Monday, November 16, 2020

"30" mark means ''end of the story" ... 39 years after keg drained, Jerry and I aren't dead yet

 It’s been almost 39 years since Tony Durr showed up at the party and ended up at Don’s Donuts, calling to beg Gwen – I think she was soon to be his fourth or fifth wife and ex-wife-in-waiting … he married one of them just so he could use his GI benefits to get her into a Cuckoo’s Nest somewhere (or so he bragged) – to drive him home.

But this really isn’t about Tony, among my favorite people ever until he died, alone, his body found with arm reaching for a telephone, an empty  bottle of pills by his side, in his room (or whatever you called it) at a Coast Guard Barracks in Alaska.

By that time, he’d washed out of at least a couple more marriages, and we talked about our own failures and successes often, over glasses of brandy while staring at the same star: Me from Clarksville or Nashville, him from God knows where, Alaska.

This little tale, though, is about the best friend I still have, one who is alive and who always has been there for me, if needed, who never turned his back on me ever.  I even was Jerry Manley’s boss for a while, and he still liked me. I was a good boss, though. And we shared passions for women, beverages, Mennonite pastries, sweet smoke, music, alcohol in its various forms … but mostly newspapering.

Newspapermen were all we’d ever wanted to be.  Bastards took that away from us eventually, but that’s not what this is about.




Thirty-nine years ago, Jerry and I were in a quandary. Or in quandaries? We worked at The Leaf-Chronicle newspaper in Clarksville, with the late Max Moss and Tony Durr as our supervisors.

But, the younger people, our peers – we were both closing in on our 30th birthdays – had moved on.  The late-night scotch and beer singalongs at Richard Worden’s house in Sango were things of the past. He’d moved on to Memphis, and seldom was heard from again until he died from a blood clot that broke off a wound he suffered as a Marine in Vietnam.  He always wore cowboy boots to cover up his scars. Even when I had him over at my apartment complex pool.

He sat and smoked and drank, but while others swam in the pool, Richard remained fully clothed, boots and all, looking on. So I never saw the mortal wound, the lingering injury that eventually got him one night as he lay next to his wife, Paula Casey Worden (who had been L-C features editor when they began stealthy courting) in their Memphis flat the day after they returned from a vacation at his favorite place: The  Outer Banks (they are, as you may know, just the other side of The Inner Banks.)  

Getting too complicated here as I look back on my life before I become 69 sometime in the soon-to-be.

Jerry turned 69 a week or so ago, and we celebrated our 30th birthdays together.

As we stared down, with bloodshot eyes or dilated pupils, our 30th birthdays, we not only had at that point a brand new boss in Tony Durr (a kind-hearted, half-pint Cajun asshole with a beard, we concluded when he was foisted upon us as editor), but we had no close friends with whom to celebrate our big birthdays.

There were new, younger people in the newsroom, replacing Worden, Paula, Greg Kuhl, Steve Jones and others who had left, but we really didn’t know or trust them.

So, we’d just taken to drinking with each other, something that actually carried on for decades until I dried up a couple of decades ago.  Oh, I’ll still have an occasional beverage, but not in the quantities nor frequencies of those, really the good old days for me.   

We felt a little melancholy because our old friends were gone. 

I was known then as now for doing a good Joe Cocker impression at parties and also could be Elvis with a batch of Jordanaires (Jerry, Worden, McFalls,  Ron Taylor and even jerk “newspaperman” W. Wendell Wilson) singing behind me, all wearing hardhats. I can’t remember why they wore hardhats, but I can remember most of those parties had been at Worden’s house and we’d all bring our albums and beverages and laugh.

But those folks had gone and Jerry and I were turning 30 and no one was around to help us celebrate or even really care. Certainly no one would bother to buy us a drink or anything on this occasion. And it was important. Bob Dylan said “don’t trust anyone over 30.” Or maybe it was The Lone Ranger who said that and Dylan said “Hi-Yo Silver.” In any case, the days when we could be trusted were vanishing.

So, we chose a date, Friday the 13th it turned out to be (39 years ago last Friday), and told the newsroom and any other friends (we really didn’t have friends outside the newsroom, though). That Friday was basically halfway between our birthdays.

“Let’s invite the whole town,” I suggested to Jerry. We figured we’d pass the word. I don't think Mayor Ted Crozier was interested in that party. But, as I found out later, he sure could down his vodka and lemonade. I really liked him and spoke with him frequently way into his retirement years, right up until he no longer picked up the phone. I had been one of the editors/reporters who uncovered some  unseemly drunken behavior by the retired colonel/mayor, but he never held it against me. "You were just doing your job, Tim."  And really, most of the time he was doing his very well.

Jerry and I generally started work around 5 a.m. and worked until 2 or 3, at least, but on this Friday, we left a little early. We’d already recorded 8-track soundtracks of our favorite party songs, many about birthdays and others about death, to play in the clubhouse of the apartment complex where Jerry lived and first hung up his old aviator’s hat.

By the way, we’d spent a few very sober evenings putting together those 8-track recordings, as you can imagine. “I love the dead before they’re cold, their bluing flesh for me to hold,” “What a drag it is getting old,” “If you’re over 30, you better forget it, cause if you’re gettin’ older you’ll live to regret it.” And, of course, Bob Dylan’s 115th Dream.  

But before we could set up the sound system, part of it my stuff, part his, we had to pick up our refreshments.

We’d ordered a full 15-plus gallon keg of Budweiser (remember, light beers were then as now for only the weak and elite).  We picked it up at 11 a.m. over at the beer store next to Pal’s Package and we carted it out to the clubhouse.

Always worried about our guests’ happiness, in the late morning, we decided that we should tap the keg and “drink off the foam.” We were nothing if not concerned about the happiness of these young people, most of whom we didn’t know that well or really give a shit about.  Billy Fields, who later gave up honest labor to become one of Metro Nashville's good-ol'-boy enforcers of sorts, was one of the younger and larger of the attendees, he reminded me the other day. I think he's in charge of scooter and skateboard regulations for the city.

The drinking off of the foam by Jerry and me began an afternoon-long marathon in which we set up the sound system and vacuumed the clubhouse while making sure the beer still retained its full body. We did many delicate tasks similarly fueled over the years.

By the time the guests arrived at 5 or 6, Jerry and I had fully determined the keg to be in good shape, and we were jolly hosts. Heck we’d even had time to take naps on the clubhouse couches in preparation for what we were sure was going to be a long and happy night.

The guests only needed to bring chips or some such item worthy of eating. There wasn’t as much variety in crackers and the like back then. And Jerry and I already had some bags tossed here and there for munching. Course we’d eaten some of them, too.

Even Tony, who had told us he couldn’t attend because it wouldn’t be proper for an editor to see what we might or might not be doing, showed up at about 8. He did stay upstairs, as there were reports of illicit activity going on in the basement. We deduced this from the clouds of smoke coming up the stairwell.

Former L-C staffer Greg Kuhl, perhaps fresh from witnessing an execution in Mississippi —for his reporting job, not for fun—even showed up. Greg, who retired early and moved to Calgary, Alberta, Canada, to be a “semi-pro” distance runner, died a year or so ago. 

He’s one of several (see Tony and Richard Worden above) who were dear newspaper friends who have died.

 Harold “The Stranger” Lynch showed up for a bit. We had to make sure he didn’t drink the whole keg. God, I loved Harold, one of the kindest men and finest journalists I’ve known.

 The party itself was a dance-a-thon, most memorable for the line-dancing sing-along to Edwin Starr’s “War” and The Beatles’ “Happy Birthday” and the Stones’ “Gimme Shelter” mixed in with a little roots, rock and reggae.          

That dancing and frivolity provided a perfectly relaxed atmosphere in which the two old codgers of the night got to mingle with the younger members of the staff. Most of them left by 11 or midnight.

 Jerry and I noted that one of the young single guys stayed in there, step for step, beer for beer, shout for shout and song for song, well into the night.

That was the new police reporter, Rob Dollar. He and I were friends for a long time after that party and this celebration even is included, in part, in a book we wrote together called “When Newspapers Mattered: The News Brothers & their Shades of Glory.”

Some friendships, like mine with Jerry, are forever, as we are brothers.

Speaking of which, old buddy, I bought the keg for that night, Jerry, and you were going to cover your half later. 

Maybe you can take care of the keg, or buttermilk or whatever we consume on our 70th. It’s only a year away. If we’re interested in making it that far.

I’ve not decided.

A lot of things can happen in a year. Perhaps Donald Trump, for example, will realize he’s no longer wanted. If not, there’ll be a revolution, of course. And then there’s COVID to worry about. Always a believer in personal protection, I wear a mask whenever I leave my house.

You see, the day after the party—I’ll get back to its conclusion in a minute—was spent at the newspaper. Bleary-eyed and cotton-mouthed, to be sure, washing down vending machine Honey Buns and M&Ms with black coffee while chain-smoking exploding cigarettes and laughing.

 That night, as they say, was a time for a bite of the hair of the dog at a place called Camelot.  It really couldn’t get much better or happier, really. Ignorance is bliss.

 Damn, here I was 30 years old and I had life by the throat. What a wonderful world, indeed, as Satchmo said.

I think it was that night (or one similar), at the newspaper, I even nicknamed a horrible person who was stalking women, particularly military wives in North Clarksville.

“We need a nickname for this rapist,” said Tony, as he started thinking about the similarities between the rapes.  

All of them—at least those that were reported—occurred when the moon was full.

 Being a sports editor on deadline with scores and stories to work, I looked up and offered: “Let’s call him ‘The Full Moon Rapist.’”

From that point on, every time the moon is full, I think of that beastly criminal.  And I smile in amusement that a sports editor gave the moniker to a savage who had a town traumatized.

   Of course, you have to remember sports reporters gave names to guys like “Slammin’ Sammy” Snead,  “Hammerin’ Henry” Aaron, Ed “Too Tall” Jones and Joe “The Brown Bomber” Louis, to name a few.   Broadway Joe. Jefferson Street Joe.  Ringo Starr. Sammy “The Bull..”

 So, who knows who dreamed up the name for “The Boston Strangler”? It might have been an intern or an obituary writer in his first week on the job or a bored sports editor, looking up for a moment while proofing “The Agate Page.” (Now generally just called “The Scoreboard Page,” since no one really knows what agate is any more.) 

 Anyway, back to Tony and his inebriated exit—though he claimed otherwise—from the big “30” party for Jerry and me.

 We reminded our boss we were staying there at the clubhouse. Course most of us really had no better place to be at that time of the day and really didn’t want to die on the highways. We’d already begun to be inundated with those kinds of stories ... and it was going to get worse very soon.

 Tony said he was fine. He was a pipsqueak, 5-5 or so, but he said he could handle his liquor.  So he went out into what had turned into a cold, rainy night.  I kept watching out the window as he got in his car, a black Ford sedan.

He kept on revving his engine, but the car would go nowhere.

So, I went out to help. Rob and Jerry may have as well.

Anyway, Tony was sitting behind the wheel of his car, repeatedly pulling on the lever to control his windshield wipers.  “I can’t get this thing in gear,” he said. “Transmission messed up.”

 He kept working that lever and the windshield wipers kept on going on and off.  Finally I pointed out that he needed to use the lever on the other side of the wheel, the gear shifter, and he’d be OK.

 I told him to put it on the “little R” and back up carefully. Instead, he jammed it into drive and jumped the concrete curb, bottoming out his car and shooting sparks into the night.

“The R, Tony, the R,” I said. “But maybe you should stay here with us.” 

“Nah, I’m OK,” he said. “Sober.” 

He finally got the car into reverse and drove away backward for perhaps 100 feet before pulling down on the lever, without braking, and driving into the cold and rainy night.

 We didn’t know it at the time, but he made it as far as Don’s Donuts, maybe a half-mile away, before pulling in and parking, calling his current wife-to-be and soon-to-be ex-wife to come pick him up. He didn’t admit that to me until a long-distance phone call from Kodiak, Alaska, where he’d just lost another newspaper job years later.

Anyway, as we stood there smoking in the rain, Jerry shook his head and his belly. “He says he’s sober, see I told you he was a liar,” said Jerry, as we watched the car disappear into the mist. 

 There even was worry in Jerry’s voice, although I think he also was drooling at that point. 

The above is a true story, and it’s littered with dead friends from the newspaper business. Tony Durr, Richard Worden, Greg Kuhl, Harold Lynch, Max Moss …. 

If they could gather around, I’d throw another party. Hell, maybe they’re having one, if you believe the pamphlets.

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