The Clinton Street Run!

An old coot revisits a rite of passage.

By Merlin Lessler

(As written, but not published this way. Underage drinking is apparently not acceptable journalism. The "as published" version follows after this. It was published in Binghamton, NY Press Feb 4, 2018)

An old coot revisits a rite of passage.

By Merlin Lessler

 It was August 1959. I was sixteen. Standing at the corner of Washington Street and East Clinton, getting ready for the rite of passage: The Clinton Street Run. A brown felt hat was cocked at an angle on top of my head. The shirt I wore was white with the sleeves rolled up; a loosened necktie hung down just below an unbuttoned top button. An unlit Marlboro cigarette rested on top of my ear. It was everything I could think of to make me look older. To make me ready for the “RUN.” A fake “Senior” driver’s license was in my back pocket. It claimed I was 18, not sixteen, that my name was Jim Steel and I lived in Elmira. All lies! It was the one thing I couldn’t be without if I wanted to complete the ritual, and drink a draft beer in each of the 26 bars along Clinton Street. I’d made the phony license myself, getting a blank senior license from the license bureau (not called the DVM in those days) and placing my sister Madeline’s, legitimate senior license over it, inserting a piece of carbon paper between the two forms and running a pen over the official seal on hers, transferring it to “Jim’s.”

I wasn’t alone when I did the RUN. I’m not positive who was with me, after all these years, but most certainly two or three from the crew of my fellow travelers through our salad years: John Denniston, Matt Goukas, Tommy Conlon, Jim Wilson, Don Campbell, Wally Zagorsky, Woody Walls, Buzzy Spencer, Warren Brooks or John Manley. We worked up our courage and walked into the first bar, Bobby’s, and casually ordered a beer. Drafts were small back then, six or eight ounces and priced between ten cents and a quarter. Sounds cheap, but that was more than we ever spent on beer. Our usual purchase was three quarts of Topper, from Emmett’s Store on Park Avenue, the most popular place for south siders to make a buy. You didn’t need good proof there. I once tried my Social Security card. It looked official and Mrs. Emmett’s didn’t check to see if had a birth date on it. It didn’t. The bartender at Bobby’s didn’t blink an eye. He poured the beer and took our money. We were on our way.

The same held true for the other two bars on East Clinton, Viib’s and The White Horse. We were a happy team as we headed across the Clinton Street Bridge and under the railroad tracks to the Clinton Hotel. Our swagger didn’t win the day there. “How old are you girls?” the bartender asked, accompanied by snickers from the old geysers lining the mahogany bar. “Eighteen,” we replied in unison. One of our nervous voices squeaked high. Probably mine. We pulled out our fake proof and laid it on the bar, acting casual, hoping he didn’t notice our big nervous gulps. It worked. He set three beers with a big head of foam in front of us, but doubled the price. Smart guy. He knew what we were up to. Had witnessed this scene on many occasions. Had probably done the same when he was a kid.

Off we went. Back and forth across the street, bar to bar: Lynch’s, The Welcome Inn, Elmo’s Marble Grill, Andre’s, Muska’s The Lincoln Hotel, Pat & Mike’s Palace-A and finally to The Brass Rail, the fourteenth bar, one past the halfway mark. That’s as far as I made it. My Uncle (Paul Carns) was sitting at the bar nursing a boilermaker and nibbling on a pickled pig’s foot when we staggered in. He hopped up and came right over to me. The jig was up. The rest of my teammates fled out the door like rats from a sinking ship. He couldn’t let his 16-year-old nephew get arrested for both underage drinking and public intoxication? Especially, since his brother, (also my uncle) was Captain Carns, who headed up the Binghamton Police Department’s Youth Bureau. Fortunately, he never got to see the phony proof I’d used that night. 

I never did finish the Clinton Street Run, not in one night anyhow. I did, however, hit each of the remaining bars that summer, but only one or two at a time. I could brag that I completed THE RUN, I just didn’t mention the staggered process. Half the kids who claimed completing this Binghamton rite of passage were liars too. But, today I can truthfully lay claim to doing it. It took place a few weeks ago. The friend I grew up with since my infancy, Woody Walls, and I did it together. We started at The Old Union Hotel and finished up at the Brass Rail. The only bars still operating on Clinton Street. The Clinton Street Run is history! And, so are we 

This is the published version.

It was the summer of 1960, a time between my graduation from Central High School and the start as a freshman at Broome Tech. I was a teenager, standing on the corner of Washington Street and East Clinton, ready to start the Binghamton rite of passage, The Clinton Street Run. A brown felt hat was cocked at an angle on top of my head. The shirt I wore was white with the sleeves rolled up; a loosened necktie hung down just below an unbuttoned top button. An unlit Marlboro cigarette rested on top of my ear. It was everything I could think of to make me look older, so I wouldn’t get asked for ID at each of the 26 bars I was planning to visit. I couldn’t be without it if I wanted to complete the ritual and imbibe in a draft beer at each of those watering holes along Clinton Street. I was paranoid that I’d lose my ID somewhere along the route, so I made myself look older than I was.

I wasn’t alone when I did the RUN, but I’m not positive who was with me after all these years. Most certainly, it included several of my fellow travelers through the salad years: John Denniston, Matt Goukas, Tommy Conlon, Jim Wilson, Don Campbell, Wally Zagorsky, Woody Walls, Buzzy Spencer, Warren Brooks or John Manley? However many it was, we worked up our courage and walked into the first bar, Bobby’s, and casually ordered a beer. Drafts were small back then, six or eight ounces, and priced between ten cents and a quarter. Sounds cheap, but that was more than we ever spent on beer. Our usual purchase was three quarts of Topper (for a dollar) at Emmett’s Store on Park Avenue, the most popular place for south siders to buy the stuff. The bartender at Bobby’s didn’t blink an eye. He poured the beer, took our money and we were on our way.

The same held true for the other two bars on East Clinton, Viib’s and The White Horse. We were a happy team as we headed across the Clinton Street Bridge and under the railroad tracks to the Clinton Hotel. Our swagger didn’t win the day there. “How old are you girls?” the bartender asked, accompanied by snickers from the old geysers lining the mahogany bar. “Eighteen,” we replied in unison. One of our nervous voices squeaked high. Probably mine. We pulled out our IDs and laid them on the bar. He barely looked, and quickly set a row of beers with a big head of foam in front of us, but doubled the price. Smart guy. He knew what we were up to. Had witnessed this scene on many occasions. Had probably done the same when he was a kid. He knew we needed to be served at every bar along the way, and took advantage of it.

Off we went. Back and forth across the street, bar to bar: Lynch’s, The Welcome Inn, Elmo’s Marble Grill, Andre’s, Muska’s The Lincoln Hotel, Pat & Mike’s Palace-A and then to The Brass Rail, the fourteenth bar, one past the halfway mark. That’s as far as I made it. My Uncle (Paul Carns) was sitting at the bar nursing a boilermaker and nibbling on a pickled pig’s foot when I wandered in. He hopped up and came right over to me. The jig was up. The rest of my teammates fled out the door, like rats from a sinking ship. He couldn’t let his teenage nephew get arrested for public intoxication. Especially, since his brother, (also my uncle) was Francis Carns, a captain on the Binghamton Police Force.

 I never did finish the Clinton Street Run, not in one night anyhow. I did, however, hit each of the remaining bars that summer, one or two at a time. I bragged that I completed THE RUN, I just didn’t mention the staggered process. Half the kids who claimed completing this Binghamton rite of passage were liars too. But, today I can truthfully say I did it. It happened a few weeks ago. Woody Walls, a friend since we were toddlers, and I did it together. We started at The Old Union Hotel and finished at the Brass Rail. They are the only bars still operating on Clinton Street. The Clinton Street Run is history! And, so are we.

                                           Me (left) Woody (right) Finally did it LOL