Ford is still falling down the stairs off Air Force One, Patty Hearst is still nowhere
to be found, and Nazareth is still giving people advice on how to be a rock n' roll
star. The train has come to a screeching halt, the doors are open, and nobody here
ever found stardom along the way. Maybe if they were real lucky they got to be best
man in their brother's wedding at The Elvis Grotto in Vegas.
There are no windows in the Tower. No way to see the world outside whizzing by in
a hellish blur. This fact wasn't lost on me as I put the disc lock in on the Intruder.
As a young man I spent many a night in establishments just like this in the hills
of northeastern Pennsylvania. Places like Mary's Bar in Avoca, a small dirty coal
town where the smell of creosote permeated the night air, poker playing dogs looked
out over the back room pool table from a smoke darkened tapestry, as cops looked
the other way when we drank well past 2 am and left by the alley door. Springsteen's
"Darkness On The Edge of Town" oozed from the jukebox and beaten old men
sat there lost in the kind of hopelessness you get after your life's work and dreams
drown in the 80's "economic downturn" and endless 25 cent beers. As I cracked
the door open the air pushed the scent of stale beer and cigarettes to meet me. Rust
belt child that I was, for one brief shining moment I was home...I was home. 1999....12
years and 1700 miles have passed beneath these tired feet and yet I find myself in
Mary's again, but with an distasteful twist. I take a seat at the end of the bar,
hail my friend and order a Coke.
Being a physically large black man has always been a blessing in places like this.
They're gonna turn and look anyway, usually none but the truly polluted are gonna
take it much further than that. The bad news is that there's never a shortage of
polluted people in a place where the drinks are cheap. One made his presence known.
He sat there wickedly drunk and crawling all over the toothless barfly next to him.
First it started with,"hey man...how you doin'". For my part I was polite,
paying him just enough attention to get rid of him. It didn't work.
Next he began to drone on about how he fought in Vietnam....in 1977 no less! Still
I didn't bother to remind him that if he was in Vietnam in '77 his shrunken head
would still be on a post outside some hut in the central highlands with his genitals
tastefully sewn to his mouth (yes Rob, that visual touch is for you! I know how much
you like psych warfare). Finally, somewhere in his pointy little head he decided
it was time to start with the pillowcase talk,"hey, you know this is a white
man's bar?". I smiled and looked around, I found just what I was looking for.
The empty pint glass fell to hand quite comfortably. I lifted it off the bar, appreciating
its weight and clarity. Primitive men would have appreciated it in the same manner...what
a great close range weapon. One can just imagine the impact of it just below a man's
hairline. The smashing sound, the pained howl of the antagonist as glass drives thru
several layers of skin scraping skull, and the fleeting, "Sssssssssss"
of shards flying down the bar and across the floor. The pure visceral rush as blood
streams down into his eyes and he hits the floor clutching what until that moment
was a face unscathed. He says to me,"what, you gonna hit me with that?".
You really must appreciate alcohol's ability to help one see clearly. I searched
for the appropriate answer, one that'll sound good in court. "That's entirely
up to you", I throw back. Backed up with an icy glare, a look that fully acknowledged
our reptilian roots. This was one snake who'd soon be squirming on the floor in his
own blood. The gauntlet tossed, we were moments away from DefCon 4 and I was enjoying
it. At this point Aaron got involved, tossed the man out and the night went on peacefully.
You know Mary's should have been the same kind of place, but it wasn't. Should've
had the same ignorant characters, but it didn't...not really. Mary's clientele were
mill workers, miners, construction men, mechanics, etc. Beyond that they were Polish,
Ukrainian, Irish, Italian, Lithuainian, Croats, Serbs, and I never had a problem
with any of these guys. Hell, I know there were some bad dudes in there but I generally
never worried about it...even in 1986, when the economy was fucked up and you'd think
they'd be looking for all the traditional fall guys they could find. Yet here I am,
one more day on the road, learning lessons about people, and the times we live in.
Growing up I saw a different side of America than other black people. We were always
a small minority in the industrial towns of Pennsylvania, New Jersey, Ohio, Indiana,
and West Virginia. I was 17 when I walked into the Good Steer, sat down with my buddies
Joe Kovach, and Mickey
(I never knew his last name but he once wanted beat me up for playing around with
his girlfriend). I been walking into barrooms ever since. They still stare, but damn
few ever say a word.
This and other articles in the UTMC are reprinted with the permission of Big Dave.
Big Dave is a freelance videographer for local, national and international news sources
along with also being a rider of one of the biggest damn Suzuki cruisers ever made.
He rides 90% of the year, which is pretty brave considering how bloody cold it can
get where he lives. He likes to ride and write in his time off and loves nice women,
Earl Grey tea and apple pie. You can see more of his work by visiting his homepage
at: http://home.earthlink.net/~drenwick/,
or turning on the news. |
