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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.”
“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.
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.
