Drinking and More

About six months after I started working at the Dairy, Dan H. hired another clerk who grew up in the neighborhood, Stan S. A bunch of us already knew Stan S.— or Sid or Stosh as we frequently called him — from McBride High School. Stan and I had been freshman class-mates, though in different home rooms. He had been quite a good athlete, making the varsity football team in sophomore year and in junior and senior years was the starting fullback. He might even have played on the varsity basketball team but he was a footballer through and through. He was short, about 5’8” at most, sporting a tremendous barrel-chest and weighing around 230 lbs. of rock hard muscle that used to explode through the line with the football. However, his greatest claim to fame was to serve as blocking back for Gus Otto, perhaps the premier male athlete to come from St. Louis, at least in glory days of our youth. Gus was a twelve-letter athlete at McBride High, a four-year starter at the University of Missouri football team as a linebacker and running back, and after that played for the Oakland Raiders for eight years, making All-Pro as weak-side linebacker. Talk about an incredible athlete.

Despite his size, Stan had an innocent face, complemented by sandy blond hair which almost made him look cherubic — almost being the operative word. At that time he was a sophomore at SLU, in the Business School. Sid was a very friendly, good-natured, likeable fellow. A genuinely fun guy to be around. In reality, he was loud, rude, crude, and possessed an earthy, boisterous sense of humor, especially when drinking, which was nearly every week-end night. In other words, he was a young man after my heart. Needless to say, we hit it off tremendously.

Almost immediately after meeting as clerks at the Dairy and realizing how much we had in common — namely McBride High, our admiration for Gus Otto, and going to SLU — he started taking me to neighborhood bars, particularly the ones where all his Polish friends and relatives hung out. Although Sid had a boyish look, his older brothers had been taking him to the same neighborhood bars for three or four years. By then, which was 1962, every bartender in the area probably thought he was at least 23 or 24 years old. So, when justifiably suspicious bartenders challenged my right to sit in their establishment and drink with real men, Sid would always respond with the same rejoinder: “Aw, for Christ’s sake, Joe, Bob’s six months older than me. Give ‘im a fuckin’ beer and let us alone.” Which was absolutely true. Only we both were 19 and not 21 or older. But Sid’s ploy worked every time. I mean, he had been a regular in those places for longer than anyone could remember so no bartender in the neighborhood ever challenged his right to drink, especially since that would piss off the entire hard-drinking clan.

Of course, I was terrified of being caught, at least initially. That marked the first time I drank in a public place. Sitting right up front at the bar itself before God and the cops on the beat. Right next to Sid as he stared down anyone who tried to give us a hard time. It was at once exhilarating and scary. For a while all I did was to nervously look around for the cop I knew was about to pounce on me and haul my underage ass to jail.

Then, one night, sure enough, with the two of us bellied up to the bar and properly shit-faced after almost three hours of Bourbon shots and beer chasers, in came two cops, as big and mean looking as in the cartoons. And who should they walk straight up to but Stosh and me. My heart was beating a wild fandango I thought everyone in the bar could hear. To my horror they sat at the bar right next to me. The one closest to me turned and stared right through me and said something to the effect that I didn’t look old enough to be drinking.

Just before I wet my pants in abject terror, Sid leaned across me and punched the cop in the arm and said, “Mind your own business or get the fuck outta here. We’re not botherin’ anyone.” I thought I was going to shit right there. Then Sid laughed and said, “Hey, Cuz. Where the fuck you been? I ain’t seen you for a month or two.”

I nearly fell off the stool in pure relief. Not only did it turn out the one cop Sid’s first cousin but both of the cops had been in Sid’s brother John’s wedding a couple years back. Grateful for my good fortune, I bought them a shot before they went back into the dark night. Although that was a close call, never, in the next two years as underage youths that Sid and I drank together, did a bartender in the neighborhood refuse me. Not if we were together.

That time marked the beginning of my misadventures with alcohol. To say that I drank too much was putting it mildly. Many the time I would leave a bar after several hours carousing with Sid and the next thing I’d know I’d be pulling into my driveway at home. And couldn’t remember how I got there or even the streets I took on the journey home. Luckily my stomach was a lot smarter than I and took over when it judged I had had too much and forcefully rejected whatever evil fluids I had consumed. So I spent many nights hunched over the white porcelain god, offering the type of libation so familiar to 19- and 20-year-olds.

One Saturday night after we got off work, Sid invited my younger brother, Bill, and me to Mickey’s Lounge for a few beers. By that time I was 21 but Bill was only 17. Naturally, my brother was scared as a rabbit running around the yard with a big dog on his ass. But, not to worry, Sid and I promised we would take care of him. At Mickey’s, which was on Hebert Street only three short blocks from the Dairy, we sat at the end of the bar closest to the front door. Sid and I ordered beer and Bill asked for a Coke. Sid snorted his contempt at Bill’s drink selection and told Mickey, the owner, who happened to be working the bar himself that night, to shit-can the Coke and bring Bill a beer. Mickey stared at Bill with the practiced eye of a bartender who’s seen it all, laughed, and winked at Sid. I’m sure Bill was so nervous he could have thrown up right then and there.

We had had at least two rounds when Bill leaned close to Sid and whispered, “Say, Stan. There’s a good-looking blond down at the far end of the bar. The one sitting with those three other gals. She’s been giving you the eye and trying to get your attention for ten or fifteen minutes. I wonder if she’s a whore.”

Sid leaned forward and looked down the bar. “Which one?” he asked innocently.

“The pretty blond next to the tall dark-haired one. See, she’s waving at us now. Maybe she wants to screw you.”

Sid looked me straight in the eye without expression. It was almost impossible for me to keep from choking on my beer. Without another word, he waved at the young woman and called out, “Hey, Pat. Come down here. This guy wants to talk to you.” She immediately got up and started walking down to where they were sitting.

Bill nearly shit his pants, “No Stan, no. Holy shit! I don’t want to . . .” He turned to me and asked, his eyes as wide as saucers, “What’s he doing? What, what . . .”

Just then the blond came up to us with her arm around Sid’s waist. She paused and kissed him full on the lips. I leaned over and planted a kiss on her cheek and said hello. A huge smile broke over Sid’s face “Pat, I want you to meet Bill, Bob’s younger brother. He saw you coming on to me and thought you might be one of the local hookers.”

Of course, Sid and I couldn’t hold it back any longer and broke into loud, raucous laughter, pounding the bar as Pat exclaimed, “A hooker! You think I’m a hooker?”

She hauled off and gave Bill a solid shot on the arm with her fist, nearly knocking him off the bar stool. “You shithead. I ought to kick your ass into the street.”

She wasn’t pissed, just having a little fun at my brother’s expense. Imagine Bill’s total embarrassment when Sid told him that Pat was his fiancée and they are engaged to be married in six months. It was a real hoot. Poor Bill wanted to crawl into a hole. I never let him live that one down.

I was a groomsman their wedding party and had a great time. I escorted Sid’s older sister, Liz, who at 23 years old must have had an eye for younger meat because she and I really hit it off at the reception, which was a traditionally Polish party, wild and drunken. Unfortunately for me, I invited Sandy as my date and couldn’t get as friendly with Liz as I wanted. San and I had been going out for several months then. She made a few choice comments about the way Liz was hanging all over me when we danced together so I had to cool it. And that was it for sweet Liz.