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
