The Days of Pabst and Hoses (Part 2)

“As we walk from Big John’s south on Market toward State Street, this is the route that the previously mentioned A.O.H. was pulled home by his friends in a child’s red Radio Flyer wagon because he was too besotted to walk or even crawl, for that matter, and all of his friends were equally incapable of operating their vehicles, motor or otherwise. Here are the corner of State and Linguard Alley on July 18, 1964, was where the wagon overturned when the pullers became overzealous pushers in order to allow the falsely confident A.O.H. to steer himself. There were no injuries, of course, since, as we all know by now, God, with his Almighty sense of ironic humor, always enables people in chemically mind altered states to escape personal harm even in the most disastrous of situations.”

“Here, ladies and gentlemen—okay, let’s finish those beers, some of you are not keeping up—where this gift shop is now located (southwest Market between State and Church) was the infamous Owl Club, where it was so dark, roaches would knock themselves unconscious walking into furniture, and a guy named Willie Cheek (or Willie Cheeks as my friend J.T. referred to him in private) played piano till slivers of slowing invading sunlight sent his single-digit audiences (I’m not talking about their finger count, by the way) scampering into the club’s deeper depths like vodkarized vampires. It was here on October 28, 1962, that this same J.T., after a long day of Falstaff (another popular beer in those days), Penrose sausage, pickled eggs, boiled peanuts and pig’s feet, released a belch of such seismic intensity that the pages of the calendar behind the bar fluttered like time was passing in one of those old movies, a bottle of Rebel Yell toppled off the shelf, and neighborhood dogs began to howl as if to warn us of some impending natural disaster.”

“Here on the other side of Market, is where the ‘real’ Henry’s used to be, an actual restaurant. It was in the muted light of one of the tattered bar booths on December 22, 1961, that M.J. received a B.J. from C.J., with the former all the while munching on celery sticks with cream cheese and, although the entrée, wahoo with grits, was excellent, according to M.J., it was decidedly anticlimactic.”

“Here, ladies and gentlemen—come on, there’s another case under the cooler—where this boutique now stands (north side of South Market) was the Carriage House, a nightclub that featured a singer named Juanita Champion, a dwarf M.C., on legitimate dancer, who should have been a Rockette (F.S.), and, most important in those days (and these too, I guess) a bevy of strippers. Everyone usually ended up there around 1 or 2 a.m. or whenever their alcohol levels had reached the saturation point. It was always the last stop just before the Goodie House (now a Starbucks), where we would gorge ourselves with scrambled eggs, bacon and toast, often losing the entire meal, frequently intact and undigested moments later. In fact, if someone had opened up a pay vomitorium next door, they could have retired early. It was on one such night at the Carriage House (August 11, 1964), that C.R., his surging hormones whipped to a frothy frenzy by the sight of the ecdysiast’s undulating body, lunged puma-like (if you can imagine a drunk puma) from his table and sunk his teeth into her sumptuous bottom. An extremely intolerant Mafioso-looking bouncer, fearing he had only seen the very tip of a very crude and lascivious iceberg, convinced us that we would all be better off if we left the premises right away. And we did.”

Believe me, there were a myriad of others who played significant roles in maintaining and promoting the bon temps spirit of the Market Street area and, if you go on my tour, you will find out about them. Incidentally, there will be an announcement about the start of the tour, as soon as I get permission to use the actual names of these id-driven icons and have the plaques made. I may also be looking for some re-enactors, so if any of you would be willing to do some of the tings mentioned here (although the scene at Henry’s might have to be done in North Charleston) plus a few feats involving bodily functions not referred to, give me a call. Hey, it’s a good deal, since you’ll just be getting paid for some stuff that’s probably no worse than what you normally do when you get loaded. “Jackass” fans are more than welcome.