One of the bartenders rings the bell, and a unanimous cheer from the crowd rattles the windows.

Eight beer taps are thrown open simultaneously as we scramble to shove plastics cups underneath them.  One hand yanks the full ones out, while with the other hand we shove the new cups down.

We’ve done this before and the pace is relentless.  The customers are experienced too, and they know what’s expected . . .

With their own beer secure, customers seated at the bar use a free hand to start the plastic cups moving.  Behind them and all around them there’s literally a sea of hands waiting.

There’s a row of hands reaching through any open space they can find, and another row reaching out above each seated customer’s head.  A third row of outstretched hands reaches over the second row — all those hands trying to grab free beer.  Everyone keeps one for themselves (some will take two), but the rest of the tilting cups are being passed all the way to the back of the room.

“Pass ’em back!” we yell, “Pass ’em back!  Pass ’em back!”

It’s free beer!  For the next hour — it’s FREE BEER!  With the jukebox blaring, the crowd is loud and raucous, and everyone is having blast.

This was my first bartending job, when I managed The Mug in Cortland, NY.  It was part celebration, part promotion, but giving out free beer is still one of my craziest bar memories.

Several key factors lead up to the free beer — it was a Perfect Storm involving the times, and a unique set of events and people.

First, there was my age, and outlook.  I was a couple of years past my 21st birthday and still thinking and acting like a college kid.

I’d dropped out of school, but I was still living at my frat house, Beta Phi Epsilon.  I was running a college bar and on nights off I’d be out at some other college bar, drinking.  I didn’t want to miss anything.

The second factor was the guy I worked for . . . a man I’ll call Tony G.

Without Tony G, there would never have been free beer.

Tony owned The Mug and several other bars in the small town of Cortland, . . . but his real business was pinballs.  He ran a company that distributed pinball machines, cigarette machines, jukeboxes, pool tables . . . anything with a coin slot that was welcome in a bar.

Tony did pretty well.

He did so well that if some owner was going out of business, Tony would buy the joint just to keep his pinball machines in action.

That’s why he’d purchased The Mug.  At The Mug, Tony had a cigarette machine against the wall when you first walked in, and on the right there were four large arcade machines where you could simulate being a race car driver, or a submarine captain trying to blow up ships.

On the side wall there was a row of six standard pinball machines.  There was a foosball machine in the middle of the front room, a jukebox between the men’s and ladies’ room doors, and a pool table in the back room.

That’s fourteen machines with coin slots, and on weekends the college kids would feed their quarters into these machines all night long.  There was never a moment that these machines were not in use, as quarter after countless quarter was dropped into them.

Yup, Tony did very well with his pinball distributorship.  And what did this mean for me, as the manager of one of his bars?

Listen to this . . .  when Tony first asked me to take over the place, he told me that all he wanted was to break even on the bar.

“I’ll make my money from the machines,“ he told me, “You just have to run the bar without costing me anything.  Pay the rent, pay the staff, buy the beer . . . everything has to come out of the registers.”

“As long as you break even on that,” he said, “I’ll be happy.”

That alone is ridiculously sweet for any manger, but when The Mug actually began to make money, . . . when there was a mound of twenties left in the safe at the end of the month, Tony was ecstatic.

From that point on, I could do just about anything I wanted.

The staff and I never paid for a drink, and sometimes our friends didn’t either.  “It‘s good for morale,” I told Tony.

Sometimes I‘d send free kegs of beer to the fraternity.  “It‘s good promotion,” I’d tell Tony, “They‘ll think of The Mug next time they go out drinking.”

Once, I gave everyone in the place a drink on the house just because Cortland State had won a big lacrosse game.

What did Tony say?  “Look, I told you to break even, kid,” he said while puffing a cigarette, “You’re way ahead in my book . . . if you think it’s right, just do it.”

That’s when I decided to give out free beer to everyone, starting with the clang of a bell.  I knew I could do this without costing Tony a dime.

That was the third factor in this free beer puzzle . . . the cost of the beer.  I’d switched all our taps to Pabst Blue Ribbon because our salesman, Skip Kibbee, was running a promotion.  When you bought five kegs of Pabst from Skip, you got one additional keg free.  It was called “one on five.”

I’d order 15 kegs the first week, holding off on my free ones, and then order fifteen kegs each week for the next two weeks . . .  until the fourth week when I’d collect all my bonus kegs.  By that time it was 9 free kegs of beer.  Every fourth week, the deliver was free.

Now Tony loved me, and he didn’t even blink when I told him that I’d be pouring free beer for an hour every time the Cortland State lacrosse team won.

That was the fourth factor in this Perfect Storm of circumstances — the free beer was to celebrate college victories.

Cortland State always had great lacrosse teams, and that year they were beating some of the NCAA Division I giants — teams like Penn State, Navy, Cornell, and  Syracuse.  A lot of my Beta frat buddies were on that team (like three-time NCAA All-American Paul Wehrum, Rocky Conte, and Paul Cody) — and others were guards at the games, or worked the ticket table.

The previous year, all the bars downtown were packed after each home victory, but because The Mug was at the far end of Main Street it hadn’t been as busy.  That’s why I decided to do a free beer promotion.

I made up a handwritten sign, about two feet high and five feet long, that said:

“After CORTLAND’S VICTORY there will be FREE BEER at THE MUG!!!”

I had my fraternity brothers hang the sign on the front of the table where they sold tickets to get into the game.

It was madness at the bar after Cortland won.  We waited until the crowd was whipped into a frenzy anticipating free beer, . . . and then we rang the bell.

The place went nuts.  I watched the full cups of beer, lines of eight at a time, zig-zagging their way toward the back.  The cups were held high as they were passed over everyone’s heads, sloshing and spilling as each wove its way through the sea of people.  (More than one young customer got an unexpected bath of beer as an occasional cup tipped completely over.)

“Pass ’em back!  Pass ’em back!”

I saw one kid with his eyes closed and a big smile on his face, holding his beer high in one hand.  Trapped in the crowd — spinning slowly in a circle as everyone squeezed by — he was enjoying all those young coed-bodies pressing against him.

It was madness until the bell rang again, and the hour was over.  I remember the floor shaking as the crowd stomped and cheered, applauding what had just taken place.

That year we gave away free beer after every Cortland State lacrosse victory — fifteen of them in all.

It’s something I’ll never be part of again — at this stage of the game, that’s the last thing I want to do . . . run a college bar.

And the times have changed.  Today there’s more focus on liquor liability, and most states now have laws that make “free beer” illegal.  There’s increased alcohol awareness . . . even liquor companies nowadays caution people to “drink responsibly.”

Where would I find an owner as flexible as Tony G,  . . . or a salesman’s promotion where the bar gets one free keg for every five that are purchased?

Nope, . . . for me it was a one-shot deal, an odd merging of the times with a unique set of events and people.  It’s not going to happen again, not in any bar I work at now, and that’s probably a good thing.  But I do have to say, at that time and place . . . serving free beer was a blast.

(Editorial Afterthought):   According to GoDaddy’s statistical analysis, this post drew more visitors than any I’d previously written —  readership immediately TRIPLED.  I thought this blog was going viral!

I was just about jumping up and down!

Then I figured out what was behind the sudden popularity.  Read that story here –> “FREE BEER, part two (A moment in the sun”).

Last Sunday at Johnny D’s, the afternoon Blues Jam ended early to make room for our Grammy Awards party.  (I actually enjoy the Grammy’s — yes, it’s an awards show, but there’s a lot of great music with performers I might never see otherwise.)

So this week I decided to write about the Grammy winners we’ve had at the club . . . looking especially at the way they influence what it’s like to tend bar here.

Take the Dixie Chicks (who came to Johnny D’s every year before they won their first Grammy.)

When the Dixie Chicks played you would have thought it was New Year’s Eve — everyone was in such a wildly festive mood.  This was a chance to see one of their favorite bands, the musicians on stage only an arms length away.

(I have to digress for a moment to retell one of my favorite stories about the Dixie Chicks at the club.  Just before one particular show, I was walking downstairs to the club’s business offices on the right, when the door on the left at the bottom of the stairs opened slowly.  I expected to see Dana or Charlie, one of our scruffy-looking booking agents coming out of the band room — but as I got to the last steps, Martie Mcguire walked out.

I stopped in my tracks.  She’d taken me by surprise, and she was so beautiful.

“Hi,” she said smiling, “How you all doin’ . . . ?”

My mouth was open, but no words were coming out.

“Ahhh . . . Umm . . . Ahhhh,” I said.

She smiled again and walked past me up the stairs.  I felt like I was twelve years old.)

Anyway, back to my main point.

When the Dixie Chicks played (it struck me then, and again today as I’m writing), everyone was always in such a great mood at these shows, it was surreal.  When do you have 300 people in the same room so united in their enthusiasm?

I began thinking . . . it actually starts at the door, with the cover charge.  Every customer pays $10, and for national acts sometimes as much as $15 or $20 just to get in . . . who does that with a smile on their face?  Not someone with a chip on their shoulder, only looking for a place to start trouble.  Not someone who just wants to get totally fucked-up.  Not someone who wants to wallow in their misery, crying in their beer.

At Johnny D’s, the cover charge effectively filters these people out.  For shows like the Dixie Chicks, our crowd is here specifically to see that band, and 99.99% of them walk into the place in a celebratory, over-the-top mood.

I remember when Alison Krauss used to play at the club.  (We lost her, too, when she won her first Grammy; she’s up to twenty-six of them now.)

Alison Krauss made her first recording when she was fourteen, signing with Rounder Records (which was right down the street from Johnny D’s.)  The first time she played at the club, she was 19 years old, but she still looked so childlike on stage.

When she sang “I’ve Got That Old Feeling” . . . you could have heard a pin drop.  Then the place exploded with applause and cheering.

It was the same for every year for Irma Thomas.  People would come up and order their drinks as though they’d been invited to the Royal Ball.  Customers would gush, “Oh, I’ve waited all year to see her!  I LOVE her!”

(Some of you might not know that the Rolling Stones hit “Time Is On My Side” was actually a cover of the original R&B recording by Irma in 1964.)

The point I’m trying to make is that between the ticket charge acting as a filter, and the crowd’s enthusiasm for the bands performing, it’s not your typical bartending experience.

You know what it sometimes feels like working behind the bar — like you’re surrounded by tiny, swarming one-inch piranhas, and each of them wants to take a little nip out of your skin.  (Tales From A Bar recently had two nice posts on bartender burn-out.)

This is just the opposite.  Imaging working in an environment where everyone is not just in a good mood, but in a fantastic mood.  They’re so glad to be there, so happy to be enjoying the show that they treat us behind the bar like we’re their best friends.  (Which is the way it should be, isn‘t it?)

With shows like that, you’d rather be working than not.  I don’t know how many times Jeremy Newcomer (one of our best bartenders) has asked to switch a shift because there’s a band playing that he wants to see anyway.  He figures if he’s going to be here, he might as well pick up some extra cash while enjoying the show.

There are some shows where I think half the staff might work for free.

I remember when Emmylou Harris, Mary Chapin Carpenter and Bruce Cockburn played at the club for a Landmine Free World benefit.  Tickets started at $50 each, and there were also $200 tickets that included a five course meal and seats right in front of the stage.  I heard that there were $1000 tickets (donations) that included some personal face-to-face time with the performers.

Some of the regulars at the club were local musicians who couldn’t otherwise afford to see the show, so they volunteered to work.

They bussed tables, carried food out, and one even ran the glass washing machine in the bar back station . . . just to be there.  (It was strange to see  local singer-songwriting icon Tim Gearan in a white shirt and bow tie, picking up glasses.)

It’s like this . . . at Johnny D’s a couple of weeks ago, Booty Vortex was playing.  In the middle of a rush I found myself caught up in the song they were performing, “Funky Town.”

“Won’t you take me to . . . Funky Town?  Won’t you take me to . . . Funky town.”

I stopped in the middle of the round of drinks I was making.

The original “Funky Town” starts out sort of techno, the vocals are light and translucent — but that night, Kit Holliday (her red hair swinging wildly) was belting out the tune with such a big, ballsy R&B style that it grabbed you by the shirt collar, lifted you up in the air with both hands, and swung you back and forth to the beat.

I stopped and listened in the middle of the rush, thinking how lucky I was to be working.

Grammy winners like Luther “Guitar JR” Johnson and Asleep at the Wheel, Maceo Parker, Lonnie Mack.  Local bands like Sarah Borges, Beatlejuice,  and of course Booty Vortex — I have to thank them not only for their great performances, but for their effect on the crowd.  Their music can soothe that otherwise sometimes savage beast.

(This post comes from a bunch of notes scrawled on cocktail napkins at The Lark Tavern. 

In those days I also volunteered an overnight shift each week at Refer Switchboard, a 24-hr crisis center half a block from The Lark.  One night I’d come to work directly from a counselor’s meeting, where our resident psychiatrist Ron Kurtz had pretty much taken me over the coals.

Behind the bar, I was thinking of all the rebuttals I wish I’d thought of a few minutes earlier.  I began scribbling on cocktail napkin after cocktail napkin.  Here’s some of what I wrote down, roughly organized now . . . )

I keep thinking about what Ron said:  “You don’t trust the world . . . . you view the world as hostile place.”

“You know he’s right, don’t you?” Stacey asks as we work behind the bar, “That is the way you look at things.”

“What are you talking about?” I respond.  “It’s not the way I SEE things.  The world IS a hostile place!”

Not all the time, and that’s not all the world is, but it certainly can be . . . don‘t you agree?

Listen to the news.  Drive an ambulance and spend all day patching up victims.  Take a walk alone and late at night in a bad section of town.  Do you feel safe?

Ever hear people say how much they love winter, the quiet enchantment of a fresh snowfall?  I think winter is a hostile environment.  Stand outside for a few days in the cold and snow, . . . you’ll die.

First you have to protect yourself – with warm clothing, hot toddies, and a crackling fireplace – then it can be beautiful.

That’s how I look at the world.  It’s not a damn bed of roses.  I guess it’s something a guy thinks about more.

A man and woman walk down a dark street and a threatening figure emerges from the shadows.  Does the woman step in front of her male companion to protect him?  That’s the guy’s job.  Who wants to feel like a little boy protected by his mother?

Every young man at some point faces this part of being male – there are times when you have to take a stand, or back down, and then live with it.

I grew up with a step dad, and we didn’t get along.  I really don’t remember him ever hitting or paddling me, but he must have . . . because I have a clear memory of the last time he was about to hit me, and didn’t.

I was in the first or second grade, and I’d done something wrong.  He stood in front of me.  “I’m going to have to punish you,” he said.

I didn’t like the way he said it.  He wasn’t my real father.  I resented that at any moment he could just decide to spank me.

“Which do you want to be spanked with?” he asked.

He was holding two pieces of wood left over from the construction of our new house — a three-foot piece of 2×4 in one hand, . . . and in the other, a thin strip of plywood, maybe a couple of feet in length, less than half an inch thick.

He stood in front of me with one in each hand.  “Which one do you want?” he asked.

I understand now that a strip of plywood stings more.  How hard was he going to hit me
with a 2×4?  And on the butt?  That wouldn’t hurt half as much as the sting of the plywood.  I realize now that he was using the deadly look of the 2×4 to trick me.

I didn’t know this as a child.  I just looked at the 2×4, and imagined broken bones.

“I want that one,” I said, pointing to the 2×4, “Hit me with that one!”  I hated him, and I wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of seeing me be a baby, taking the easy way out.  I was scared, but determine not to back down.  “Hit me with that one!”

He looked confused.

“This one is really going to hurt,” he said menacingly, moving the thick slab of wood in one hand.  “I’d choose this one if I were you,” he said as he lifted the thin strip of plywood.

“I want that one,” I pointed again to the 2×4.  “Hit me with that one!”  Standing in front of him, I was barely able to keep myself from crying.  “You gave me the choice, and I want that one!”

He looked at me for a minute, and then it was over.  He turned away and told me never to do it again, . . . whatever I had done to make him angry.  But he never again hit me, or spanked me.

In grade school I wasn’t really bullied by anyone, probably because at my school in the rural area outside Syracuse, everyone was a neighbor.  I was a quiet kid, small, and I wore glasses.  I’m sure there were some mean kids, but I guess they didn’t think I was worth their time.

I was in one fight in grade school.  I was beat up by a girl.

In fourth grade, Mary Luchsinger and I were arguing about something when she hauled back and punched me in the nose.  She was a tough kid.  She had three older brothers and they all lived on a farm.

I stood there with my nose bleeding.  I came up with something like, “I won’t hit you back because you’re a girl.”

But I remember thinking, . . . “Man, that hurt!”

Everything changed in Junior High.  With the first classes, the other elementary school in our district added their kids to our school, and that introduced the boys from the more city-like suburb of Nedrow.  There was the expected jostling between them and us.

I was about to open my school locker one day, but three guys from Nedrow stood in my way.

“I need to get in my locker,” I gestured with a smile.

One of them leaned forward and glared at me.  “Why don’t you say, Pretty please?” he asked.

I looked at them.  This was ridiculous.  Surely we were more mature than this.  I waited, hoping they would step aside.

“Say, Pretty please,” the guy repeated, smiling.  The other two grinned with him, like they’d just come across a piece of freshly-frosted cake.

“Come on,” I said.  “Enough is enough.  Let me get in my locker.”

He stood in front of me, arms folded across his chest.  “Say it,” he told me.  “Say, Pretty Please, or you don’t get in.”

I looked at the three of them, and they looked at me.  I thought about it.

“Ok,” I said finally, “Pretty please.  Are you happy?”  They all turned away and walked down the hallway, laughing.

It only got worse.

One afternoon in a civics class, the teacher was telling us about people who posed as doctors, promoting fake cures.  One of the kids pointed and said loudly that I looked like a quack — and everyone burst into laughter.  Even the teacher laughed out loud before she caught herself.

After that, every time our paths crossed now, those guys would lean toward me and say,
“Quack, Quack!”  “Quack, Quack!”  And walk past laughing.

I wanted to change schools.

I had two friends back then — Bill Molloy lived one house further down Makyes Road and Barkley Tate lived on Griffen road, behind our house, over the hill.  I felt safe when they were around, but if it was just me and those Nedrow guys, they’d laugh and call out:  “Quack . . . Quack.”  “Quack . . . Quack!”

One afternoon I was at my locker when one of boys who had made me say “Pretty please” came over.  He leaned against the lockers next to mine and watched as I fit in the key.  By now I knew his name was Roger Buckley.  As I opened the locker door, he grinned.

My heart sank.  I was alone.

Then something snapped.

I turned to him.  “Do you want something?” I asked.  “You have something to say, Roger Fuckley?”

He was startled.  His head snapped back on his neck.

Suddenly I was so angry.  The last time they made me say, “Pretty Please.”  How could I let them do that?

“What would you like, Roger Fuckley?” I asked.

“Don’t say that!” he scowled down into my face.

“Roger Fuckley!” I said, “Roger Fuckley!”

“Shut up!” he said, fists clenched, “You’re looking for trouble!”

“Roger Fuckley!” I said, “What are you going to do about it, Roger Fuckley?”

It was just the two of us and I didn’t care.  He must have sensed this and turned away,
walking down the hallway.  “Don’t ever call me that again,” he said over his shoulder.

After that, there was no more “Quack-quack” as I walked down the hall.  But I worried
this might be the lull before the storm.  I was worried about a big confrontation with these guys.

I was saved in a way by my best friend, Barkley Tate.  These guys picked on Barkley too, and he’d gotten into a fight with Steve Haumann.  Steve was one of Nedrow boys, later an All County lineman on our football team.  A big guy.

Barkley whooped him pretty good, knocked him down a couple of times until Steve finally said quits.

Barkley’s parents let him subscribe to Ring Magazine.  When he asked, he parents had given him a heavy punching bag for his birthday.  We hung it from a rafter in his basement and spent hours punching that bag.  We imagined ourselves in the ring fighting for a world championship.  Barkley had two huge pairs of boxing gloves, 16-ounce gloves almost like pillows, and we’d spare on his sloped backyard.

I guess I got better faster than he did, because the last time we sparred I knocked him down three times within a minute or so, and we quit for the day.

Now Barkley had beaten Steve Haumann, and when the guys from Nedrow asked him if he’d ever been beaten, he told them about our afternoons sparring.  They didn’t bother me anymore.

The only real physical confrontation I had in high school, other than sports, came during
my senior year.  One of the wannabe tough guys in school, a punk, took a swing at me.  I grabbed him, he grabbed me, and he got me in a headlock.  I reached under his knee, lifted him up in the air, put a half nelson around his neck and slammed him down on the hall floor.  He was still lying on his back, trying to regain his breath when one of the teachers pulled me off.

Later, a couple of guys the kid hung around with watched warily as I walked by.  “He
picked him up like he was a fly,” one of them said.  It was a wrestling move — if you know what you’re doing and they don’t, there’s really nothing to it.

Anyway, those were the two physical confrontations I had while in school.  I was beat up by a girl, and caused a stir by lifting someone in the air.

In the spring of my senior year I ran into the boy who had made me say “Pretty Please.”   I was walking down the hall and saw some guy coming the other way, looking at me strangely.  I didn’t recognize him at first but as he got closer, I realized it was him, . . . the kid from the locker in Junior High.  The one who did the talking.

I didn’t care about that now, but he had a tentative look and when he saw the recognition pop into my face, he shied away, moved further to the other side.  His eyes darted nervously as we approached.

What did he think, that I was on the wrestling team now and was going to punch him?  We passed on opposite sides of the hallway, and I felt bad for him.  He was a thin kid, not tough looking at all.

As we approached I thought about saying something like, “Hey, no hard feelings . . . we were just kids.  How’s it going?”

But by the time I’d thought of it, we’d already passed by.

Sal’s shop was just down the street from The Cantina Italiana.  Sal was one of our regulars at the bar.  He was a tough man who had grown up in Boston’s North End, all the local wiseguys were his friends . . . but he wasn’t a gangster himself.

Sal made his living selling meats; his shop had the best cold-cuts in the city.  Thick slabs of imported Culatello, Mortadella, and Capicola hung from strings behind the counter.  All day long people lined up to pick and choose what they wanted in their sandwiches, or to take home.

Sal decided that he should also sell slices of pizza.  There was a small pizza shop directly across the street, and Sal was tired of people buying a sub from him, then leaving to get their slices.

I remember stopping at Sal’s shop and seeing the new pizza oven from Chicago, still sitting in its large crate in the back kitchen of his store.  “I should have done this years ago,” Sal told me, arms proudly folded across his chest.

Sal’s shop was a family business and his 15-year-old daughter was often behind the counter after she got out of school.  One day she was in the store by herself when a shaky junkie walked in with a gun.  The guy put the barrel of the gun to Sal’s daughter’s head, and demanded what was in the register.

Sal immediately rushed back to his shop when he heard, and after checking on his daughter, he went ballistic.

I remember he stormed into The Cantina looking for Joey Cigars (Joey was a reputed mob guy — click here for a story that took place after this happened.)  Sal was so pissed and red-in-face I thought his head was going to explode.

Joey wasn’t there, so Sal went down to the coffee shop looking for him.  He stood at Joey’s table screaming at him for allowing something like this to happen in the neighborhood — not what I’d recommend, but Sal had known these guys since he was a kid.

“What are you doing?” Sal screamed at Joey, “This is the way you run the neighborhood?  A guy puts a gun to my daughter’s head . . . IN THIS NEIGHBORHOOD?”

“Go home,” Joey quietly told Sal.  “Calm down and go home.  Someone will be over to see you.”

Not long afterwards there was a knock on Sal’s door.  A guy standing there told him the name of the junkie, and where he lived.

“The cops will be picking him up in a couple of hours,” the guy told Sal, “You’ve got a couple of hours.”

“Don’t kill him,” the guy said.  “Do you understand . . . don’t kill him.”

Sal called a few of his buddies and they took off in two cars to the junkie’s apartment building.  There was a cab outside the building when they got there, the motor running and the guy’s girlfriend already inside it.

They saw the junkie run out of the building and hop into the cab, but before it could pull away, one of the cars screeched up in front of it, blocking their escape.

The girlfriend jumped out one side and started running, but before the junkie could get away Sal and his friends grabbed him.  They had guns.  They threw him against the side of the vehicle.

“Don’t fucking move!” Sal screamed.  He held a gun against the side of the junkies’ head.  “DON’T YOU FUCKING MOVE . . . I’LL BLOW YOUR FUCKING HEAD OFF!!!”

Sal and his friends hustled the guy into the back seat of one of the cars.  As they barreled away, three of them were beating him while they tied his hands and feet together with thick rope.

They were driving back to one of their homes in the suburbs.  On the way, they drove across a bridge that passed over Route 93, an eight-lane highway.

They stopped on that bridge.  Someone had an idea for using the remaining rope.

They tied one end of the length of rope securely around the guy’s ankles, then they dragged him out of the car.  The others motorists on the bridge were honking their horns and swerving to avoid this car haphazardly parked on one side.

They dragged him to the edge of the bridge, and lifted him over the railing.

The junkie was dangling from the bridge at the end of the rope, with all the traffic speeding by below him.

He swung back and forth by his feet over the highway.  His mouth had been taped with duct tape, but even from above they could hear his screams.  He was so terrified his pissed himself; his pants were soaked.

Sal and his buddies pulled the guy back up over the railing, stuffed him into the back seat, and continued to the suburban home.

Once there, they took the junkie down to the basement.  They sat him on his ass, untied his hands, and then retied them behind him around a pole.  They took off the guy’s shoes.

Then they sat at a folding table in the basement and began playing cards, and drinking.

The guy’s chest was shaking with his sobs, which were still muffled by the duck tape.  Tears were running down his cheeks.

One of Sal‘s buddies got up to take a piss, and he stopped in front of the junkie.  He bent down to pick up one of the shoes, and then he whacked him across the face hard with the heel of the shoe, once on each cheek.  “Whack!!!”  The heel of the shoe hit one side of the guy’s face.  “Whack!!!”  Then the other.

After that, anytime one of them got up to go to the bathroom or get another drink, on the way they’d stop to pick up one of his shoes, and hit the guy hard twice in the face with its heel.

They did this for over an hour.

The guy curled into a whimpering ball, the only thing holding him up was the pole.

Finally they lifted the junkie up and drove him to East Boston, the Hispanic section.  They untied his hands and feet, and dumped him out of the car with the front of his pants still wet.  He was stinking of urine, and barefoot.

When I first heard the story, I figured Sal was in serious trouble.  Later it turned out that the judge was extremely lenient.  Sal got a slap on the wrist.  The judge considered the mental state Sal must have been in — the guy had put a gun to his daughter’s head.

Sal got a suspended sentence.  He didn’t spend a day in jail.

“Gotta walk on eggshells for a while,” Sal told me later as I worked behind the bar at The Cantina.  “I’m on probation,” he said.

A week later I was surprised to see two new signs up in the front windows of Sal’s shop.   They were rectangular, white cardboard signs about ten inches long and four inches high, sitting at the bottom of each window.

It seems that one of Joey Cigar’s guys had come over to see Sal right after the judge let him go.

The guy told Sal that his cousin owned the pizza shop across the street.  “He’s not really my cousin,“ Joey’s guy told Sal, “It’s on my wife’s side.”

“Personally I don’t like the guy, but what can I do?” Joey’s man said, “It’s my wife’s cousin.”

He told Sal that he hoped he would think it over before starting to serve pizza.

“I hope you don’t do it,” Joey’s man told Sal.  “Look, you’ll be doing me a favor . . . just stick with the cold cuts.  You don’t want to put my wife’s cousin out of business, do you?”

The next day those two new signs were up in Sal’s front windows.  The sign at the bottom of the left window said “NO PIZZA!” — and the sign at the bottom of the right window said “NO PIZZA!”  The signs remained there for several months.

No pizza.  That unopened crate with the pizza oven was shipped back to Chicago.  But Sal continued to have lines of people waiting for his cold cuts, and no one ever bothered his shop or his daughter again.

My apologies, but there won’t be a regular post this week.  I’m behind once again.  Starting next week I’ll be dropping one shift on the bar, no more Thursday nights — so hopefully I’ll be able to still make a living, keep this blog updated, and work on my New Year’s resolution.

Next scheduled update is January 20th, but in the meantime here’s a recent photo from Johnny D’s — it’s our good friend Al, with some of the staff and regulars.

This crew was out bar-hopping in Davis Square — Brendan and Brooke, Dave, Jeremey, “Chombo”, Val and others — when they stopped into Johnny D’s.  They ended up hanging out with Al, sitting in his usual spot, and Val said, “Let me get a picture of the guys.“

Al is eighty-five-years-old, but as my coach Archie Goodbee would say, he’s still spitting fire.  He may not be as quick on his feet as he used to be, but he’s still mentally sharp, always walking into the club with the current edition of The New York Times under his arm.

We try to have his Jim Beam Manhatten (straight-up, dirty rocks on the side) waiting for him by the time he reaches his bar stool.

Al is content to sip his drink and read the Times cover to cover.  Sometimes he’ll be on his cell phone as we walk by, talking with one of his four kids, or eleven (I think he once told me it was eleven) grandchildren.  Sometimes he’ll bring his new iPad with him, and surf the web.

It’s hard to explain, but anyone who works behind the taps will understand — Al is just one of those guys you enjoy having at your bar.

Al minds his own business as  he orders an appetizer and switches to white wine, but it’s surprising how often he ends up in conversations with customers sitting on either side.  Al is inclined to talk about the bands that are playing, or current affairs, but I like to steer him to talking about the old days — when Scollay Square was hopping, and all the dance joints that they’d frequent.  Or back to the days when they’d all go to the North End and The Cantina Italiana, decades before I would work there.

Tom Brokaw called Al’s generation “The Greatest Generation.”  Al lived through the Great Depression as a young boy.  He built submarines during WWII, raised a family during The Korean and Vietnam Wars, and like most Americans was shocked and angry when John F. Kennedy was assassinated.

Al is a “been there/done that” type of guy who doesn’t need to tell you about it.

He’s done his job — and done it well — for his country, his family, and himself.  Now he just wants a comfortable place to stop at and relax for a while.

Always good to have you here, Al

Be back on the twentieth with a new post.