Doug Blough

I kind of left you hanging weeks ago with Dave Beemer's trip back to my Pennsylvania stomping grounds. We were making $65 a week at a hose nozzle factory and had found our oasis in a bar called Top's Tavern that served anyone with a deep enough voice to fool the 80-year-old, half-blind owner. There was the old, retired coal miners crowd and the crew of underage, long-haired potheads led by big, crazy Frank McVicker. Dave and I gravitated to the age-compatible crew to hang with.

The old-timers were an every night freak show. There was one little Elmer Fudd-lookin' guy named Shrock who still had little-man syndrome in his seventies. He sat across from an obese, thick-glasses woman named “Cookie,” and Cookie's 8O-something father named Cy. Once Shrock made inappropriate suggestions to Cookie, which sent Cy into a cursing tirade. Cookie jumped up and screamed, “Keep religion out of the G.D. barroom!”

While these old-timer's shenanigans went on, we underagers were like eager kids watching a carnival. One night Shrock was trying to pick a fight with a guy who clearly would've whipped him, and the guy says, “Topsie, give Shrock a shot of whiskey; it's my birthday.” Shrock quieted down long enough to drink his shot before going on again about how he would whup his keester.

The guy says, “Tops, give Shrock another shot of whiskey; it's HIS birthday.” Again Shrock had to take a break from the threats, and this went on for several more shots of whiskey. Now Shrock was quiet as he wobbled around, mumbling angrily from time to time. We all stopped watching at some point and went on with our conversations when all of a sudden … BONG! Shrock finally went over backwards into the metal pole in the middle of the crusty bar.

There was a middle-aged guy named Roy who always sat quietly at one end of the bar with his leg crossed and his German shepherd by his feet. While this guy who bought Shrock all the whiskey is trying to get him to his feet, he's dropping him all over Roy who yelled out, “Get him the hell off my leg!”The guy asked Roy for some help and Roy said testily, “You got him this way; YOU take care of him.”

They managed to get Shrock outside onto a bench beside the path to the parking lot because when we left hours later, he was still mumbling threats at whoever walked by.

Most nights since it was just back the dirt road from my parents' house, when the Tops show ended, Dave and I made our way back to big Frank's trailer. The pot smoke was so thick we could barely see our beers but drank plenty nonetheless. One night Beemer tried to pay Frank $10 for all the beer we were drinking and Frank wouldn't accept it. Beem insisted so Frank took that $10 and laughed maniacally as he held it over the candle flame. Kenny King, Oogie Lucas, Moby Mischler and all the buzzed potheads thought it hilarious.

Another night I insisted I could drive the half-mile home even though I had no driver's license and was out of practice. I knew it didn't go well, but didn't realize just how badly until the next morning when my dad came into our bedroom and proclaimed in a huff, “Before you fellas do anything today you get down there and put those mailboxes back up!” We fixed the mailboxes and I rode shotgun again.

Dave finally had to end his four-month trip into madness and as he set out for home in a December blizzard. I was behind him pushing that Galaxy up our icy dirt road. Fun is fun, but by then we had had enough of each other. And Dad had more than enough!