A Fistful of Fig Newtons (6 page)

The Margate Elephant still stands, distinctly Jersey, radiating elephantine vitality; dignified in the W. C. Fields manner, yet
slightly mad, a true Jersey work of art rivaled only by the Flagship, which decade after decade has sailed bravely upstream against the traffic on Route 22, its steel flanks rakishly cutting the potholed concrete, forever heading toward the Lincoln Tunnel bound on its own sinister voyage, currently carrying its cargo of cut-rate furniture.

The Flagship could very well be the Margate Elephant of the twenty-first century, with committees of earnest, fluttery ladies circulating petitions for its preservation as a “historical monument.”

There is something different about New Jersey. What it is, is difficult to define, but as a student of Jerseyana I can only describe some of its vague outlines. Jersey, we all know, has replaced Brooklyn as the subject of stand-up comedians’ gags, everywhere. A comic in a nightclub in Zagreb, Yugoslavia, can get an instant laugh by just belting out, “New Jerseyanski!” and rolling his eyes. The audience collapses, most of all any New Jerseyites that are in the crowd.

It has been said by official pundits that you can take a man out of New Jersey but you can never take New Jersey out of the man. How can you best describe this mythical Jerseyite?

First of all, there’s his driving. Sullenly reckless, lacking the kamikaze verve of the Californian, he is the world’s most dogged and dedicated tailgater. Any time I am a thousand miles from the state, driving along innocently, and a rusting Plymouth Fury lurches out of the blackness and clings tenaciously to my rear bumper, threatening to climb up over the trunk, I know without even seeing him that a Jerseyite is on his way to Disneyland.

He has learned his New Jersey driving eccentricities negotiating that distinctive automotive hell known as the New Jersey Traffic Circle. Totally unknown to most of the civilized world, New Jersey’s traffic circles stand alone in their Margate Elephant–like craziness. The first time I saw one I couldn’t believe what I was looking at. After a lifetime of driving in other parts of the country, with conventional staid overpasses,
viaducts, crossroads, stop-lights, etc., etc., suddenly I found myself going madly round and round, surrounded by hordes of blue-haired ladies piloting violet-colored Gremlins. In and out they wove. I passed my turnoff four times before I got control of my mind and was hurled out of the traffic circle by centrifugal force, back in the direction I had come. Good grief!

But now, after years of New Jersey life I have become a master of the Hackensack Hesitation, the Clifton Carom, the Lyndhurst Lurch, the Camden Creep, the Vineland Veer, and, of course, the Fort Lee Finger; all necessary maneuvers for a skilled pilot in the gay, mad world of Jersey driving.

Then, of course, there are other indelible Garden State characteristics. There is something truly lovable about summer at the New Jersey shore. Millions of sweltering Jerseyites packed chock-a-block into tiny wooden cubicles in a physical intimacy with one another that is rivaled only by the more densely packed districts of Calcutta. I once saw a happy New Jerseyite, clutching in his fist a can of Piels Real Draft Style beer, suddenly seized by a fit of sneezing in his Jersey shore cottage. In the next cottage the top of his innocent neighbor’s tuna salad sandwich flew off violently and lodged in the curtain rod amid the summer cottage cobwebs. That slab of Arnold Stone-ground Wheat bread caused much friendly snickering in the neigborhood and a lot of talk down at the local gin mill, which, of course, is decorated with plastic anchors, fake fish net, and for some reason a portrait of Woodrow Wilson done in needlepoint.

Don’t get the idea that I don’t like Jersey. On the contrary, I love it. And why not? Life there is never dull. It can be many other things: irritating, terrifying, but dull–no.

Take a friend of mine, an elegant, very social, much-monied doctor residing in a very lovely suburb in the Watchung Hills. For months he and his wife planned a summer gala; barbecued pheasant, cheese dips flown in from Switzerland, liveried batmen dispensing canapés from the kitchens of Maxim’s of Paris, the works.

The guests assembled on his lush estate, the rich New Jersey grass cropped to putting-green silkiness. Women were never lovelier, nor men more handsome. The Japanese lanterns flickered in the soft summer air, when suddenly, with no warning, what at first had appeared to be an approaching curtain of smoke struck, and within an instant the elegant party had disintegrated into a whooping, hollering, slapping mob. A vast formation of New Jersey mosquitoes, flying in echelon, had attacked with the deadly efficiency of a squadron of P-51s strafing Berlin.

Within moments the bedraggled mob, covered with lumps and scratching unashamedly, huddled in the living room, myself among them, taking solace in the obvious fact that Mother Nature bites and stings all men, rich and poor alike, especially in Jersey.

And there is something distinctly real about a phenomenon which I have observed and which I call here New Jersey Nostalgia. One night in a remote college town in Colorado (and no state could be more different from New Jersey than Colorado, believe me), I was wandering along a darkening frontier street when suddenly my nose detected the sharp, poignant fragrance of Home. My nose began to sweat in excitement as I dashed down the street, following the scent. I rounded a corner and there it was–BIG VINNIE’S NEW JERSEY PIZZERIA. There, nestled amid the taco parlors, the chili joints, and the alfalfa sprout dispensaries (Colorado abounds in health nuts) was the Real Thing; a pizzeria straight out of Camden or Lodi, or Jersey City for that matter.

An instant later I was inside, had ordered a rich slab of the Mother Food of New Jersey. Known to the pizza aficionado as a “Full-tilt Boogie,” it had everything: anchovies, sausage, green peppers, double cheese, onions, and the greasy thumbprints of Vinnie himself.

I was back home. Two sweating former Jerseyites manned the place for expatriots, their accents redolent of the Meadowlands. One shouted at me over the hullabaloo:

“Y’wanna bee-yah to go with it?”

“Yeah!” I hollered over the din.

“How ’bout a Rheingold?” he yelled back. “Real bee-yah, not like this Coors sissy stuff they drink out here.”

“They used to sponsor the Mets games,” I contributed at the top of my voice.

“Them were the days.” Vinnie smiled benignly as he shoved the beer toward me and nodded to a fading photograph of Bud Harrelson which hung over the cash register. It was signed To Vinnie, from a Pizza nut–Bud.

For a few moments I was back in the land of the Margate Elephant, the Flagship, the Leaning Tower of Pizza, Two Guys from Harrison, Route One on Saturday night–in short, the homeland.

Yes, there are times when I head west out of Manhattan at 4
A.M.,
hurtling through the deserted, spooky Lincoln Tunnel for an eternity, and then with a feeling of relief I spot the Light at the End of the Tunnel, and it hits me again. Yep, the Light at the End of the Tunnel that everyone is always talking about is New Jersey!

The light at the end of the Tunnel–New Jersey?

Awful thought! But then, maybe the Ship of State which Presidents are always threatening to pilot at last into A Safe Harbor could be the Staten Island Ferry, plowing through the murky waters of the bay amid orange peelings, 7-Up cans, and the occasional deceased Mafioso come loose from his concrete moorings at the bottom of the sea
.

Good Lord! Right above me a couple of those gunsels wearing cement sneakers could be stuck in the mud, looking down at me. Oh, ugh
.

I glanced to my right. Why the hell do I always manage to land in the slow lane? My lane had come to a complete halt. The temperature gauge crept over 200. Oh, God
.

I deliberately forced my imagination to rescue me from this dismal trap. Think uplifting thoughts, that’s the ticket. Truth. Beauty. Liberty. The one thing you don’t get in a tunnel–Liberty. A mental picture of the great statue flashed in my brain
.

Yes, the Statue of Liberty, as awesome a piece of Slob Art as the Margate Elephant ever was, also stares out over the dark ocean’s waters. Was it the Statue of Liberty herself that set the whole
pattern for American tourism, culminating in Disneyland with its incredible transistorized Abe Lincoln?

Disneyland could only have been created in America. My country ’tis of thee, of thee I sing. What is it in our national psyche that makes us create Raggedy Ann and Raggedy Andy; the Emerald City and Fantasyland, U.S.A.? Nowhere else in the world do they build fake rivers filled with plastic crocodiles and mechanical natives hurling dummy spears at rubber rhinos, complete with little orange-and-yellow signs reading PICTURE TAKING SPOT so that this curious adventure can be recorded for those poor souls left at home
.

No wonder every Russian dictator who comes to our shores has an insane desire to visit Disneyland. They believe in Utopias too
.

The Utopia Complex has afflicted us from the day that the first American stubbed his buckled shoe on Plymouth Rock. A sad, hopeless dream very much like inventors ceaselessly trying for Perpetual Motion. It seems so simple. The wistful little slogans: WAR IS NOT GOOD FOR LITTLE CHILDREN AND OTHER GROWING THINGS: HONK IF YOU LOVE JESUS, are all by-products of Utopianism
.

Maybe that’s why Disney hit the double jackpot. He created one, in real, vibrant, living styrene and for a few hours, for a price (even Utopia has gate receipts), you are back in the world of good witches, ukulele-playing bears, and “real authentic” Penny Candy stores where the prices start at forty cents per jawbreaker
.

We can even imagine a Utopia for gaffers, where they have toy stock markets that always go up, transistorized octogenarians that play Vincent Lopez hits
.

No, Childhood itself is a Utopia to Americans. Childhood, in fact, is an actual place. Like any other place, it is wide open to the cruel jibes of we buffoons. If Jersey can take it without crying, why not Childhood?

Camp Nobba-WaWa-Nockee. Of course! I had not thought of it in years. I settled deeper into my worn naugahyde seat. The horn blasted again behind me
.

Camp Nobba-WaWa-Nockee …

“Camp Nobba-WaWa-Nockee. Boy, what a great name!” said Schwartz as we squatted down, tying sheepshank knots at a scout meeting. Troop 41 was scattered around the church basement.

“Camp what?” Flick asked, snapping his rope at Kissel’s bottom, causing Kissel to kick him on the knee.

“Nobba-WaWa-Nockee,” Schwartz answered. “Didn’t you see that sign on the bulletin board? Take a look. Tells you all about it.”

Flick, Kissel, and I read the notice: