A Neighborhood Escapade
A
Neighborhood
Brawl
at Bram’s
Bar Folks at Bram’s
drinking and thinking…
…
Part Three
I shall
now inform our readers of an event which
had brought a brawl into the Mouse Trap, that is the neighborhood bar called
‘Bram’s’ back around 1972. I had come
fresh out of the war in Vietnam, Larry the boxer, Jennie now his wife, Karin,
John L’s wife to be, we were all sitting in a bar booth when it took place. You
must keep in mind, this is simply one of many brawls that took place back then
in that corner bar. I was perhaps twenty-five years old at the time. Larry being several years my senior, and
Jennie a year older than me, and Karin a year younger than me, and John, my
age.
John L., whom I had went to California
with, prior to going into the Army, in 1967—thereabouts—came through the front
door of the tavern, who drank a lot at the time, and had a few other bad
habits, like Johnny Cash in his younger day, if you get the drift, whom he and
I ended up in Las Vegas, in ’67, for less than 24-hours, thereabouts, I had to
pull, I mean hug and pull like a mule driver, him out of the casino, lest he be
brought up for charges by the casino officer who asked “Is he on some dope? Its
life in prison for that kind of fellow here!” I said, “No officer, he’s just a
happy go lucky sort of fella who won some money, and we had a long drive from
Southern California and we’re headed back to Minnesota, he’s bushed out tired.”
The officer looks at his winnings still sitting in the one-arm-bandit’s mouth,
and says, “Sure, all fifteen-cents of his winnings, get him out of here before
I call the real police.” So need I bear
out his reputation anymore for back in those late 1960s, it was irrefutable!
Well the early 1970s were not much different,
John came through the door like gangbusters at Bram’s, a hooting and hollering
as if he was back in Las Vegas at that same casino and won that same
fifteen-cents, thinking he won $1400-dollars, as if he won anything, he was as
if on a chariot race, and behind him was a good many Hell’s Outcast, a
notorious Minnesota motorcycle gang, and he looked like Lee Marvin in “The Man
who Shot Liberty Valance,” riding sideways drunk on his horse shooting up the
town. When something like this happens, it is wise not to take anything for
granted, and this night John and his companions were drunker than a skunk, he
was over-positive, obstinate, and egotistic. Not unusual for a drunk, any
drunk. Although I was a little more reserved in my drinking behavior, but I was
a drunk nonetheless, myself. We all handle drinking, a little differently, when
we get a little too much. Other than that, John was a great fellow, the life of
the party you might say, and he could be the death of it too. And he would back
you up if need be. He was a man also with more than one string to his elbow, if
you know what I mean, but mum lest I reveal too much.
As for myself, patience, a blow delayed
is not a blow lost.
Their dress, their manners all announced
that they were looking to cause trouble. John wild-eyed, red faced, cockeyed
drunk, all restless, with perhaps several of the gang members if not more, all
in the same disorder—
The barkeep, held a disturbed
countenance. It might be judged some powerful notion had had them come here.
Larry, Jennie, myself, and Karin viewed them with increasing curiosity. As did
Big Bopper, and Don G., and Gunner, and Rick G., were at the bar, as did the
barkeep now startled by their full appearance, and in general surprise, said
with impatience, “Leave, I’ve just alerted the police of your presence, they’ll
be here in the next ten- minutes.”
“We just came to drink,” said John, in a
slurred and hoarse voice.
“You’re already wasted,” said the
barkeep, to John “get out of here!”
Larry and I, and the two gals were
flatted by their rudeness and manners, John came towards our booth, perhaps
fifteen-feet away, leaned his arm on a chair, picking it up, threw it at me, I
blocked it with my forearm, gave him a grin. And then all around us, bottles
started flying, and chairs, and tables were turned over, glasses broke, glasses flying.
With a toss of her head, Karin apologized for John’s actions, the chair could
have hit her right in the face, had I not blocked it, and had I simply ducked. But
I knew that, and endured a bruised forearm for a week.
“He doesn’t know what he’s doing,” said
Karin. Which was of course obvious, or was she wrong?
The reader may ask, what kind of friend
was this John with such an atmosphere, in this case, towards me. Well I can
describe him, he was my age, a little heftier, perhaps more charming, more wild
when drinking, more daring when drunk, I was more serious, more earmarked in my
drinking, back in those days than John,
and a neighborhood hooligan with a more tempered character in that I didn’t
fight unless burdened to having to fight and then it was all or nothing, and
perhaps at that moment he remembered I had beaten up his cousin—which was all
or nothing, who tried to rape a girl, and he ended up in the hospital, and his
mother blamed me for excessive force in stopping the rape in progress. Well, enough said on that, be that as it may,
it was a long time ago, and that fellow I met in 1985, still cursed me for that
beating, never mentioning his own tragedy in the makings, and him using
excessive force over the girl, whom we shall call, Sandy, her rape that was
stopped, and her parents called me up, thanking me for stopping it. I do hope
the Lord overlooks that incident and a few more, but we are all guilty of such
unreasonable arrogant circumstances, at one time or another.
But as I was about to say, this is
exactly, how the boys, now men of Donkeyland reacted. John then stumbled over
to our booth, to greet us, saying, “Woops, I thought you were someone else…!”
And that might be true of this matter, perhaps I looked like diablo, and he
threw the chair thinking this, but I doubt it, yet Karin was concerned. And I
never held a grudge. Once John and I were in a small town in California, and we
were down with money, only having enough for a cheap hotel room, where
thereafter, having only $1.35 cents left, my car’s motor blew a piston, and we
had to parked it behind some gas station, and I told John I wanted to buy a
quart bottle of beer, and cheese crackers, and he said, “You’re local, that is
all we have!” And I countered with, “Then let’s get drunk,” and John said, “Two
people can’t get drunk on one quart of beer, you take it, and I’ll eat some of
the crackers, also, save a dime for the phone please!” So you see, John was on
one side of him was a fine friend, on the other, local like me, but in a
different more wild way; I think I was more calm on matters, he jumped the gun
more often than not. And I do not want to go on with this, it is another story
already written in a book called “Men with Torrent Women,” as is the story of
my dear friend, “Jerry Hino,” whom went to Omaha, Nebraska, back in 1967 with
me, and his wife Betty came a hunting for him, and brought him back home, I
lived with Jerry for six-weeks thereafter, trying to get a job and back on my
feet, Jerry now has passed on. Anyhow
let me go on with the original story.
The door of the tavern was left open and
a number of police dashed into the room, others were outside checking cars for
John, he was the number one enemy for the police this evening, and they were
creating a dragnet all around the bar and across the Jackson Street
Bridge. Larry and I, along with Jennie
and Karin, we all kind of grabbed John, took advantage of the tumult in the
bar, advanced to the backdoor, saw a taxi, flagged him down, jumped into the
backseat, Larry up in the front, and I told the driver to get moving, beat-feet:
but just then a policeman stopped us, told me to roll down the window, and I
pushed John to the floor, kept my foot on his back, and Karin told him to be
quiet, “Have any of you seen John L?” asked the policeman.
“Yaw,” I said, he’s in the back getting
into one of those cars,” we were now on the side of the bar. He gestured to an
officer friend rapidly to check the other cars leaving the bar’s parking lot,
and turned his full attention in that direction, and we zoom off making our
escape. And to my understanding, the police lost all trace of John at the bar
and thereabouts, of those obscure streets.
No: 1088/ 6-22-2015
For Jerry H., and Jim H., (deceased); John L., and Larry
L., and Karin and Jennie
And Gunner (alive and briskly); and Big Bopper (deceased)…
