Poor Soul,” but I’m far from sure of that.

Displaced Snippets of Bayonne Page 142

One evening I was sitting there looking at my hat-back-seat-companion, and thought it would be the height of hilarity; and if not seen as quite that; certainly seen as worthy of a regular, weekly, if somewhat brief TV spot, to invert the brims.

Worst case, it was of more artistic merit than a commercial. The only possible glitch was that Dad might notice the deformity before putting it back on his head, and in that case any possible repercussions were dependent upon a consortium of factors, each speculative, and none compelling in the no-harm –

no-foul sense. Oddly, my only risk to life and limb lied in if I succeeded at making a monkey of my father. At the time it naively seemed a reasonable risk-reward tradeoff, which would later be math verified in Grad school.

Anyway, back to 1954 or three; Dad put the absurdly brimmed hat on his head, got out of the car, bought the paper, and shot some shit with the usual suspects. When he came back Mom started laughing. He saw what happened to his hat and somehow he deduced that this was my doing. Without giving me the benefit of due process or the right to an attorney, he whacked me in the head, and said; “Don’t you EVER do that again.” The whack didn’t hurt all that much, but I thought it best to feign a whimper and a promise to never do that again.

Though there were no specifics in mind, I figured that the future would present other ways to ruin his little day or night.

Displaced Snippets of Bayonne Page 143

I don’t recall the circumstances or what this might specifically have to do with the foregoing, but in my teenage years my mother once said; “I hope that when you grow up you’ll have a kid just like you.”

That inspired my first thought of remaining childless.

There is a solution to most problems.

Displaced Snippets of Bayonne Page 144

#35- Back to Bayonne Stuff Again

This started as a long ass story about the mob war started by Joe Bananas in the early seventies. The writer intended this as a lead in to Bayonne Joe Zicarelli, a minor player in the messy affair. But the story was kind of boring and most likely Scorsese did a movie jazzing it all up, which you all saw by now.

Bayonne Joe was born there and remained with his parents until he made enough money to afford his own place out of town.

He subsequently lived in nearby North Bergen under various aliases, one of them once claiming to have spoken with Jimmy Breslin.

Of possible other note Zicarelli is said to have been involved in supplying arms to Castro and Che; and is one of 150,000 suspects in the assassination of JFK. Further details may be gleaned on any of your standard conspiracy sites.

I didn’t know him or any other members of his family.

Displaced Snippets of Bayonne Page 145

#36- Walmart Can-Can

The following event occurred today in number seven. No; it didn’t happen at my grammar school. It happened more than half a century later at Walmart. But, it was really a replay of the former event which I can no longer recall. You know what I mean.

I’d rather not get all kinds of artsy, non-linear on you, but given the advancing rate of dementia, I thought it best to write it down before I forgot it again.

I’ll be the first to admit that I may have had a minority level of culpability, as this AM wasn’t exactly one of those ace mornings in the privy. In retrospect I probably should have skipped my scheduled trip to Walmart. I didn’t need anything for a couple of days, but I can get stubborn sometimes. Just to be obstinate, ever since a few women derisively told me that men always seek routines, I’ve been going out of my way to do precisely that. I figured that if I was going to be found guilty, that I might as well have had the fun of committing the

“crime.”

It was going as well as a trip to Walmart can, when this idiot who had no idea of where he was going got in front of me and started to jackass around as if he and his fucking cart were on “Dancing with the Stars.” I have no idea how old he was as he

Displaced Snippets of Bayonne Page 146

was one of those all too common baldheads with a beard easy to touch up.

Every time he started to do the boogaloo, I’d try to get around him on the other side; and every time I tried to get around him on the other side he led his partner into a backstep, me getting closer to him with each gyration.

This was absolutely absurd as we were near the checkout lines. I mean that’s a no-brainer over there as the only choices you have to make are whether you want some Bic product, a deck of cards, one of the scandal sheets, or a coloring book. And, of most significance, it was wasting my time. So after his fifth or sixth display of clumsy footwork, I instinctively issued an audible, saying; “Fuckin’ asshole.”

That seemed to throw off his game plan and he got over to the side, but was staring at me; and he didn’t seem to be conveying good tidings. So just to show that I hadn’t issued that audible in error, I stared back at him and repeated it.

I got on line, checked out, and when I got to the parking area guess who was there? He seemed to not notice me, but was apparently on his way to a car which was reasonably near mine.

So, I reissued my audible.

This baldhead must have thought that he was mufuggin Popeye or some shit, because he stopped, looked directly at me, and

Displaced Snippets of Bayonne Page 147

asked me that stupid question you so often hear; “You got a problem?”

Since like all, I had previous experience handling this one, I quickly said; “I got this addiction to speaking with morons.” I got a good look at him and if he thought that those gym induced arms were anything like Popeye, he must be some sort of recluse, as he never before met Bluto.

Things got a tad ugly after that as .......... Damn, you’ll have to excuse me for a while as the old bat nurse wants to do something or other with the IV needles. It’s damn annoying that this old bat thinks that I want to exchange some sort of

“pleasantries” with her, as she’s got to be at least 45, got a bun on her head, and a union card over what was presumably once tits. I mean if she was one of the young ones, I’d be glad to be shooting shit with her. But, come on.

Ostensibly, she had detected my disinterest, and sarcastically said; “Got fucked up pretty good, didn’t ya?”

I said; “You think I’m bad. You oughta see him.”

And I wasn’t lying. You see baldy-beardo-Popeye got himself arrested. And we’re gonna be in court whenever they let me out of here. And I’m gonna be one hell of a sympathetic case; eighteen years into AARP territory and wearing that cancer survivor’s T-shirt I got off this scam artist I know. Mufugga goan be dancin’ to at least ninety days of jail dick up his ass,

Displaced Snippets of Bayonne Page 148

as well as monetary damages, pain, suffering, and the whole yadda yadda.

Hehehehe.

Displaced Snippets of Bayonne Page 149

#37- Trolling

In simpler times, we used to think that we knew what trolling was. However, its relatively recent internet popularity led to a break down into a billion subgenres. Even Facebook and the other providers of social media cannot come to agreement, but in a show of consonance or conformity have taken to the practice of reciprocity. Ostensibly, their favorite phrase has become; “Whut he said.” If you don’t believe me, just ask Alex Jones.

In a futile attempt to restore some semblance of order, let’s consider the dictionary definition. I wasn’t going to, but if you do scholarly-type stuff someone always throws the fussy definition at you. Reading is optional as far as I’m concerned until you get to “I think that you might appreciate the extent of the problem” a few pages hence.

Verb (used with object):

1) To sing or utter in a full, rolling voice.

2) To sing in the manner of a round or catch.

3) To fish for or in with a moving line, working the line up or down with a rod, as in fishing for pike, or trailing the line behind a slow-moving boat.

4) To move (the line or bait) in doing this.

Displaced Snippets of Bayonne Page 150

5) To cause to turn round and round; roll.

6) Obsolete. To hand around, as a bowl of liquor at table.

7) Digital Technology. Informal.

a) To post inflammatory or inappropriate messages or comments on (the Internet, especially a message board) for the purpose of upsetting other users and provoking a response.

b) To upset or provoke (other users) by posting such messages or comments.

Verb (used without object):

8) To sing with a full, rolling voice; give forth full, rolling tones.

9) To be uttered or sounded in such tones.

10) To fish by trolling.

11) To roll; turn round and round.

12) To move nimbly, as the tongue in speaking.

13) Digital Technology. Informal. To post inflammatory or inappropriate messages or comments online for the purpose of upsetting other users and provoking a response.

Noun:

14) A song whose parts are sung in succession; a round.

15) The act of trolling.

16) A lure used in trolling for fish.

Displaced Snippets of Bayonne Page 151

17) The fishing line containing the lure and hook for use in trolling.

18) Digital Technology. Informal. A person who posts inflammatory or inappropriate messages or comments online for the purpose of upsetting other users and provoking a response.

Writer’s Note. With respect to 7a, 7b, 13, and 18; these may seem a reasonable definition upon first reading, though upon further reflection it becomes obvious that these definitions miss the nuances attendant to at least half of that it would purport to include; that being all in the reverse pejorative sense. On a more concrete level, we all know damn well that it is not considered trolling if the target is a Republican, some other type of right wing fascist, or your everyday-household-variety cretin.

I think that you might now appreciate Level 1 of the problem, and sincerely hope that you didn’t read through all that to come to that conclusion. I’m going to take a bold leap of faith here; and assume that if you’re fashion conscious, as evidenced by your superb taste in books, you are only interested in cutting-edge, internet trolling, and that you weren’t seeking to expand your knowledge about fishing, moving, or rolling your tongue at the moment. So, allow me to again focus in on numbers

Displaced Snippets of Bayonne Page 152

7a, 7b, 13, and 18. That narrows things a bit, but in the humble opinion of the writer, is still very lacking, as apparently whoever wrote this crap thinks that he is clairvoyant, and assumes he can read your mind’s intent.

To simplify matters a bit, for all intents and simple purposes, here's the working definition. "Trolling is whatever is said to be such in a complaining commentary which is written on the internet by any severely limited, opinionated, overly sensitive, humorless person with no life, and a passing grade in a high school typing course, or whatever prompted the remedial rule dictated by Facebook policy to belittle or delete that which they determine to be as such or that which might offend their libtard base."

Not to go all credential on ya, but, when the writer won the first Troll of the Year award back further than the writer would like to remember, trolling on the net was admittedly easy.

There weren’t many of us and we were generalists. And to tell you the truth any “competitor” at the time started bawling after two exchanges.

But, things had become a lot more difficult by 2018 as there were more players and they often specialized in one subgenre for the most part, and often know damn near everything about their chosen niche. To give you some idea, here are some of the broad sub-genres;

Displaced Snippets of Bayonne Page 153

1) Trumptrolling

2) Nazitrolling

3) Homotrolling

4) Heterotrolling

5) Dumbbooktrolling

6) Dumbreviewtrolling

7) Malemillennialtrolling, sometimes abbreviated as M-Mtrolling.

I’d just like to note that this current usage of the M-M

abbreviation has absolutely nothing to do with the 1950’s and the early 1960’s reference to Mantle and Maris, the Yankee’s powerful home run hitting duo as “The M&M Boys.” There were no petunia putzes around then, boy. In addition, it also makes no reference to the chocolate covered candy, neither in its original form or its subsequent nutty deviations. One would hope that once one took all the trouble to write the dictionary that the least the goddam thing could do was to stay written. But, no.

8) Femalemillennialtrolling

9) Fakestupidtrolling

10) Realstupidtrolling

11) Rightwingtrolling

12) Liberaltrolling (They responsible for my personal candidate for the word of the year, 2010, libtard.) 13) Muslimtrolling

Displaced Snippets of Bayonne Page 154

You may have noted that 13 is not yet generally considered to be near a billion. But, for each broad genre there are at least five underlying sub-genres; 1) Stupid, 2) High School or GED equivalent, 3) College, 4) Grad school, and 5) Spectrum; a difficult sub-group you don’t want to get bogged down with. You know ‘em when you see ‘em. If you multiply all those numbers together, including the dictionary definitions the result will be reasonably close to a billion.

Let me stop here. Sorry I started it. You can see why I semi-retired. I can’t keep up with all of this. So let me advise you that to get a full listing of all the sub-genres of trolling take the nouns from the dictionary and some of the adjectives and write trolling after them.

You might be interested to know that right now I’m almost entirely working in the #7 Malemillennialtrolling area with dilletantish occasional dalliances into numbers 1, 6 and 10.

There are overlaps.

Malemillennialtrolling is a safe area, as with good reasons nobody likes the whiny jerkass millennials. So, I would contend that what I do is more of an occasionally humorous public service rather than any real trolling. I would also like to make one distinction clear. I rarely troll any female Millennials as

Displaced Snippets of Bayonne Page 155

I truly sympathize with their plight. I mean the poor girls are going out of their ways to be nice to these guys, pretending that all their dick jokes are hilarious, that they get excited over the 100 enhanced dick pictures they get e-mailed, and then say that the disheveled jerk in yesterday’s draws is “hawt.”

That is nothing short of heroic.

Unless they have made other arrangements, which in their place I sure as hell would have, it seems to me that they’re putting up with a lot of crap in the apparent hope that they might get to spend some time with the monkey asses; at least until the child support payments become feasible anyway. Those sweet things extend olive branches, and if it was me, I’d reciprocate and extend it right up their asses. Great girls.

I mean like who really needs this shit? The guys have these

“Guy Bars” all over the place now. You know, with the “awesome”

500 inch TV screen on the goddam wall, and when it’s not playing

“Health Matters” with Dr. Motumbo Bernstein-Rosenzweig it’s got some boring ass football game on and the guys get all kinds of excited, high fiving, yo duding, and rump bumping whenever Tom Brady completes a short pass. They got their “Cowboy” jersey tops on and there’s only one chick in the room, and she’s just watching to see that her husband Lance doesn’t get into some after-hours rump bumping with Lyle. It seems fair for the ladies to have their own bars with HGTV on the screen, whenever Dr.

Displaced Snippets of Bayonne Page 156

Phil is off the air, and rump bumping at every spiffy, Remo Brothers kitchen cabinet installation. And if one Percy wants to watch, fine.

NOTE TO ME. Remember to alter or remove preceding paragraph.

Once I couldn’t find the lightbulbs in Walmart. I really looked, ‘cause I was afraid to ask these bad looking dudes for help, but they were the only Walmart minimum wage flunkies in the area. I was expecting one to say; “D’fuk yu wan’, man?”

Instead he said “Helloooooo, “ in a Barney Phyfe nervous falsetto. I’m making no fun. It ain’t his fault that his “pappy”

split for the Tenderloin and his mammy got stiffed with the Barney Phyfe at the sperm bank.

Let the experts worry about the subgenres; because we really don’t care, and I’m stopping right here.

Displaced Snippets of Bayonne Page 157

#38- Bayonne High Literary Curriculum

I don’t remember what Freshman, Sophomore, and Junior English encompassed. It probably was verb conjugation, the requirements of a sentence, and stuff like that. Yes, I’m sure that I passed. Earth Science with that big fat woman teacher and her cropped hair was the only one I came close to failing. And frankly it was no fault of hers, as I just had severe difficulty with concepts like stratums and layers when all I had seen was concrete sidewalks and asphalt roads.

Still I know that is no excuse as my classmates were subjected to the same realities. Whatever. Once they pave it over, it doesn’t matter what’s underneath. To quote Joni Mitchell; “They paved paradise and put up a parking lot.”

Digressed again. Sorry. Back to English. I think that I got put in the “smart” class for Senior English, and as a consequence became very familiar with “Great Expectations.”

Mr. Drennan had the class read it out loud, a paragraph to a student, all year long. I really liked the book, but had a little difficulty when visualizing all those icky cobwebs. Mr.

Drennan liked to belt a bit. He’d usually leave the room as we read; I guess him having a stash somewhere nearby. He was all right and nothing like that geography teacher Mr. Gebus. Gebus

Displaced Snippets of Bayonne Page 158

would pass out right on his desk, no matter how many spitballs careened off his head.

Thanks to Drennan we learned the piss out of expectations.

Some of you might find this and a few other recollections contained herein as sad scenes from a life culturally deprived.

Actually, I never even heard the term until age 40, when it was uttered by a bawling “New Age” guy with an archaic alcohol

“issue.” However, your good heart is appreciated as much as it is also irrelevant. You see, gentle reader, that everything has two sides. In this case, the student concludes that things are easy, and develops a confidence; at least as long as he can fend off being otherwise educated.

Yuck. Tangential again. Anyway, I don’t remember what the points were supposed to be if there were any. “Great Expectations” is a book worth spending some time with. It’s distinctly possible that we students never finished the book in class as some people would read the wrong paragraph and the other students would start correcting. This would lead to a joke, and much less so an occasional argument. And Mr. Red-Faced-Not-From-the-Sun Drennan didn’t choose to play referee.

And we all wound up in some college; even stupid Sharkey.

Displaced Snippets of Bayonne Page 159

#39- Girl Talk

When guys bullshit with other guys, it is rare for anyone to go into the graphic details. Maybe times have changed, but I was very accustomed to the use of poetic allusions.

At some point I was shocked to find out that these girls have no sense of discretion whatsoever. They say everything!

From then on, I found it difficult to say “the gentler sex”

without intending sarcasm. Really. Thoughts flurried, and at first I had my doubts. But, it finally made perfect sense when Terry from 13th Street used to roll up her skirt and pull on my head in front of her friends.

I was totally appalled. I was also embarrassed when shy little me imagined the grinning female faces. I assure you that I got away from Terry as soon as I found someone who did the same thing in private.

Displaced Snippets of Bayonne Page 160

#40- A Bayonne Political Primer

I noticed that the last three Bayonne mayors were owners of funeral homes and asked Dad about it. He told me that it was this way because they knew where the bodies were buried.

To a little kid that was both insightful and funny. It wasn’t until many years later that I realized it had something to do with their ownership of plots. Bayonne was just once again ahead of its time in foreshadowing the political takeover of the real estate moguls and their mob “friends.”

Displaced Snippets of Bayonne Page 161

#41- Timothy Leary

Quite frankly, most of Bayonne was nonplussed when they heard; “Turn on, tune in, and drop out.” They, their grandparents, and their grandparents before them had turned on and dropped out long before the Harvard professor got all the credit. And further frankly most completely disagreed with the

“tune in” aspect. “Tune out” is like common sense for any shot at happiness.

Displaced Snippets of Bayonne Page 162

#42- Jeanie

Jeanie always seemed to be unbalanced. It could have been that it took her feet two steps to catch up to where her tits already were. Outside of that only interesting thing about her was that she talked funny, and did it incessantly. She had something like a lisp, couldn’t say an “L,” and said some words incorrectly.

For example she called Slivocka Sivocka, and me Jabinski.

The sustained and lingering humor made one have to leave, for fear of laughing one’s self to death.

Yep, you’re right. Under a pen name, Jeanie eventually became a Bizarro writer.

Displaced Snippets of Bayonne Page 163

#43- My Murder

By the time you read this I will be dead. I have been deliberately infected with a killing cocktail which has no known antidote. The virus is supplemented by the collateral damage of a lethal dose of sarcasm. My “crime” was to be lazy, apolitical, avaricious, and a critic of social media. Or maybe it was that voting fraud thing.

Maybe I can start my story in the middle. This is where it is of most significance to you, though not necessarily to me.

For me the significance is only in that with no help from Mueller, I confirmed that Putin’s people are not trustworthy.

In the 2016 US Presidential election I cast 37,500,000

votes for Donald Trump; targeting the swing states. Yes, it was me. It was not the unemployed, not the Religious Right, not the racists, not the misogynists. It was me. No one except Special Agent Yetbipe, or something like that, knows. Use some of your common sense. All the polls predicted a wide-margined Clinton victory. Now there are various unsatisfying theories about what happened. What happened was me, me, and me.

And I have no remorse for the act. I got enough rubles to buy a condo in Hackensack. The unexpected cocktail is another story. And it makes no sense. I mean if Yetti, as I had gotten to affectionately call him, wanted me out of the way, he should

Displaced Snippets of Bayonne Page 164

have done it quickly. No, instead he left me alive for a few days so that I could tell everyone about it. Duh? Goddam stupid Rooskies. Mark my words; that shithole country will go belly up again

Ah, screw them. Now it’s all of this for me. I privately informed Herr Robert, and he complied by indicting someone outside of his jurisdiction. Some asshole in Kaliningrad, Novosibasibirk, Nizhny Nanunanuvgorodoburg, or some shit like that what makes Hackensack look like Paradise. By the way, my wife got those curtains and we’ll no longer have that dumpster view. And it wasn’t even Yetti. Herr Robert did kindly recommend that I see a good, democratic doctor. But, while I was on my way to DC, I .......................

Displaced Snippets of Bayonne Page 165

#44- Joanie, Joyce, and My Hanging

I’m really not sure, but I must have been about 15. It was a typical year; publicly hanging around the neighborhood sharing tall stories with the other assholes; and privately thinking about suicide over the lack of a girlfriend.

My prayers were answered. Out of the blue love came bursting.

Sort of. ....... Not really. Joanie Vitrioni apparently got less interested in her biology homework and started to consistently frequent the candy store she lived above five minutes after I got there.

The scenario might become more apparent to you when I disclose that Joanie was one of those girls “with a nice personality.” But, that’s not entirely it. It’s difficult to explain. I like girls with nice personalities, for one reason because I prematurely realized that no one was going to ever confuse me with Clark Gable or Johnny Depp.

And that’s not to say that Joanie was bad looking at all. She was a bit chubby, which is actually a plus with me. She was half Irish and freckled which is a neutral. When girls were still wearing dresses she wore tight pants and had an ass that seemed to shift ten pounds from cheek to cheek with every step she took.

So, you again wonder what was wrong with Joanie, and I don’t know, but at the time had some reservations I no longer recall.

Displaced Snippets of Bayonne Page 166

The only thing I can imagine now was that I was probably as stupid as all fucking hell and wanted to be depressed.

No bullshit, Joanie really had a thing for me and it would show all the time, especially when she’d gaze up at me in admiration, and ask me questions about myself.

Maybe that was it as I never liked talking about myself until in desperation I tried writing this book. After a few days of this adulation I suspected that she might be goofing on me with the;

“Oooh, what is it like to have so much talent?” horseshit. It was either that or that her mother always stood out in front of their apartment building in a housedress, armed with a broom, and weighed in at about 300 unwashed pounds.

It didn’t first occur to me, but Joanie’s mom was the Irish side while her dad was Italian; until my mother noticed us together a few times and chose that time to subtly inform me that girls often turned out just like their mothers.

I did my best to get that picture out of my head; but no matter what I did to my bean, that unwanted image stubbornly remained like Marley’s ghost.

Joanie and I were together about two celibate months, when I finally said that "I've had it." It was an interesting experience in retrospect as it was the only time it wasn't the girl doing the leaving.

Anyway Joanie was bawling and all of that and when 300

Displaced Snippets of Bayonne Page 167

pound Mrs. Vitrioni found out about it she came looking for me and found me by the pinball machine with a few guys. She waddled into the place as fast as a mallard with a dog on its tail. With her non-broom hand she grabbed me by the collar, proceeded to lift me a foot off the ground, pinned me against the wall, and gave me some advice. In my elevated position, eyes imitating a startled cricket, and as scared as I was the time we got all those cockroaches in my room, I heard her quack; “If you ever again start following my Joanie around again ........ “

I briefly considered issuing a point of order at this point as the way I saw it Joanie was following me, but I politely held my tongue while the other person was speaking. “I’m going to pants your skinny ass right out on the street and shove this broom all the way up it, bristles first. You understand me?”

Well actually I was having a bit of difficulty in visualizing how that can be done bristle end first, as it would seem that they’d splay and inhibit it from getting all the way up. But, I figured that it might be possible with some KY, so I just nodded a somewhat vigorous “Yes.”

Mrs. Vitrioni then turned around the Queen Mary with no small difficulty and waddled back toward the door. Now, it is worthy of note to point out that off-screen, Bald Head George, the owner of the candy store and supposedly a twenty year military veteran on a pension was too busy dicking around with

Displaced Snippets of Bayonne Page 168

his ice cream canisters during Mrs. Vitrioni’s assault to get involved. That was the first time that I gave some consideration to the rumor that some military people have brains. As soon as Mrs. Vitrioni successfully sidewayed her ass out the front door, George came over to me and with fire in his eyes said; “I don’t want no bullshit in my store. If you got a problem with somebody take the shit outside. Next time this happens you’re banned from this store.” I guess that since he didn’t ask any question he didn’t want any answers. So, I made no reply and Bald Head George went back to dicking with his ice cream canisters, head down, and shining in my eyes.

You might imagine my consternation; 1) The other guys there were laughing their asses off about me and making some sort of crude jokes about the size of my asshole which will forever remain in posterity; 2) I really didn’t give a zephyr force raspberry about whether or not I had access to George’s crummy fucking candy store or not and considered him quite a presumptuous fellow; 3) I was obsessing about the degree of filth on Mrs. Vitrioni’s broom; 4) I was figuring that my ass and her broom were destined to meet, as if I was Joanie and I was one day in a really bad mood and wanted to see something humorous, I’d tell my mother that Ed was bothering me again; 5) The Marquis de Sade was right in saying that no good deed goes unpunished; and 6) I was probably unduly disturbed that I was

Displaced Snippets of Bayonne Page 169

beginning to feel more attracted to Mrs. Vitrioni than I ever was to Joanie.

Up until then it was this way for me. Joanie was quite fine, but I just didn’t feel that special thing for her. It was nice that she was there when I had no other girlfriend; especially since I already knew that girls were weird; in that they tend to do things in twos; even going to the bathroom. And girls who might not like me when I’m alone are more likely to like me when I’m with someone else; as it’s some kind of reverse approval or something. Anyway, that was the theory some unremembered girl told me during the course of a brief, yet torrid intellectual relationship; but my non-liason with Joanie must have been the exception to the case.

I mean I really tried and have always been depressed that this didn’t happen. For practice I used to think of her when bathing, and that wouldn’t work as her image would morph into that of her mother. And by then the water would be getting cold, and my mother would be knocking at the door asking; “What are you doing in there so long?” What the hell did she think? And now it was worth another shot as I was starting to get fantasies about Mrs. Vitrioni; 300 pounds right on my face. Goddam. I was very confused.

Displaced Snippets of Bayonne Page 170

Since Mrs. Vitrioni never did her broom thing on me I took that as evidence that Joanie really loved me. If I had to do it over again, and with uncanny hindsight, I’d have just married Joanie and spent a lot of time munching and waiting for the mother-daughter things that would soon be happening.

Sometimes I still cry over having been so shy and backward back then.

Displaced Snippets of Bayonne Page 171

#45- A Fish Story

“Gawumpki Brothers Fish Emporium” occupied the lowest level of a three story apartment building on transitional 15th Street and Avenue C since before anybody was born. I’d be over there sometimes, but most often had to look away from Gawumpki’s when I’d see the bowls in the windows populated by little fish floating at tank top.

No joke, I found this extremely upsetting and would have liked to have torture-killed all three of the Gawumpki brothers whose criminal inattention allowed this to happen.

When I got a little older I saw things differently. There was no way the Gawumpki’s were making a living by selling little fish for nineteen cents apiece, especially with the declining market value for the floaters. The place was a money laundering operation for the mob. Logical, inevitable, well-positioned, yet still on my stupidly depressed days, a suitable candidate for protracted and painful Gawumpki death if I could only figure a foolproof way not to get caught.

Displaced Snippets of Bayonne Page 172

#46- Going Down the Shore

If you've seen a map of New Jersey you might have noticed that there's a lot of shore bordering the Atlantic. But, believe me much of it is not the kind you want to go down to. The water’s okay when the garbage doesn’t wash up on the beach, though when it does it kills off the clustering jellyfish.

Despite its convenience, many Jerseyans from other parts of the state never go there. With small exceptions, in the summer it is populated by loud, wasted kids, and sundry other undesirables. In the off season months the hotels and motels house loud, wasted welfare recipients, undocumented aliens and sundry other undesirables.

But if you insist and think you are an adult, you might want to google some “research,” and hope that the first ten spots have not been purchased by the lying purveyors of cheap summer “fun.” Just one hint; verify the advertised distance from the boardwalk that “affordable” motel claims or you might wind up next to the Jersey Devil in the Pinelands.

Back in the day of the pterodactyls teenage guys would break up with their girlfriends for the summer so that they could check out what was playing down on the shore. I always thought that this was a really shitty thing to do and vowed that I never would act like that. I would do the best I could for my

Displaced Snippets of Bayonne Page 173

girl. Of course this was speculative as I never had a girlfriend. But, if I did .....................

Anyway, one miraculous year I did have this girlfriend named Helen Protokowitz. In senior high school year we'd go to movies sometimes. So, true to my word I didn't break up with my movie mate when summer came.

She broke up with me and went down the shore.

Buncha sluts; I swear to God. And then they wonder why guys treat them so badly.

Displaced Snippets of Bayonne Page 174

#47- Joanie II, her Pals, and her Daddy Joanie II showed up on 17th Street accompanied by too female pals; one of whom approached me to inform me that Joanie II liked me. Thrilled and desperate. Joanie II didn’t speak, but merely moved her head regally around extracting worship and compliments. This was fine with me until the game remained the same for the third month. I was worried that Joanie II might be mute.

I was running out of suitable avenues of worship and compliment, and was seriously considering; “That’s a great Jesus medal you have between your tits.”

Since they blame their mothers for their inordinate compulsion to feel pretty, I rarely would say that one was not.

And Joanie II was, though its degree was probably a bit less than her “worship me” attitude. Her top always seemed a bit large, not for the reason you might first think, but because she seemed disproportionately top sided due to slightly bowed legs and feet which were too big to fit into high heels before the days of specialty transvestite shops.

She’d really get on my nerves sometimes, but would only visit Bayonne weekly, by which time I had returned to being depressed and suicidal, consequently glad to again see and worship the mute. It’s a vicious cycle.

Displaced Snippets of Bayonne Page 175

In retrospect the best thing that happened was when one of her pals brought over a battery operated phonograph and I heard Hendrix for the first time. I forgot her name, but I started to like Ms. Phono a bit more than Joanie II after getting over her short hair, but #3 told me that she was “special” and that I ought to fuck off or something like that.

I like to think that #3’s candor had something to do with her replacement by Winnie’s older piss faced sister. It wasn’t only a matter of the piss, she didn’t talk either. So, it became like a mausoleum as the only ones left capable of speech were me and the special one I wasn’t supposed to talk to. Sartre could have done wonders with this scenario.

Winnie’s older sister was short, never smiled, never spoke, and whenever I said something she’d curl her mouth like; “How stupid,” making a face comparable to the one made by someone nauseated and on the verge of a hurl. You may have guessed that eventually she became a college professor; of English.

Joanie II’s mother called to inform me that at this point it was appropriate for me to be grilled by her dad. She kind of instructed me to be at their Newark apartment two-ish Saturday afternoon. She hung up before I had a chance to confirm that I was available at that time. But, despite a few tentative conflicts, I decided to put them on hold as I thought it likely

Displaced Snippets of Bayonne Page 176

that this appointment would be necessary for me to continue to be a beneficiary of Joanie II’s largasse.

At a time designed to be fashionably 12 minutes late I took the buses necessary to get to Newark, having to transfer at Journal Square in Jersey City. I got to their apartment approximately as calculated and Mrs. Krupinski silently let me in and ushered me into the kitchen, offering me one of the cushioned, bent wire chairs. My thoughts immediately became Art Deco shaded.

After sitting a minute or two Mr. Krupinski came in with a Bud in hand, wearing his best Boxer draws. I wasn’t sure if I had overdressed.

This was my first father grill, and since my parents never taught me any of the protocols of courtship, I had made a few guesses about what would happen based on what I had seen on TV.

The father would ask the suitor what were his intentions toward his daughter. I’m generally a truthful person, but I figured it best not to tell Mr. Krupinski that. So, I had prepared using the St. Francis book they gave us in Sunday School and even had bookmarks in place to easily extrapolate nice quotes. I mean if the guy’s dumb enough to be asking those kinds of questions, he’s probably dumb enough to buy the shit in the St. Francis book. Right?

Displaced Snippets of Bayonne Page 177

He sat opposite me and told me that he worked hard to afford his family this comfortable four room apartment three blocks away from the closest nigger and something or other which struck me as being erroneous about how America values hard work, that it was good for you, and all that kind of garbage. He paused a second, as he must have realized that I may have seen a few on the way in, and added; “Yeah, we got a couple of those Hindus or some shit with the dots on the head. But, they keep to themselves and don’t bother anybody. And at Joanie II’s Ironbound Catholic Academy high school the goddam liberal archdiocese had recently commenced allowing in some niggers, but only the ones who could count above ten with their shoes and socks on.”

I think that he may have been attempting to be mirthful with that last one and I worked up a polite smile, even after having heard the same one about a million times about polacks.

But I was glad to hear him speak, as I figured that the longer he did that, the less time I’d have to fill up with how I intended to take Joanie II to church all the time, buy her topnotch rosaries, and share “All in the Family” with her without cracking up.

Regarding economic realities, you might well imagine that I was quite impressed as my dad had not achieved such things, and

Displaced Snippets of Bayonne Page 178

said something complimentary, hoping it wouldn’t be taken as obsequious.

We smiled at each other, and he got another Bud from someplace I’d rather not imagine, popped it open and slid it like a pro across the plasticized wood finish on the table, only spilling maybe 10% of it. I caught it like a pro and toasted him with a few swigs. You might be further enlightened that in that time it was okay for 14 year olds to get pissin’-pukin’ loaded on beer or whiskey, as long as they didn’t smoke that wacky weed, and god forbid that stuff which made you jump out windows.

Trying to infer my compliance with social norms, I said;

“Favorite brand.”

I tried to keep him talking by asking if he was a member of any union, and this proved to be a trickier question than I had anticipated, as Mr. Krupinski seemed cautious in saying that indeed he was, but went on to point out that it wasn’t one of those commie organizations which were antagonistic toward the business owners.

Perhaps wanting to take the focus off himself, Mr.

Krupinski then threw me what I considered an unexpected curveball. Rather than asking my intentions, he asked me some adult phrasing of “Head, ... er Ed, what do you want to be when you grow up?”

Displaced Snippets of Bayonne Page 179

I knew I was in trouble as I couldn’t rely on St. Francis and had to improvise something on the spot.

You may find similarities in the two questions, and I believe you’re right. But, to me it’s like one of those logic and set theory 15% set overlaps in the middle, but 85% different answers. I wanted some excuse to refer to my St. Francis book, but I figured that if I tried to explain why I was saying “I love all the beasts of the earth” instead of the related career plans, he just not quite get it. So, I had to wing it, my first thought the most truthful version.

To tell you the truth I hadn’t given it a whole lot of thought. When I discovered that I wasn’t going to be a professional baseball player, I figured that I’d graduate high school, have one more summer of fun; and then either commit suicide or get married, get a jackass job at the pickle factory or the equivalent, and fart around bill collectors, just like everyone else. In my free time I’d attempt to maximize the amount of time I was smoking and in contact with my wife’s soul kitchen, just like everyone else. ........ That might be better phrased.

Some instinct made me back off that one; so I substituted another truth, hoping that Mr. Krupinski didn’t interpret it as being upper middle class pretentious. I said; “I’m taking college preparatory courses and have gotten sufficiently high

Displaced Snippets of Bayonne Page 180

grades to ensure my acceptance at a number of second tier colleges, and I’m planning to hang around there until they stop drafting people into this Viet Nam debacle.”

Mr. Krupiski’s stare made me think that he took my goal as being a tad pompous or that it surprised him, hindering planned follow ups a, b, c, d, and e. His eye to eye silent stare intimidated me after a minute. I just had to break away, so I looked out the window at the Hopper clothesline, alley view. It was quite pretty and engaging and I tried to guess whether the clothespinned female draws were that of Joanie II or her mother.

Displaced Snippets of Bayonne Page 181

#48- Right Place Wrong Time- Skip This as it fell out of Another Stupid Book

The world was all green yesterday. I’m sure it was.

“Insonsolable.”

“Stop it.”

“Sorry. Wish I could.”

“The time is long gone.”

“Yes, inconsolable.”

“Dreams.”

“The worst.”

“ .......... “

“Looking for you. Always.”

“Gotta go.”

“Way out?”

“Follow the road. Right on Old Church.”

“Funny words.”

“The dogs call.”

“Vossy still here?”

“Yes. Cody’s gone.”

“The special one.”

“You well know.”

“I’m staying.”

Displaced Snippets of Bayonne Page 182

Sigh.

****************************

“Has its points.”

“What doesn’t?”

“In that mood again?”

“You tell me. Are you?”

“Off and on.”

“ ........ “

“ ........ “

“A DFW stasis?”

“A Franzen flip-flop.”

“How about a Saunders miracle?”

“Oh, back in the mood.”

“You tell me.”

“Off and on.”

“We’re just playing 2016 ennui.”

“Is that on Youtube?”

“Isn’t everything? Just gotta know the keywords.”

“Tough stuff. Names change.”

“We can try a few. In a rush?”

“Compared to what?”

“I think we switched sides.”

Displaced Snippets of Bayonne Page 183

“Sides?”

“Necessary parlance. Be on mine, I’ll be on yours.”

“Oooooooooh. ............. That’s a great line. Where did you learn it?”

“Neil Young.”

“Grumble.”

“Well, would it make a difference if I lied and said that I made it up? I want to be straight with you.”

“I don’t know. Anyway, the moment has passed.”

“ ........ “

“Look. I’ve been around the block.”

“Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

“Really.”

“Yes, really. The garden path is circular.”

“Been at the bend lately.”

To be continued. After all, it’s only 9AM.

****************************

“You had to wait until now?”

“It wasn’t my choice.”

“You could have done more searching?”

Displaced Snippets of Bayonne Page 184

“In the Canal Zone? Come on. The only thing I knew about it was that they were making a big hole somewhere. The only Panama I knew was Red.”

“When I was there I saw the red tide.”

Thinking the opposite; “You must have been mistaken.”

“You were near New York City.”

“Not Governor’s Island?”

“Hmmnnn. I went back there recently. My old building is still standing. I saw the windows I used to look out when I was little.”

“Oh, that’s when the bird watching began, I guess.”

“No. Not yet. Then I used to watch the boats and the tugs.”

“I wish I could have been there.”

“Most of the time I was reading my books.”

“Like me at that age. My mother taught me to read and would walk me to the library. I’d always bring back more books than I could carry. I was kind of alone, but didn’t yet realize it. I had more books than anybody.”

“I had more.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“Yes.”

Displaced Snippets of Bayonne Page 185

“My mother used to take me into Manhattan when I had to go to the dentist and I’d see all these big stores. Some had Superman comics. I’d insist and mom would buy them for me. I had quite a collection, but now it’s gone.”

“I never got into Superman. I used to get into some fantasy, ghost, sci-fi stuff and Batman. With all his faults and lack of super powers he seemed more real. ........ Oh damn. Can we stop this dancing? I love you. I dreamed of you before I ever met you.”

“Why do we have to get old?”

“I don’t know. I just know that we’re not dead yet; and the whole thing could go on for decades. I remember the first time I saw you. You were up on the levy walking briskly and pretending you didn’t notice me. You were swinging your arms so confidently I thought; ‘Look at this little rich girl. I bet she’s used to getting just everything she wants.’ You were wearing blue jeans which must have been four sizes too small.”

“I was being bad.”

“You were being beautiful.”

“Stop it.”

“I can’t. I wish I could.”

“This is in your head. I know a good psychiatrist. I’ve talked to him about this. It would do you some good ....... “

Displaced Snippets of Bayonne Page 186

“No. No. No. I don’t want a psychiatrist. I just want to find a way back. Salmon go against the current. Remember that day I first said that I loved you. You recoiled, your expressive face in shock, and a minute later you apologized for that. By the way, your face always gives you away and I love it. At the time, I tried not to show my hurt, and went into a slight divergence, telling you about that Alan Rudolph ‘Made In Heaven’

movie; feeling as if and also saying that we were the primary characters in it. In the movie, he risked oblivion for the infinitesimal chance that he would find her. In truth, it didn’t seem like any risk at all; as oblivion seems eminently better than living without her. I found some solace in thinking that I had met the minimum requirement of finally finding her; you; only you.”

“I remember. At the time I said; “If you’re looking for tranquility, it’s not me.”

“Yes. And at the time I wondered how you might have equated your existence to a changeable concept; thereby selling yourself short. Later that day I ruminated on ‘tranquility’ finding two aspects. I took your word about things and while I cried I also was able to conclude that I was being detrimental to you, and vowed not to make it worse.”

“After having time to reflect, the next morning I had wine rather than coffee, and unlike the recent me, I dressed in

Displaced Snippets of Bayonne Page 187

clothing which accentuated my female attributes; as if I was again a high school girl at the prom no one invited me to. You were already there when I came down the road. When you saw my car, you hesitated a second, then turned away, walking downhill toward the river. I realized that you were respecting the wishes I had said; but not the wishes in my hidden heart. At the same time I loved and hated you for that. I blew my horn continuously and you turned back and waited. You’re so damn shy that sometimes I’d like to just slap the infuriating shit out of you; at the same time knowing that your shyness is something which attracts me; also being shy, thinking I know the dynamic myself.”

“I was encouraged and also scared. It was just us there that early summer morning. The sun had not even yet set foot on the highlands of Rio Rancho. You bounded over as if there had never been a yesterday. I don’t remember exactly what anyone said; until with seemingly genuine concern, stupidity, and possibly a shy subterfuge, I gave you a lecture on the dangers of alcoholism. Can anyone be more of a nerd?”

“Only me. There I was with five pounds of padding stuffed into the bra under the tight sweater I hadn’t worn since high school rejections, hoping this guy would find it irresistible to not cop a feel. When he didn’t do that, I felt undesirable, like I always have, exacerbated by when he didn’t pounce; jackass him

Displaced Snippets of Bayonne Page 188

resorting to some sort of lecture about the self-interest inherent in propriety.”

“Because I love you, my primary concern was you; always was and always will be; no matter the outcome; and I do know that this feeling is also one which is self-serving. All I can possibly say, is that I truly believe that were it not, I’d have it anyway. It’s a feeling dammit; not a scientific study. There is no way to test that. ................ That day will always be with me. Had I a second chance, I’d have tried to overcome my deep seated fear of rejection and done it differently. ......

Forgive me. For one thing it’s really hard to speak of this.”

“I love you too. Didn’t you know? All those hints must have been noticed. All the metaphors led in only one direction. All those questions I asked just as we departed, were a last minute shy design to make you think of me until the next.”

“Yes. I considered that, and shy me unfortunately prevailed. It’s kind of hard to say, but, not that it was any huge number, but it was easier with them. You were the most important, and as a consequence I guess I tensed up and did stupid things. It was so important to me to get it right that I got it wrong.”

“Two shy people don’t have a chance. It’s so unfair. God got the whole thing wrong.”

Displaced Snippets of Bayonne Page 189

“I remember the first time I heard you say that. We hardly knew each other at the time. I was completely thrown; and wondered why this girl was confiding this in me. Of necessity, I had settled into a comfortable life or death with no considerations other than those theorized in economic textbooks, supplemented by an early Dylan depiction of reality. It was no fun, but it was easy and efficient, with no chance of heartbreak.”

“Yes. Where I went in my turnaround at 35. It took some time. Back to school. I could no longer stand teaching those second graders, when I knew I’d never have one of my own.”

“That’s a thought which has passed through my mind that I want to get out. I can’t stand it. Like the day I found you sitting and crying at river’s edge. We were just getting to know each other better and we were flirting as best we could. The day before I thought that it was fair to tell you that I was married, details too convoluted to add, so that you could proceed or not with all information possible. Then, the next morning, I saw you crying, blaming some paint ballers, and I was forever lost.”

“Bringing this stuff up just makes it worse.”

“Yeah. ......... See any more red tanagers? ....... Umnnn.

Sorry. Read any good books lately?”

“Nabokov.”

Displaced Snippets of Bayonne Page 190

“’Ada?’”

“Love ‘Ada.’”

Displaced Snippets of Bayonne Page 191

#49- Bayonne Hits Big Oil; then Lets It Slip Through Their Governor’s Fingers

In the much later year of 2015, depending upon the reader’s predilection for cohesive time or not or my regard or disregard for it depending, during one of our weekly phone conversations, my mother was as usual telling me the Bayonne news. But, rather than that which was of the insanity-copping-pleas/travails of small time local hoods I went to grammar school with, it was big stuff this time. There had been a state-filed lawsuit against Exxon, which if having any legal validity, stood to make every past, present, but not necessarily future Bayonne residents millionaires; or at least free from the bi-weekly stench which gave rise to the local breathing mask industry.

After again complaining that the “Bayonne Times” had been purchased by the non-local idiots at “The Jersey Journal,”

stationed all the way over in the former pig farm town, but still stinking Secaucus, she added that they never get Bayonne right anymore.

It’s a bit disconcerting at first, but you get used to it after a while. 91 year olds have a strange sense of time. That

“purchase” was actually affected in 1971 when mom was 46, but it still seems recent to her; and it’s best to just not make an issue of it, under peril of laboriously re-counting every

‘significant’ Bayonne event coupled with their dates from then

Displaced Snippets of Bayonne Page 192

till now. It’s kind of cute, and has absolutely nothing to do with Alzheimer’s or dementia. The lady well knows her way home.

It’s just that at 91 years of age, a decade goes by as quickly as three months does for an eight year old. Hey! Einstein told you that everything is relative. So listen up to some science already.

I didn’t want to ruin her day, so I didn’t tell her the bad news. The “Jersey Journal” is owned by a private holding company called “Advance Publications,” which also owns newspapers and magazines in New York, Pennsylvania, Oregon, Alabama, Louisiana, Ohio, and Michigan; an apparent forerunner to Murdoch.

Her headline news was “Exxon Settles Nine Billion Pollution Case in New Jersey for Far Less.” In and of itself that is not all that unusual in legal cases, as plaintiffs customarily ask for much more than they would settle for. But, this one had a particular odor to it, or maybe that was the bay’s “perfume”

coming through the phone line.

Displaced Snippets of Bayonne