Leaving Newark Behind
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Leaving Newark Behind
The musty smell of moisture-laden
Cotton and wool upholstery
In 50s sedans
Produces an irrational
Revulsion…
Perhaps it was the
Motion sickness while
Listening to “Three Little Fishies”
Playing on the radio,
The smoke from
My parents’ L&M’s, and
My father’s press and release
Of the gas pedal again and again
For no apparent reason
On the ride from Middletown
To Manahawkin.
Sitting forward and opening the window
Did not prevent the release
Of gastric remnants
Along the Parkway.
A certain preacher on TV
Provoked revulsion too.
Why this man of God
Sent me reeling and running
In fear was a mystery.
For decades, I thought someone like him
Was the architect of my nightmares,
Until the family picnic
When secrets unknowingly buried
Poked through the surface
Of membranes to pierce my skull.
My unknowing had painted a portrait that
Vanished under scrutiny.
The knowing must be that
My parents left Parker Street
To own a house in the suburbs,
Like other families who formed
An exodus from cities
Once cars became the norm
And the GI bill, the prize.
The knowing must be that
The butcher on the corner
Was stabbed, and my parents were afraid.
There was a shootout in our backyard,
And my parents were afraid.
Men with machine guns went into
The warehouse on Garside Street,
Across from Aunt Rosie’s place,
And my parents were afraid.
The long walk down a dark hall
With curtains concealing scary monsters,
And the stern-faced aunt at the end of the hall
In a kitchen that smelled of pepper and egg
Sandwiches in olive oil stained bags
Was what scared me.
And then, while 7, 6, and 5,
Barbara, Janice, and I
Played on the sidewalk while two
Heavily-bodied, smiling strangers
Approached us on the street,
Offering Janice candy in exchange for a ride,
And our parents were afraid.
At the picnic 30 years later
I started the conversation
About the men, my cousin,
The sedan, and the candy.
Janice looked at me curiously,
But my sister’s response was
Unexpected,
Shocking,
Revelatory.
I was the one offered the candy;
I was the one heading for the car
Until my sister and cousin
Stopped me,
Saving my life,
Or so they said.
I denied their shared memory
Until their raised voices
Blended in harmony
To tell me my past was a lie,
My memory, a hoax.
It would take years to untangle
The slender strand of thought
That drifted
From knowing to unknowing.
There was no trauma
In the memory of candy
Or a ride offered by
Smiling gentlemen in suits.
There was, on the surface,
No trauma deeply suppressed,
And yet, the aroma of cars
And a preacher’s likeness
Held secrets.
The epiphany, late in arrival,
Suddenly pierced the membrane
That shielded the idea of it,
Though I’m not sure of its truth.
The trauma of aromas
And the preacher’s likeness
Didn’t come from the offer on the street.
It was borne of the dissociative union
Of frightened parents and lessons
To be learned by a little girl.
Well-meaning guardians,
Afraid of the darkness on the streets,
Assaulted my sense of being
And excised the event
Into the place of unknowing.
After the picnic, the preacher’s image
Ceased to cause a reaction;
He was now indistinguishable
From any man of any size or face,
No longer the symbol of a looming monster
Of which suppressed dreams are made.
But the smell of old sedans
Still has a visceral effect.
I guess that has more to do with
Listening to 40s songs
And gagging on secondhand smoke
While waiting for my father to pull over
So I could purge and pause
The ceaseless back and forth
Of his foot on the pedal.
