For Jack-Again
North Adamsville teenage
hometown mucks break-out, crying to be broken out of, desperately crying to be
broken out of, aided and abetted by break-out musical sensibilities where the
message and the messenger were at one. And who were trying to break out of,
desperately trying to break-out of the piddle paddle language and the paddle
piddle beaten note formulae that had been solid gold guaranteed to thrill,
thrill to the marrow, every red-blooded generation of ’68 parent. The kids, well,
the kids fell asleep, fell transistor blazing asleep in the cool night dreaming
of adventure car hop hostesses, james dean shadow boys, and seaside lore
pillowed back seat fogged window noches siestas.
Only at that moment, just
that confused and unformed moment, break-out worthy or not, maybe unformed or
not, others were trail-blazing after all we were, truth, clueless as to how far
that music would take us, and how many acid-etched Dixie cup magic elixirs
would have to be consumed before the music died, died of old age, old age at
five or ten, and hubris, queen of the downfall night. And we danced, hampton
beach surf danced, high building new york city tenement danced, iowa cornfield
danced, some tulsa good night two-step
danced, rockymountainhigh danced, taos caverns ancient flame shadow
ghost-danced, and slipped in oblivion big sur danced, and danced, and died of
old age and hubris at five or ten.
That break-out by the way,
maybe not so much the physical break-out as getting mentally de-rutted, you know
box out, get ahead, go ahead, don’t make many waves, maybe a couple of
faux waves for laughs, nothing serious and not taken so, just kid’s stuff done
since kids eternity, get schooled, get married, get white picket fence housed,
make fewer waves, have two point three kids, make fewer waves, have them do
likewise and fade into that tepid splash apologetic wave of some long ago, ancient battered to
smithereens clam shell stone cold night at Adamsville beach edge. So, yes,
maybe not physical far break-out but far psychic break-out from small town,
really small neighborhood, irish neighborhood, and ever those don’t air your
dirty linen in public grapevine tap-tapping before the larcenies, adulteries,
christ, using the lord’s name in vain, and you know what and whose lord, and
worst, not church-going non-scared sacred heart parish show-ups that had the
“shawlies” in a stew, gone done.
Gone, strangely gone,
that minute anyway gone, as well was
last year’s beat, really faux-beat style- which played to the rubes (and
inflamed the ”shawlies”) AND fit very nicely, very nicely indeed, with midnight
Harvard Square journey haunts, but that was last year, and big cloud puff imitation james dean shadow teen angst and alienation was the style. So
gone also, like I said, this minute gone, were those all-weather, all-season
(yah, summer too) brown-checkered flannel shirts, those mandatory, Frankie
Larkin mandatory, king hell king of the schoolboy beat, ah faux-beat night,
black chinos, uncuffed, of course, and those hades-bent work boots, clodhoppers
really, although not gone, gone gone, those midnight sunglasses to protect
against angst, alienation and barbs.
New age aborning new look.
New minute look, so be forewarned. Multi-colored schoolboy jock, okay, okay, faux-jock,
jacket worn, raider red and black, black and red, some combination reflecting
old time glories, or promises of glory, won by default for long running service
and not for glory, not for glory but for slows, but keep that between us, plaid
shirt, all the possible shades of plaid if they exist purchased in the bargain
center, pre-Wal-Mart night by frugal Ma but for once she hit it right, slacks,
with cuffs, thank you, and loafers (sans pennies). Yah, strictly a college guy
and no more mister nobody from nowhere but a guy who fit in, and he did, all
the girls, all the blue-eyed, blond eight-million people weary Long Island
transplants, all the dark-eyed senoritas tired of their own backwater small
town grapevine whispers, all the Philly somebodies from somewhere out of a John
O’Hara high society novel, were crazy to “check out” this specimen, this talk
all night rap, rap irish boyo. And most
importantly, most importantly for this boyo, check out or not, they were all
not North Adamsville and shames, hidden desires and blunt candid-less-ness
Irish girls.
New inner look too, cool, not
beat cool but joe college cool, disaffected, looking off to far reaches and not
suffering fools gladly cool, learned at Humphrey Bogart’s knee and perfected by
some cat on a hot tin roof Paul Newman puffing madly to forget lost dreams of
youth but who knew, although the newspapers were full of warning, hell we were
going to live forever, cigarette, Winston or Marlboro, filtered, natch, just in
case, just in case we were not going to live forever, not by mortality but by
bomb boom boom in the cold war night. Yes, cool man jack cigarette, hanging
from off the lip at some jagged angle, drawn deeply in and circles and smoke
dreams created. More, amused girls also puffing to prove some equality, and
some reflected man cool in that sexed-up, sex- maddened free time.
And get this, a cup of
coffee, if coffee was the drink, black, black against all advise, black since
late schoolboy Hayes-Bickford Harvard Square drowses searching for that next
word, and the next break-out, literary, political, hell, even social, in hand,
a glad hand either way, look right, look left, a gentle nod, a hard stare, a
gentle snarl if such a thing is possible beyond the page. But mainly a look, a
look of cool distain, of remove, of next please in the never-ending look game.
Soon wearied of, very wearied, although not of looks, and glances.
One’s act, fitfully,
artlessly but rightly was thereafter moved onto Boston fresh streets, and a
little fame. Joe College minute gone, vanished like so much train smoke, and
bad dreams. Dressed in blue flannel shirt, blue denim, moccasins and midnight,
eternal midnight sunglasses, and dressed, ah, in freedom but no one saw that.
Finally, that one minute, no not fifteen, not fifteen at all, and not
necessarily of the fame game, local fame, always local fame but fame. And then
the music stopped, the crowds thinned out, the hardened Long Island transplants
kept looking at guys in multi-colored jackets (although not always red and
black), the Philly girls turned inward to their own crowd and began to dream of
stockbroker mansions and riviera suntans, and the dark-eyed senoritas only knew
of one night remembrances, and lust.
Then sunk in the abyss of non-fame, non- recognition and not seen
snarls, gentle or otherwise. A tough
life lesson learned, very tough. And not yet twenty.
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