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Remembering a St Paddy's Long Past...


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Originally posted two or three years ago - hc

 

Celebrating Saint Patrick

    

     “Hey Fellas!  We need to have a St Patrick’s party!”

 

     And with those fateful words the die was cast.  O Lord, five years since we’d become Kappa Phi Delta frat bros, and we hadn’t learned yet…

    

     Okay. It was early February, 1975, and Ray “Fu Man” Gee (“Fu-Man,” after his very sad attempt to grow a Fu Manchu mustache), Bill “Wynuts” Wyant and I were sharing an apartment in Pacifica.  Neat place, the complex was literally perched atop about an 80 foot cliff overlooking the Pacific.  Newly built, modern, fancy gas fireplace, stylish burnt-orange shag carpet, gorgeous Formica countertops, and amenities including a nearby laundry room and a clubhouse.

 

     Oh, the clubhouse! Downstairs weight room and saunas, upstairs “party room” with adjacent kitchen, and an absolutely killer view of the ocean through the large “picture” windows.  One of the selling features of the setup, and naturally one we focused on immediately – after all, we had a LOT of experience with parties.

 

     So when I offered up that suggestion, the other two roomies jumped on it and we were immediately in “party planning mode.”

 

     St Patrick’s day proper was actually Monday, March 17th; no problem, Saturday the 15th would work out perfectly, and Ray managed to reserve the clubhouse for that date.  It was perfect because it would give us a day to recover before the REAL St Patrick’s day and REAL celebrating at Harrington’s on Front Street in San Francisco, sort of a tradition with us.

 

     Well, as it turned out, we would have been much better off in the long run if St Patty’s had been Wednesday.  Or Sunday.  Or if Monday had been Arbor Day… or anything BUT the day it was.

 

     Anyway, the call went out, and everybody who was anybody on our lists was there for our Saturday night “gig.”  The three of us, of course, plus the usual band of noteworthies, including, of course, Half-Breed Pete, Hank, the Reverend J D Bucksnort, Stewballs, Lurch, and all the rest of the Kappa Phi Delta guys, their girlfriends, and miscellaneous other buddies and associates.  In all, we had well over a hundred souls.  Vastly exceeded the capacity of the clubhouse.  But this mattered not, as we spilled out onto the lawn, the cliff-edge gazebo, and even the beach itself.  Judging from the hangovers experienced and reported the next day, I’d say it was fair to say that a good time was had by all.

 

     Hm.  Party on Saturday… last guest left Tuesday… uh huh.  And of course, we being us, we didn’t learn.  It would take one more party until we decided to not do that again – but that’s another story!

 

     So we made it through the weekend, and Monday, March 17, 1975 arrived, and we were sufficiently recovered to stage our assault on Harrington’s Irish Pub on Front Street.  Being experienced St Paddy-ers, we knew we had to be there early to stake out spots.  And so it was; we – Bill, Hank, myself, and Bucksnort had laid claim to a corner of the bar by 1130 – just beating the lunch crowd.

 

     The day was long, the evening was longer, and if we’d had our wits about us or even the tiniest bit of common sense we would have left early… or, as our old friend Hank would’ve said, we should’ve stayed home and watched “Get Smart.”

 

     Naturally, we paced ourselves – one thing we were good at, and maintained possession of that bar section in Harringtons ‘til the end.  Of course, some of us would leave from time to time – “bio breaks,” of course, and other exploratory excursions in the neighborhood.  For instance, in the interest of “cultural equality,” we managed a trip or two across Front Street to Schroeder’s for a stein of good German beer and wursts (a break from the corned beef), and up to the Royal Exchange on the corner.  Both were feats of navigation and determination, as the street was so crowded the ends of the block were closed off by three in the afternoon.  There were so many people crammed in the area it could take ten minutes to make one’s way to the opposite curb – especially when someone discovered that the hatches on the stranded beer delivery truck had mysteriously become unlocked.  Orderly mayem!

 

     Sadly, we did have one casualty.

 

     At some point late in the evening, Bucksnort disappeared.  The Reverend J D Bucksnort was about five nine, 140 lbs, had fiery red hair and literally looked like a large leprechaun, was full of energy, and was also totally fearless – a combination that could be a mite troublesome in a setting like Front Street on St Patrick’s Day.

 

     Leaving Hank to hold down the fort, Bill and and I sallied forth on a search-and-rescue mission.  Tactically, it made more sense to check the Royal Exchange first, as it would not require bulldozing our way across the street.  We did still feel like a couple of salmon swimming upstream as we shouldered our way north.

 

     When we finally weaseled our way inside the door we were shocked – there he was!  Bucksnort, the flame colors of his hair almost dimmed bye the fire in his blue eyes, which highlighted the intense look on his face as he glared at the VERY large – a good sixty pounds heavier large – bouncer, who had the front of JD’s shirt gathered in a ham-sized fist, holding him steady as he cocked the other back and aimed a punch…

 

      “Dave!” hollered Bill. 

 

      “You know this guy?” I asked.

 

      “Yeah!  We work together in Daley City!  Hey, Dave!  What’s up, guy?”

 

     Distracted, Dave held off on launching the punch and looked at Bill.  He grinned, and said “Hey, Bill!  What’s up?  Hang on a second while I take care of this dude!”

 

      “Uh… Actually, Dave, we were just looking for that dude! Believe it or not, he’s a friend of ours!  Oh… and this is Rocko!” by way of introducing me.

He unwound his fist and cheerfully shook hands, still holding the infuriated but inert Bucksnort at arm’s length.

 

     After a brief conversation, Dave released him into our “custody,” suggesting that we keep him on a short leash – we never did understand what his trespass was, but knowing Buck we had no doubt he’d done or said something that Dave took exception to.

 

     Okay… back to Harrington’s, ‘Snort in tow.

 

     And all was well until about an hour or so later, he vanished again.

 

     Expecting the worse but hoping for the best, Bill and I hot-footed it back to the RE. Dave spotted us and made his way through the crowd, wearing a sad and apologetic expression.

 

      “Aw, darn, fellas… I’m sorry, but I had to hurt your friend.  I didn’t want to, but he came back and tossed a beer on me – I didn’t really want to hurt him, but golly… ya know…”

 

     We told him we understood, assured him there were no hard feelings, and set out to search for our scrapper in the direction he’d last been seen headed.

 

     No joy.  About a half hour after we’d left, we re-joined Hank at our corner in Harringtons, and set about closing out St Patrick’s Day in the city.  In other words, “closing the joint.”

 

     Even with a twenty-five percent casualty rate, we felt the evening was a success – and were in high spirits indeed as we wended our way back to our apartment in Pacifica.

 

     As we rolled along Skyline Boulevard, someone (whoo, mee?) came up with a thought:

 

      “Hey, Fellas! [sound familiar?]

 

      “I’m not at all tired!  Are you guys?  Let’s keep the celebration going!”

 

     Interest piqued, Hank asked “Huh… whatcha got in mind?”

 

      “Well hey – why don’t we go set off some fireworks?”

 

      “GREAT idea!  Uh… where?”

 

      “Well hell!  Let’s just go down to the beach!  No one will know or hear a thing – the cliff will deflect the noise!”

 

      “GREAT idea!  Let’s do it!  What sort of fireworks do ya got?”

 

     Hm.  A minor sticking point.  We had no fireworks.  Darn… and such a good idea, too.

 

      “Well I got an idea!” one of us – either me or Hank, and I ain’t saying which – said.

 

      “Whazzat?”

 

      “Well… let’s just go shoot pistols at the ocean! There ain’t a thing out there we can hurt, the cliff will block any sound, and it’ll be fun!”

 

     And a plan was born.

 

     But when we arrived back at the apartment, Bill either cowardly or wisely declined to participate in our celebratory foray.  “I don’t think it’s such a good idea.  But go right on ahead, if ya want – I’m gonna sack out!”

 

     He did and we did.

 

     About 0300, Hank and I started down the wooden staircase leading to the beach, well armed with one pistol and two revolvers and a couple pockets full of ammunition.  After descending countless treads toward the ocean, we finally figured we must be close enough to the bottom. [historical note: a later review of the maneuver showed that we had, in fact, only made it to the first landing – maybe twenty five feet or so from the lip of the cliff]

 

     And we had a terrific time!  Not disturbing a soul, not hurting a thing, just blasting away at the ocean, shouting in glee and relishing the bangs and flashes and extolling the glory of Saint Patrick, reloading when empty, passing and sharing the “biscuits,” as we called them, filled with joy.

 

     Then Hank said something.

 

      “Huh?” I asked, as I continued shooting.

 

     Bang! Bang!

 

     He said something again.

 

      “What?” Bang!  Bang!, as I sent my final two lead peanuts ker-splashing into the waves.

 

     I turned to Hank, and looked at him in puzzlement, as he was oddly bathed in the multi-hued glow of the exceedingly bright crescent moon.

      “Wha’d you say?”

 

      “I said ‘STAND UP AND PUT YOUR HANDS UP!’” he said.

 

     Finally, I realized that he was himself standing with his back to the ocean, and indeed had his own hands raised.

 

     I looked over my shoulder and was astonished, confused, and stunned: There, on the edge of the cliff, were a whole bunch of police officers. The sky reflected the flashing red lights of their vehicles, parked back from the cliff. And they had an impressive assortment of pistols, revolvers, shotguns, and rifles trained on the two would-be nimrod revelers.

 

     Ooops!

 

     I quietly slipped Hank’s little .38 Smith & Wesson revolver into my coat pocket as I stood, taking my place next to Hank and mirroring his subjected posture.

 

     A bullhorn amplified voice boomed “Turn Around!”

 

     We turned around.

 

      “Place your hands on the rail!”

 

     We placed our hands on the rail.

 

      “Spread your feet!”

 

     We spread our feet.

 

      “Farther!”

 

     We did.

 

      “FARTHER!”

 

     Okay, that did it. I looked over my shoulder and hollered, “If I spread ‘em any farther I’m gonna fall down!”

 

     Oh. Okay. Then FREEZE!

 

     We froze.

 

     After a short discussion, one of the officers was dispatched to descend the stairway and disarm us, and take us into custody.

 

     One-handed – he was gripping his revolver in the other - he nervously patted down Hank first; finding his little Erma “Baby Luger” in a pocket, he removed it and stuck it behind his belt. Directing his attentions to me, he found and removed Hank’s S&W from my pocket, and stuffed it into his belt also.

 

     Holstering his own weapon, he announced “Okay, guys. You can stand up now.”

 

     Hank did stand, but I remained in situ.

 

      “Fella! I said you can stand up now!” he said.

 

     I looked over my shoulder, and with my right hand pointed toward my right hip and said “Uh… ya missed one.”

 

     What?!  He quickly felt under the skirt of my coat and found my three-lb Ruger .45 Colt.

 

      “Omigod!” he yelped as he disarmed me, then stepped back and again drew his own revolver before marching us up the steps.

 

     And oh, what misery awaited us!

 

     A whole squad of very unhappy policemen! Obviously, most felt they had better places to be at that moment – I was pretty sure I saw the legs of pajamas below one officer’s uniform cuffs.

 

     And then the berating began:

 

     A sergeant lit into us like you wouldn’t believe.  He called us many, many unsavory names… accused us of not only causing the entire city police force to be dragged out of their beds, but wanted us to VERY clearly understand that we had that whole Pacific Manor section of Pacifica firmly believing that they were under attack by the entire Symbionese Liberation Army.

 

     While he was delivering our dressing-down, they called in the serial numbers of our guns. Amazingly, within moments they had our names, descriptions, addresses, date and location of their purchases – and had not even seen our ID.

 

     The sergeant was fairly purple with rage.  Spittle flew from his lips as he barked at us: “And just WHAT THE HELL DID YOU THINK YOU WERE DOING?!”

 

     Hank’s jaw moved soundlessly.  And, knowing that honesty usually IS the best policy, I finally found my own voice.

 

      “Gosh, Officer!  It’s like this…!  We didn’t mean any harm – honest!  We figgered for sure that the cliff would block any sound [not realizing just how shallow we WERE on the cliff]… and all we wanted to do was to burn up a little surplus ammunition and celebrate Saint Patrick!”

 

     Oh my.  That sergeant positively began to glow as his color faded to mauve.

 

     His jaw ratcheted soundlessly as he tried to form the next installment of his tirade.

 

     Suddenly, a door opened on the car we were standing nearest, and the vehicle sagged and swayed momentarily.

 

     Hank and I looked up and saw the absolute hugest cop we’d ever seen in our lives climb from the cruiser, and walk around to the back where we were -  and where our guns and all remaining ammunition were laid out on the trunk lid.

 

     As he rounded the stern, we took in three things:  First, he was HUGE.  Second, he had a magnificent head of red hair, and lastly, his uniform was very, very well decorated with all sorts of po-leece insignia.  And a name plate that said something like “Murphy!” (Or O’Shaughnessy, or Kirkpatrick, or some such).

 

     He gazed calmly at us, studying our faces. And then… who says miracles don’t happen? And then, he smiled.

 

     And when he smiled, he said: “Ah, so ye boys were just doin’ a little celebrating of the Saint’s day, were ye now?”

 

      “Uh… yessir!  Yessir! Honest!  We didn’t mean no harm…!”

 

     He crossed his arms and studied us a moment, and then he turned to the sergeant.

 

      “Sergeant, now I’m quite sure these lads were only being a bit over lively in their celebrations.  And I’m sure they’re good boys – now aren’t ye, boys?”

 

     Oh, YESSIR!

 

      “So Sergeant, I t’ink that we shall just send the lads home to their beds, and I’m sure they’ll be quiet for the rest of the night – now, won’t you, boys?”

 

     Oh, ABSOLUTELY sir!

 

     The sergeant stood there slack-jawed; the rest of the officers stepped back and watched silently.

 

     And then General Murphy – or whatever rank he was – said “Now boys, take your guns and put them in your pockets until you get home, then put them away.

 

      “Oh and sergeant – do give them back the rest of their boollits. They might need them someday.

 

      “Now off to bed, laddies!  And DO be quiet now!

 

     The sergeant sadly shook his head, handed us our goods – and yes, we did thank him – and sloughed off to his own cruiser.  They entire Pacifica Police Force drove off quietly, and Hank and I likewise quietly trudged off to my apartment – trying to ignore all the peeks from behind the curtains of every other apartment we passed.

 

     When we walked through my front door, Bill looked up from under a blankie on the sofa and demanded “What the hell are YOU doing here?!”

 

     Shux ~ I LIVE here!

      “Didn’t you hear all them sirens?  We all heard a bunch of gunfire and then a bunch of sirens and thought you were gone forever!”

 

     We weren’t.

 

     And St Pat’s celebrations have been pretty quiet and sedate for the past forty four years.

 

     Heck… eventually, even the renowned Harrington’s refused to open on Saint Patrick’s day!

 

     Corned beef and cabbage and Diet Mountain Dew is just fine, thankee ver’ much! 

 

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I try not to 'think' on many St. Patty's days past...

Mainly because I was a bartender at one of the only live Rock band bars in the area...and popular.

And a few years later, managed a 'quieter' rib house/bar...

St. Patty's Day was ALWAYS busy...as someone came up with the wonderful idea to lease a tour bus and go from bar to bar! After the second time around, I realized we needed to close early!!! Not only could you guage how much someone had been served over the course of the night...OR what was consumed on the bus!!

All I know is green food coloring stains ANYTHING it has set on for a night!!!

 

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3 hours ago, Subdeacon Joe said:

You gotta write that book, Hardpan!  You can sure spin a yarn!

 

From you, Joe, that truly is high praise...! 

 

Awww.... Shux!  :blush:

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