[part four of a series that began with this one]
there are two ways to approach this post: you can either (1) click on the musical links i've provided as you read, or (2) not.
in truth, i don't give a fuck either way--looking back, even i agree that most of the songs i've featured (with the exception of the last two, each of which will forever be sublime) sound cheesy today--but, for what it's worth, they're the ones i most associate with that time and place.
so either roll around in here like a pig in shit, or tiptoe through without getting dirty--your choice.
so yeah, i spent most of my junior and senior years of high school working in a bar--seemed very glamorous to my friends, and while i didn't discourage their illusion, that's all it was, trust me. the actuality? for most of that time (until i turned 18 and was actually useful), i was low man on the totem pole at the enterprise that was the fox's lair, and all the shit flowed downhill to me.
i'll get into some of that later--point is, i feel i've unintentionally misled whatever readers i have left. by that i mean, i've gone back to the beginning of this thread and read what i've written up to to now, and i can see why you're expecting some big payoff to all the build-up.
problem is, that's not where i'm going here--while the whole fox's lair experience is an important part of my past, its rise and fall were but the first chapter of a much bigger story in my life.
but enough with that shit (at least, for now)--back to the topic at hand.
* * * * *
1. the music.
an unexpected side-effect of beau's stint in vietnam was that he came to associate the popular music of the mid-60s with death (i remember he once told me he was always afraid he'd be driving along and some radio dj would cue up the animals' we gotta get outta this place--apparently the vietnam theme song--and he'd run the car into a tree); he solved the problem by coming home and never tuning into a rock 'n roll station again.
great strategy for dealing with post-traumatic stress syndrome, maybe, but not so good if you wanna become the next disco king--bottom line: at 29, beau had not the slightest clue as to what the kids were listening to these days.
luckily, the young, lovely and talented crede (pronounced "cruh-day" for you philistines) came along to help him out with that. she not only picked out all the music for the club--hundreds of eight-track tapes--but also served as its first dj. so, for better or worse, her musical tastes ruled the day (beau swore he wasn't fucking her, but nobody believed him).
[but to give sweet crede her due: as one among many who tried to duplicate her magic after she left, i can't even begin to tell you how much i came to belatedly appreciate her ability to achieve crowd-pleasing flow and continuity with nothing but a couple eight-track tape players and no mixer--and if you think that's no big deal, try it sometime and then get back to me.]
but whatever--crede loved the doobie brothers, so we got a lot of them. and she loved steely dan and edgar winter and joe walsh and sly and the family stone, so we got a lot of them, too.
and somehow, it all worked.
2. the booze.
what can i say about the booze?
aside from draft beer, the staple drink at the fox's lair was, from day one, the tequila sunrise--an easy effect to achieve with orange juice and grenadine (and as for the tequila, lemme just say the way our bartenders poured, the sunrise tended to float well above the horizon).
but our signature drinks (and the ones for which we rightly became infamous) were the hurricane and her equally lovely-but-deadly sister, the singapore sling. their minor differences counted for less than what they had in common: (a) both were served in tall, pat o'brien-style hurricane goblets, (b) both had ungodly amounts of various liquors dumped into 'em before being candy-coated with sweet mixers so they'd go down easy; and, finally, (c) both were topped off with a hollowed-out half-lemon filled with everclear, which was set ablaze just before serving (you could always spot the budding alkies by how quickly they blew out the flame so they could either chug the everclear or pour it into their drink before imbibing).
it was good marketing--the flaming drinks were spectacular, especially in the low lighting of the club, and as soon as joe bob saw one being delivered to the next table, chances were excellent that he'd decide he had to have him one o' them "drinks on fire" for his own self.
those kids didn't stand a chance, and god only knows how many of 'em we started down their own little road to alcoholic hell. but i try not to dwell on that too much.
3. the dancing.
news flash: sheltered east-texas white kids can't dance for shit. didn't matter, though--they'd thrash their way through anything crede threw at 'em, until, finally, when she sensed the moment was right, she'd cue up the following song:
and when that first riff blasted outta the speakers on one side of the dance floor and was stereophonically answered on the other, a collective roar would arise and everyone who wasn't out there already would pack their way into the middle of the room. and even though to this day it remains one of the most undanceable songs ever recorded, joe walsh's rocky mountain way always had this effect on our crowd--hell, if they couldn't dance to it they could totally stagger drunkenly around to it, and by 1:00 in the morning that was usually all that mattered.
[or sometimes it would be the steve miller band's equally-undanceable the joker, which, since i hate it as much now as i did then, i am not featuring here.]
and then--just so that everybody could snuggle up and cop one last feel before the lights came up--she'd always finish with something slow, sloppy and sentimental like this:
or, once i turned her onto it, this:
and then next day i'd come in after school and clean up all the puke--good times.
4. because somebody had to do it.
speaking of my job, i wore many hats during that first year or so, most of 'em pretty unremarkable and boring, so i won't even bother. one of my duties, however, was anything but.
see, on many saturdays it'd devolve onto me to drive over to kilgore and pick up enough booze to carry us over til at least the following wednesday.
why should this be of interest, you ask? well, for a couple reasons:
first, because the fact that i was underage never seemed to cause anyone on either end of the transaction even a moment's pause;
second, because, even on one of the most heavily-patrolled stretches of highway in east texas--and even though (as you will see) i was practically a rolling billboard that flashed "arrest me" in big, bright neon letters--i was never pulled over even once;
and, finally, because the mode of transport involved--namely, a decrepit, clapped-out beater which was wildly unsuited to the task at hand--could usually be relied upon to to provide me with at least one good, solid brush with death every time i undertook a booze run.
she was beau's car, a holdover from back in the day when the restaurant was going under and it was all he could afford--a weathered, faded-blue '66 chevy impala just like the one in the picture--and, lemme tell ya, by the time we got her, she was one ugly, used-up motherfucker.
but, boy, could she hold her liquor.
most saturdays, i'd climb into ol' blue, pockets full of cash, drive to kilgore, back up to the liquor store's loading dock, hand 'em my order and my money and stand back as they filled me up.
it went like this: three kegs in the cavernous trunk, two more in the backseat, one riding shotgun--and then every other available square inch of space in the car filled to the brim with bottles of liquor, then cases (and when space grew scarce, individual six-packs) of beer, leaving barely enough room for me to squeeze behind the wheel for the trip home.
and, oh, that trip home--the longest 35 miles of my goddam life. i could see a little of what was in front of me and only what the side mirror told me was behind me, and that was pretty much it.
but visibility was only one of my problems--by the time we were fully loaded up the suspension was gone, the tailpipe was dragging the ground and holding the blue bitch to a straight line was like navigating a pt boat across a choppy sea (not to mention that bringing the fully-loaded beast to a halt once it was in motion was like trying to stop a goddam freight train--if i'd ever once had to slam on the brakes, it woulda been all over).
and the astonished looks i got from passing cars as i puttered along at 45 mph in my boozemobile? priceless.
whatever; i was young, dumb and thought i was bulletproof--just like beau (who should've known better).
next: the decline and fall.
