[Old Philadelphia Bar on 7/9/17]
Note: This piece from 12/26/12 should have been in my last self-published book, Lost America, but I had forgotten all about it. I don’t remember much of what I’ve written.
In the 1980's and 90's, even a klutz like me could find work as a manual laborer. I painted houses, washed windows, cleaned apartments and offices. At my first house painting job, I propped a ladder upside down against the wall, don't laugh, but wasn't let go. Once I was so hungover, I had to climb down five or six times to throw up, and still wasn't fired. My boss, Joe LeBlanc, just laughed it off. He even paid me a full day's wage and told me to go home. When times were good, everyone made out OK and was more generous. They drank more, tipped bartenders more. After work, we often ducked into The Office, a skanky strip joint and certainly no “gentlemen’s club,” before heading to McGlinchey's for Rolling Rock and Jameson. At The Office, a black chick grinned, "I've heard you Chinese guys can have sex, like, a hundred times in a row?" I didn't have the heart to disabuse her of that invigorating and lovely notion.
Joe was a Canadian who had gone South to join the US Army. He fought in Vietnam, was dishonorably discharged, then just ended up living here, illegally. Days removed from the war zone, Joe shot at an Oakland street light. "Why?" I asked. "I don't know. I was just fucked up." A gun freak, Joe was erecting a dome dwelling in an all-white Kentucky county. He gave me an open invitation to come try his large assortment of assault rifles, but shit, man, I didn't want Joe to have some nasty flashback. Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Seeing me with an AK-47 in the middle of them woods, Joe might just dispatch me to Uncle Ho!
Like us all, Joe had his rough spots, but he was a very good man. He treated his grunt well and was willing to hire goofs or even fuckups. When work was scarce during winter, Joe lent me money, in envelopes stuffed through my mail slot, and twice he even said, “Forget about it,” when I tried to pay him back. Joe hired an old guy because he knew grandpa was hurting. Laura was rather large, so he had her paint first floor windows. Climbing a ladder, she would surely break it or her jiggly self.
Joe employed a guy so slow, he's nicknamed "Smooth." It's like seeing Marcel Marceau with a piece of sand paper. An alchemist, Smooth was committed to a unique cocktail of pharmaceuticals, so he died standing at the sink before age 30.
Tony had served 13 months for drug dealing. Going from Philly to Miami each month, Tone and his brother would take an Amtrak, but business got so good, they decided to buy a muscle car to make chicks drool. At some stupid traffic stop, they got busted. Pride comes before the prison loving.
Tony said prettier dudes in jail risked having their assholes slit with a razor, to make them slipperier. I incorporated this detail into a short story in my Fake House. Tony died at 35.
Anyone willing to be boss to such a lame roster is OK in my book, but like I said, times were good then. Everyone could find work.
I also knew Tumi, a German drifter who traveled strictly by Greyhound. Stiff and sticky, he could ride the bus for three days in a row. When not in Philly or rain dancing in North Dakota, Tumi was often in Santa Monica, where he slept on the beach. When broke, Tumi would stand in front of any paint store. Before too long, some contractor would hire him. Tumi needed just enough for his daily all-you-can-eat buffet, then beer in the evening. Born Ludwig, he became Tumi because he was somehow Muslim. Taking himself very seriously, Tumi often imparted bits of wisdom. "An olive, my friend, has as much protein as a steak." "A bone must take so long to make. So long!" Joe also hired Tumi.
Now, Joe wasn't running a charity, but a regular business. We didn't loaf and do drugs on the job. We actually worked our asses off, when we weren't vomitting from another hangover. Joe hired us because there was actually a shortage of labor, at least for shut-up-and-just-suck-it-up work. Now, you'll need a college degree to park cars or serve latte. Soon we'll have PhD's chirping, "Original recipe or spicy, Sir?" Or, "Would you like a Holiday Mint McFlurry with that?" Recent majors in Postmodern Linked Verse Deconstruction will be pole dancing. Trawling for tips, they'll ask, "I've heard you Chinese guys can have sex, like, a hundred times in a row?" To eat, you must flatter even those you can't stand.
It wasn't all Rolling Rock, scrapple and American cheese. Down to pennies, I’d run to Lee Goldston, whom I drank with regularly at McGlinchey’s. Lee dubbed himself President of the Associated Philadelphia International Company, APIC, but all it was was Lee with a bucket, squeegee, Joy dish washing detergent and some scrunched up newspaper. As a window washer, Lee was typically paid $5 per store, but much more for a 7-11 or church. Although these were his hustles, Lee always gave me half of the day’s take. Twenty bucks could keep me high on eggs, ground beef and cabbage for days. Once, I washed windows after appearing at a community college as a guest poet. Wouldn't it have been a hoot had admiring students seen me vigorously wiping water before it could freeze on a window pane? “Yo, isn’t that the poet who came to our class yesterday?!”
Last week, I popped into McGlinchey's just before noon to find it nearly empty. If lowlifes can't swill pissy beer for lunch, you know the economy is nosediving. "Where's everybody, Ronnie?" I asked the owner.
"Well, you're here!"
"But this ain't right, Ronnie. Where's everybody?!"
"I think people's drinking habits have changed, that's all."
"You sure it ain't the economy?"
"No, no. People just don't drink as much as they used to. Before, you never had people come into a bar and not drink, but now you do."
"What do you mean not drink? You can't come in here and not drink!"
"Well, you might have a table of four people, and one or maybe even two might not drink at all."
"That's ridiculous!"
"Or people will just buy beer from a store, then drink at their apartments. That way, they can also smoke."
"Oh, come on, Ronnie, people have always smoked weed!"
"I guess you're right. Maybe it does have something to do with the economy."
Of course, the economy is imploding. One of Ronnie's bartenders, Alia, told me that business was down by about a third. Many regulars who had come in daily, she now saw maybe once a month. Alia herself was cutting back, by eating out less. There was nothing positive about this economic mess.
For some business owners, it may be too painful to admit the obvious. They will latch onto "recovery" even as they sink and their neighbors go belly up. As Center City's dumpiest dive, McGlinchey's may be resilient. When swanky pubs go bust, their clientele, now not so flushed yet still parched, will drift over to settle into cushionless booths or onto ratty, leaning stools. "What's the beer special today? What's the cheapest you have on tap?"
No comments:
Post a Comment