When my almost lifelong friend, Walter A. Verbanic, died a few years back, I got reunited at his wake-in-an-urn, with Harley Marshall, whom I had not seen in almost 40 years. We had all worked together at Sammy's on 6th Street, in KCK as bartenders. We were the three jokers that put it on the map as the Greatest College Bar Ever. I had helped Walter work on a book about his times at Sammy's, which would have included many of the photographs he had taken during those times. Unfortunately his death overrode that happening. Harley mentioned to me that he was working on a play about Sammy's. As to most I am known as "The Elephant Man Who Never Forgets Anything". Over the past year and a half I have communicated with him to help fill in the blanks, just as I had done with Walter. The following are several of our exchanges of information. Harley is a strange duck. He is an actor, poet, playwright, but most importantly a true inspiration in life.
(Pick A Title)
"Going Back To Sammy's"
"Reality Now Only Exists Within My Mind As Questioned Memories"
"Talking To The Mannequins"
"Return To One of The Only Homes I Didn't Try To Run Away From"
(Harley be patient with me and read on. It may be helpful in some absurd sort of way for us to recall and pass on that which we were fortunate to experience. The first part is about my personal feelings and the last is about the stories I tell.)
I left KCK in the Fall of 1970 to study architecture at the University of Oklahoma, in Norman. Over the next 35 years I maybe returned to KCK, 15 times at most. Those were mainly related to events, involving my adopted family, "The Verbanics" . My birth family and I had a strained relationship, even before I came out of the womb. As a result, we never participated much, unless it was one of those mandatory functions which required all to be present. I became the ultimate black sheep and rebel of the family, titles I took very seriously and worked very hard to keep. I was a paradox of good and evil. From elementary school through high school, I was always recognized for my academic abilities and leadership in the classroom. On the athletic fields, I was always the star on the teams. On the other side, outside those structured parts of my life, I was almost always out of control and more than a bit of a lone wolf. Wasn't that I was anti-social, disrespecting or inconsiderate, I just never could march to anyone else's drum. Whereas, most kids had family structure and discipline, my uncle, who raised me, gave me almost free rein to do as I pleased. Often tell people I was 21 before I was 12. Part of my on-going confusion was that no matter how good I did something, it never seemed to be good enough and I had to either provide my own rewards or get them from others outside my birth family. When I went against the norms, I got to be allowed to be on the inside, not looking in.
I dropped out of college, giving up my full athletic scholarship, after being badly injured, operated on and spending a week in the hospital. During that week I didn't hear a word from any member of the coaching staff or any member of my family. When I finally did hear from one of coaches, I was informed that the doctors recommended I hang up my cleats and avoid more permanent or severe damage. The University would honor my scholarship, but I would have to clean up the men's' locker rooms, do athletic laundry and be on the cleaning crews at the stadium and indoor arena. That's a tough one for a teenager to take after you've always ridden the crest of the wave and been the hit of the party.
When I went to what I thought was "home", my uncle informed me it was time for me to move on in life and be a man and fend for myself. Over the next several months I lived with several of my sisters and had various non-descript jobs. Trying to find some stability, I enlisted in the Air Force, but had the rug pulled out from under me when I failed the physical exams.
My brother-in-law, Bill Baska, who taught me to drive at 12 and treated me like his favorite little brother from the first day he started dating my sister, was the first to come to my rescue. He rented me one of his duplex apartments so I could have a roof over my head. Also, he stopped in from time to time to make sure I had a few beers, food and cigarettes. That is something he would always do until I moved away from KCK for good. Shortly after moving in, I got a job downtown with an architectural firm as an errand boy. Little did I realize where that job would take me over the next 25 years.
The next "saving grace" or "guardian angel" to enter my life was the infamous E.S. "Sam" Fabac. He was the owner of "Sammy's Tavern" at 222 N 6th St, in KCK. This was the hottest and best "college bar" in town and for miles around. There were chicks galore, the most bad-ass jukebox and a cast of characters who never went by their given names. I could always get in without waiting in line because my cousin Giz was one of the bartenders. He was also one of my few family members I respected and tried to emulate and it seemed like he was one of those that was always there when I needed help the most.
When Giz graduated from the KC Art Institute and headed to Stanford on a Fulbright Award, a bartending job opened at Sammy's. One evening Sam approached me and said, "Dodig, I'm getting tired of seeing rolling around on the floor and cleaning up the joint before we're even closed. Floyd Lee, the porter, needs his job. How about you working behind the bar?". All those numerous athletic scholarship offers suddenly seemed like free popcorn at a gas station. Like the architectural office errand boy job, I had no idea how this was going to change my life.
Over the next few years, I would live two separate lives with two separate identities. By day, I was the respectable architectural draftsman/designer "John", in suit and tie. By night, I became the outrageous bartender, "Crazy Ralph Vera". What still means the most to me about Sammy's, is that I finally found a "home" where I could just be me. I even lived upstairs in Sam's apartment for a few years when he got married to Ramona (Come closer, your eyes...). The man even trusted me with the cash box for the bar. Sometimes, little things really mean a lot.
The one thing about Sam that impressed me the most is that in his unorthodox way, he was one of the most giving and caring people I have ever met. Everyone always talks about what Sam had done for them. To me, Sam was more concerned about what you could and were willing to do for yourself. Even if you were a bad egg, he'd give you the opportunity and resources to right the ship. He had this almost uncanny ability to almost instantaneously read people. He toyed and laughed with the bullshitters, but kept an eye on those who had "potential", but may need a nudge or two along the way. There were all those "God's Children" out there, and amongst them, the most fortunate of all, "Sam's Children".
Always remember the last time I saw him and talked with him. It was a few years after I had gotten my Masters degree in Architecture, was game fully employed and knocking down some decent bucks. I came to town for one of the Verbanic family events. I made sure I had a wad of cash in my pocket, nothing compared to what Sam usually carried, to cover my old bar tab, the money he had sent me to cover the difference of my out-of-state tuition fees as opposed to in-state tuition fees at OU and a few personal debts he had paid off that I had left behind with a few patrons and friends. He refused to take my money and then said, "Hey asshole, maybe I can use you as an example to these pricks, that they can get out of this joint one day too". Then, as typical Sam, not to get emotionally involved, excused himself, saying he had to take care of something back in Foots' apartment behind the bar. He later returned and we went down "memory lane" and I got brought up to date on the new cast of characters and the changing times. Remember him saying at one point, ”John, it's almost tame in here compared to when Harley, Verbanic and Ralph Vera worked behind that bar. Don't have to worry about any crazy stunts they're going to pull off on any given night or if I'll have a joint to open the next day."
Remember leaving his joint with tears in my eyes at the end of the night. They say you can't go home again, but for those few hours that evening with Sam, I was at "home" again.
Only have two real regrets in my life. Both involve the same thing. I never made it back to KCK for Sam's or Bill Baska's funerals. They gave me so much in life, without me ever having to ask for anything. They both did what they believed was right and needed to be done at any given time and didn't ask for a cent in return. They just both hoped that by removing a few barriers, I could get on and stay on the right road to a decent and happy life. I just wish I had gone back to pay my last respects.
Those years of bartending at Sam's and terrorizing 6th Street produced a still unchallenged notoriety for Harley, Young Walter and myself. Some say we still live within the hearts, not only of the little children on Strawberry Hill, but in the hearts of the little children of the thousands we served at Sam's. Don't know how many times I've told the stories of all the events, escapades and characters during that time, only to be looked at with a blank and unbelieving stare. Most gratifying to me personally, is when you run into someone who was actually there and the first thing out of their mouth is "Remember the time?". Even more satisfying is when one of the new kids on the block asks, "Did you guys really do that?". "Well, let me tell you son or young lady............".
Apparently not everyone appreciated our finely honed leadership abilities and antics. Ran into a kid back in KCK, on one of my visits, whose father referred to us as "The Three Egotistical Assholes". He however, thought we must have been really cool and wished he had been around at the time. Didn't say anything to him about his father, but he was probably one of the rift-rafts or rednecks that got 86ed.
The last time I was in the "real Sammy's" was a few years after Sam had passed on. Had this ritual that each time I went back to KC. I would first stop at Arthur Bryant's for a Bar-B-Q sandwich and then, without passing go, head straight over to Sammy's. It was always that going "home" thing to me. His brother Jerry had taken over business and little physically had changed other than the pinball machine was gone and a wood column had been added to correct a sagging roof. As usual, the place was somewhat full, but not packed. There was unfamiliar and low-volume music coming from the jukebox. There were a few of the never-say-die regulars, on their lifetime stools, at the end of the bar and most befuddling, a female bartender. Never more appropriate was that song, "We Gotta Get Out Of This Place". Felt obligated to have a few beers and go down "memory lane" with Jerry, the old regulars and those seeking confirmation that the events and escapades that occurred in there were really true. When I left this time, it didn't feel like I had been "home". It was more like dropping in on an old friend and having to persevere going through numerous photo albums.
That same eerie and uncomfortable feeling grew stronger when I left and headed North up 6th Street. What had once been a neon beer sign midway for a 365 day Carnival and Circus, a procession way of unlimited theatre and drama and the hope that the euphoria would never end, now was like the burnt out blocks in the Bronx. There was very little life on the street, very few lights on in the houses, apartments and businesses. It was like Harry Truman had dropped another atomic bomb.
The most devastating thing to me was the residence at 341 N 6th. I had to stop in the middle of the street to see if what I was looking at was really real. It bared some semblance of what had been a second "home" to me for so many years. I can't describe the horror and disbelief what appeared before my eyes. All I can say is, never hire an Illegal-Mexican architect that was raised by Gypsies. I put the pedal to the metal and got back to my hotel and got more whacked than I had ever been in my life. Hoped that when I woke up in the morning, that Sam's and 341 had only been a dream.
Back to 341 N 6th Street. That was the Helen and John Verbanic's family residence. They had four sons and one daughter. They were the cream that rose to the top in the Croatian community, but unfortunately, became unfairly one the most envied and negatively talked about families within the community. People forget that you have to get up off your ass to accomplish something in this life. When Helen dropped the kids off at St. John the Baptist School each morning in that white Cadillac, know that most kids envied the Verbanic kids, but at the same time questioned why their parents couldn't or weren't bringing them to school in a white Cadillac. Just know that on Saturday morning, if it was a football game, basketball game or a volleyball game, we all headed to that white Cadillac first to get the ride of our life and I can tell you none of us felt any guilt or envy.
During my times at Sam's and on 6th Street, in a way, I got adopted into the Verbanic family, almost like the 5th son due to my relationship with Young Walter. Is strange, how both Helen and John looked after me. And just like Sam and Bill, they removed the barriers and provided me with what I needed to get on and stay on the right road to attaining a decent and happy life. In a way, it is pretty cool, a few of their kids envied me as opposed to me envying them. Won't go into details, but Helen was the first human to ever give me a "real hug" and defended my existence on this Earth, years before Young Walter and I hooked up at Sam's.
When Sam got divorced and moved back into his apartment above the bar, Helen rented me one of her apartments on 6th Street. Like clockwork, every Friday I would cash my paycheck and head to 341 to pay my rent to Helen. She only cooked hamburgers and hot dogs on Friday night for John and the family. As I was her good boy, who always paid the rent on time, she would prepare me my special T-Bone steak. You can't imagine how may evil-eyes I got each time or how many times I have heard about my special treatment over the years.
Walter and I almost became hooked at the hips. We were dreamers and almost in a way daredevils. We were both fascinated by that great big world out there and wanted to get out there and experience every bit and inch of it. Our greatest ally and abettor was non other than Helen. She was like that trainer in a boxer's corner. This lady was determined to see us win and make those dreams become a reality. John didn't try to discourage us, but focused his family attention to make sure his other kids didn't start heading down Walter's and my path. I have a wonderful photo of them which exemplifies their silent and overt support. At my 23rd birthday party in Bull Montana's apartment above Sarge and Annie's, they showed up in full dress as a Roaring 20's couple. Can tell you it shocked a few people.
The last stop on the Annual Christmas Eve Parade was always at the Verbanics'. This wasn't your traditional parade. It was that crazy cast of characters from Sammy's, who met at noon, got totally blitzed and at 5 o'clock, headed North up 6th Street to serenade the neighborhood and bars with their drunken caroling. One year we carried homely left over Christmas trees. Another year we had 3 drunken Santas with elderberry wine stained suits. The one constant was the accordion played by the infamous "Ponta Bozich". Someone always had to walk backwards and carry his sheet music. Ponta couldn't play without the sheet music and often had a difficulty in playing with it. Along the route we stopped and sang a carol for those brave enough to come out of their homes. The cops slowly cruised by sometimes to see what was going on, but continued on when they discovered a few of their fellow officers were involved. Our main destinations were the numerous bars. Stagger into one, sing a carol or two, drink a free shot and stagger out and stagger into another bar and repeat the same routine. Damn, there were a lot of bars on 6th Street. Like a scene out of a WWII movie, the still standing and able carried the wounded to the Verbanics. There was always little Loretta yelling to her family, "They're coming! They're coming!".
John and Helen really put out one helluva spread. There was food in the dining room, more in the kitchen and more beer and booze, just what we all needed, than could be consumed. Ponta, then secured in the safety of a chair, did his best to play that accordion and 341 broke out into song. It was like the celebrations the U.S. troops must have experienced after freeing a French town from the Nazis. The crowd gradually thinned out after being well fed and relubricated. Some left to spend Christmas eve with their families and others with their friends. For those who had no place to go, Helen made up a little "care package" which they could enjoy later that evening or on Christmas morning. She was truly a dear, caring and wonderful lady. Like being one of "Sam's Children", it was great being one of "Helen's Children". She had many of us whom she never actually gave birth to.
In a way, I always identify Sam's, 6th Street and 341 as being similar to "The Grapes of Wrath". Seems like everyone moves on from what they called and knew as "home". You pick up stakes, pack up what is of value to you and without any guarantees, move on down the road in search of a new "home". Walter and I headed in opposite directions to chase our dreams with Helen urging us on with tears in her eyes. Fortunately, for Asshole Walter and Asshole Ralph, we would remain hooked at the hip for the next 45 years, until his death earlier this year. Helen and John moved to Washington Heights, but never abandoned me as their 5th son, nor did the kids abandon me as their "adopted brother". Like 341, the place on Washington Blvd, was definitely a "home", but I missed 6th Street. In a way I think I missed Sam, Bill or Helen coming to my defense and trying to convince me to get back on the right track. Is extremely important to know that someone cares about you.
After Bill, Sam, Helen and John had passed on, I had no reasons or desires to go back to KCK, with the exception of my wonderful sister Maggie, who like my cousins Giz and Don were there, without any BS when I needed the truth. However another situation arose in my life. My sister Cass, Bill's wife died in 2005 and my nephew Mark asked if I would come back for her funeral. I was extremely hesitant, for old and deep wounds don't heal easily, but didn't want to almost disrespect Bill again. On top of that I felt another obligation. Is strange how religion comes into your life to challenge your values and beliefs, even when you are no longer a practitioner. When you get baptized, you inherit two unknown individuals responsible for guiding you through life, should anything happen to your parents. In English they are referred to as "godfather" and "godmother". In Croatian they are "kum" and "kuma". As I was Mark's "kum", he now became my responsibility, even though he was then about 43.
Fortunately for me when I gave into his request to return, many of the antagonistic old-timers in my birth family had passed on and most of my despicable cousins managed to avoid participating in any of the traditional Croatian events which take place upon one's passing. There were a few uncomfortable moments like, "What's been your problem these past 40 years?". But somehow, I managed to make it unscathed through the whole situation. Think it was the presence of the next generation and their kids that provided me with an acceptable level of comfort. In one sense, I was like this unknown entity from afar, whom they had heard rumored stories about, but didn't actually believe I existed. They were courteous and curious at the same time, but kept a distance almost fearing they might contract warts or some unspecified disease. Made me smirk when they introduced me amongst themselves, their kids and others in attendance. To some I was "Uncle Ralph", to others I was "Uncle John" and to the rest I was "Mark's, He's a Bit Out There, Uncle John Michael". Was a great relief to discover that an extremely toxic gene pool can be drastically thinned via procreation.
Went back to California with a wee bit of trust and hope that I could return to rekindle a few family relationships and old relationships with others in the area without having to be in disguise, enter under the cover of the darkness of night or have those I chose to participate with, swear they had not seen or heard from me in years, when I did unexpectedly show up in KCK.
As Summer was ending and Fall approaching, Mark began his subtle campaign to coerce me into coming back to KCK/Tonganoxie for Thanksgiving. He pulled out all the stops, used every trick and ploy in the book and swore on his mother's and father's graves. He promised that the only people who would know or participate with me would be him, his wife, their two kids, his wife's family, which I had had never met and my sister Maggie and her family Still couldn't trust my nephew's promises and make a commitment.
Entered my wonderful, hooked at the hip, lifelong confidant, Walter A. Verbanic. He tried to be logical with me and convince me that it may be time to bury the hatchet. He also told me that if things went awry, I had several safe houses, his brothers' and sister's, which I could escape to and make it a worthwhile trek. Still not convincing me, he searched through the rings of locksmith keys to unlock my resistance. He came up with a better plan. "You fly to KC, get a rental car, stay at the Hyatt downtown and I'll tell all my family you're in town if things go South". Still not totally convincing me, he reached down into his bag of inducements and the spark of genius came out. "You know brother, that after Sam passed and Jerry took over the joint, they started this thing about having a bartenders reunion at Sammy's, the night before Thanksgiving, in his honor". That unblocked the sinuses and I was on Expedia, booking a flight and hotel faster than one can put their pants on when the husband comes through the door while you're doing his wife. Envisioning my friend Lionel Harleymore, the stage was set, the lights were dimmed and without the aid of a lit "applaud" sign, I saw myself sauntering and trodding onto the boards of the past to thunderous accolades.
Over the next few weeks, I prepared myself for going "home" to Sam's, one of the few places where I never tried to run away from "home". Per Walter's directions, I made sure to book the right rental car, let everyone know I would be staying in chic and expensive hotel, had plenty of cash in my pocket, including several C-notes to buy several rounds and made sure I would be wearing my Beverly Hills finery with the labels inside. I, egotistically recalled my infamy on 6th Street and was like a hovercraft floating above reality. My enthusiasm would have produced the greatest wide-on any female could have experienced in their life and thought I was a kin to Monk Poderbarac.
Finally, as always, the moment of truth arrives to confirm or deny our sense of reality. On Thanksgiving eve, my nephew and his wife showed up at the Hyatt, we had a few drinks and headed to Sam's and 6th Street in separate cars. Almost wet my pants several times thinking about my grand entrance and the responses. " It's Ralph, Jesus Christ has risen! Where are the apostles? Are you, Harley and Walt going to give us one more performance and fuck with us one more time?". The thought about going "home" one more time overtook me, but unfortunately, I forgot about the last time I had went "home" to Sammy's.
When I pulled up on 6th and Tenny, there was not the long line of celebrants waiting to get in. No one was double parked nor were there any cars circling the block trying to find a parking spot. It was more like Sunday when Sammy's was closed. The lights were on inside, but nothing seemed to be happening. I just sat there stunned and almost petrified. Everything still looked the same on the outside, but there wasn't a welcome mat at the door saying "welcome home Ralph". My nephew pulled in behind me and came up to my rental to deliver me the bad news. As I sat there mortified he said, "I didn't want to break your bubble Uncle John. I know what Sam and Sammy's has meant and means to you. Jerry sold the place a few years back. None of the old timers come in here anymore and it's just a very different place that you won't even recognize".
One thing we all learn through maturity and aging is that nothing will last forever, but to be thankful for that which you have been fortunate to experience. We also learn, that the only way to have a permanent "home" is to buy a Chevy dually and a double wide mobile home. You also learn to take advantage of the moment and place, record it in you brain and accept the fact that you may not likely ever pass this way again.
Rather than run away from "home", I got up the courage to walk through the front door of Sammy's one last time. It was the first time I had ever walked through that door when no one recognized me or knew my name. I asked the bartender if there was going to be the annual Sammy's bartenders reunion that evening. He and the others sitting at the bar, all just stared at me like mannequins with blank expressions on their faces. There were gay and lesbo couples, dudes in leather with tattoos and no longer just 3.2 beer, but a full liquor bar. One thing Sam, Bill and Helen had taught me was to be respectful when you were in someone else's house. Know that Mark and Chris were uncomfortable, but I had to have the total experience of Sammy's one more time, regardless of its given state or the crowd that now frequented the place.
The bartender and his wife, the new owners, bought us a round and as was customary, when Sam owned the joint, I bought everyone a round. In a strange way the spirit of Sam still lived on within those walls. However, they had made many changes to the place. There was the new back bar, a couple of big screen TVs, different chairs, tables and bar stools and horribly tiled restrooms. Think they hired that same Illegal-Mexican architect. What had been "the den of love", the dance floor was still there, but they had opened up one whole wall with an arch to Foots' old apartment. The only thing that remained the same, was the picture of the dogs playing cards and a jukebox in the same corner, which almost sacrilegiously was turned off. They asked me numerous questions about the apartment upstairs, the merchandise in the basement, Foots' apartment, the rotund gentleman who was the previous owner and if all the stories about what had happened within the confines of the existing walls were true. It ended up being one of those moments in life where I could go down "memory lane" one last time and at the same time pass on the experiences that make life worth living for those that follow.
Is a hard thing to have to face, that I will never be able to go "home" again, either to Sammy's or to the 341 N 6th. I chastise Harry Truman for dropping that bomb. However until they incinerate me, I will have a big smile on my face and never forget my wonderful times on 6th Street. Thank God I have these DVDs implanted into my brain that allows me relive some of the best years of my life and be "home" anytime I want, even if it no longer exists in reality.
Ralph Vera, John Dodig or now JOHN MICHAEL
(Some other thoughts and recollections.)
Foots' Apartment:
Foots, Joe Grace, Foots' honey, Squirrely Shirley, The White Rat, Zugar, Tye, The cook from the Italian Gardens, The painter who never left with a dime, Roads, Mutt, Plain Bobby, Crazy Tony and Georgia, the cops, Joe Rajia, the elderberry wine king and the list could go on.
Foots with his diamond stick pin, the picture of the "Harmony Boys", the 45 under his pillow and the drawer full of stacked decks to play "low ball" and of course his "gawden".
Those all night card games, Foots' 10% for the house, the parlay cards, the food he cooked and charged the players for (When I lived upstairs, I paid him $5/week -what a bargain!) and when someone had something for free, Foots' famous line, "How many ya gots? Gimme one for myself and one for my son-in law".
The cast of characters and bartenders:
Giz, Gordy the Golden Bear and his wife, Harley, Young Walter, Ralph Vera, Panta, Moon, Jawo, Pretty Eyes, Beast and the Prairie Rose, Birdman and Brother Bird, Flipper, Scoop, Rock Bonehead and his brother and father, Floyd Lee Kelly, The Salvation Army lady, Whit, Zeek, Pavlic, Quilty from the "Beachcomber", Spivac, Garbo, Sick Fred, Loser, Bull Montana "the nomadic barber", Albie, Boy Blunder, Joe Don, Alex, Eileen, Bradey, Reenie, Linda, Suzie, Pretty Wilma,Gloria, Healthy, a long list of sweet honeys and dollies, the strange cats from the Art Institute, the Future Farmers in town for the American Royal, the hundreds that came in from all the Big 8 schools while attending the tournament in KC, the flight attendants from TWA's training school, a Miss Kansas or two, thieves and fencers and too many others to remember their names. Everybody that walked through that front door became a part of a strange history. Joe Schmidt never came in, so we got rid of him with the famous "hate mail campaign".
Sammy's was like Andy Warhol's 15 minute of fame. If you hadn't been in there, you didn't qualify for those 15 minutes.
As a bartender you really worked your ass off. When you had to take a leak or spend some time on the dance floor with a new honey, your chosen fill-in found out that it wasn't all fun and games. Probably why Sam allowed us to do "our thing" and also appreciated when the cash register went ching, ching, ching to never seen totals at the end of the night.
Harley, Walter and Ralph aspiring to be poets and which could write the strangest and most prophetic verse.
Being able to carry 20 empty bottles at a time, 10 on each hand.
Having control over what songs went on the jukebox and the control over the reset button and volume control.
Special events for the crew and regulars:
After closing, going to the Teepee Room for breakfast, where I got my name Ralph Vera.
After closing, cruising over town in Sam's Olds, with Jock Pie barking out a rear window, to Roma Bakery and then to the KC Star to get a paper while the ink was still wet.
Being on the exclusive 50 list for Sam's Christmas and New Years parties.
Going over town en mass to "Marge's Disco" and being served by Bossy with his special $1 drink, if you left a $1 tip.
The picnics out a Wyandotte County lake, with Tony DeAngelo providing his black Cadillac hearse.
The Sunday photo trips to various destinations to secure our vanity and allow Young Walter to use his expensive Nikon camera.
Being able to purchase one of the sixers in the cooler, on closing at midnight on Saturday night, so instead of having to go over town or to a local club, you could go up to Ralph's apartment and continue to party the night away.
When Sam got married, us bartenders, those late night regulars and Jock Pie were left without a Cruise Director. We gravitated to Phil's "Last Chance Before Turnpike", Plavin's "Dunav Inn" or any dive or truck stop that had a bowling or pinball machine where we could play for half-pints. Want for everyone to have a happy life, but can say we were all happy when Sam got divorced and we could get back to the regular cruise routine.
The white meat packer hats from "Barneys" (Required uniform for a while).
Jock Pie on top of the cigarette machine, eating gum off the bottom of the tables, sticking his nose in the chicks crotches or being unable to walked after having a beer.
Eight Ball Connection: ( Private club where most headed when Sammy's closed or wasn't opened.)
Characters, crowd and events:
Buttons, his brothers Donald and Harry "the huckster", Johnnie Plavin, Charlie Verbon, Big Sam and his brother Mikey, Bobby Brunski, Blaze, Tiger Mike, Tennessee, Sheriff Al Sachen, Mrs. North and her daughter, Phil Vogrin, Jerry Delich and his 18 year old honey, KC Star reporter Richie Sambol and again a cast, ever-changing and too large to remember. Also, as previously mentioned, this was where the after hours crowd from Sammy's migrated to.
Free stew, chili or sausage and kraut on Saturday for the regulars.
Big Sam putting the pitchers of water into the safe and throwing the money from the register into the bar sink.
When Johnnie Plavin was going to Kroger's to get each of the patrons a roasted chicken, Big Sam wanted a chicken too. Plavin brought him back a live red one that became like a pet dog and followed him up from his home on Tauromee to 6th St. each day.
Ralph getting whacked, when also tending bar there too, from time to time, decided to tend bar in the nude. The customers pushed him outside into the falling snow and finally let him back in when they all had a few rounds on the house.
Related to that, is the night at Bull Montana's "Chapel Club", Walter, his wife, Ralph, his wife and Harley disrobed, sat in the niche with two couches, on the way to the restrooms. They sat there all evening amusing BM's patrons. He couldn't complain for business picked up and he had the best total ever at the end of the night.
Ralph eating 5 of those roasted Kroger chickens within an hour while adroitly playing pool, just to win a $5 bet and get a free meal.
No one playing Button's jukebox, even though him and Young Walter were partners in American Music Vending Company, until he allowed some of the songs that were on the jukebox at Sammy's.
Boy Blunder trying to park his car and running into 6-7 cars and the asking, "you think I'm close enough to the curb and they won't give me a ticket?".
Other memorable moments in Sam's and on 6th Street:
Harley, Walt and Ralph tending bar in their underwear and knee length stocking. The biggest night every recorded on the register at Sam's.
The chorus when "Rat Patrol", "Batman" or "Deputy Dog" was on TV.
The cops discovering marijuana, thanks to The White Rat in Foots' "gawden".
When two punks tried to rob Sam after closing. Harley, Walt and Ralph tracked them down to the restroom at the Clark's Station on 7th Street. They took them back to Foots'. That old man did a physical number on them. Poor bastards went up to the police station, turned themselves in. Foots had told them "these boys have killed a lotta people and because ya tried to do something to Sam, they ain't gonna hesitate sendin ya both outta town in a boxcar or feedin you to the carp down on the Kaw river".
One Christmas eve when the trio dressed up in Santa outfits. Sam took Harley and me over to St. Luke's to visit Ramona in the hospital and later her kids. Those SOBs tried to lock me out of the Olds after taking me to a park, where a local radio station was having a free gift drop. Earlier we had terrorized the whole nursing staff at St. Luke's with our gallons of elderberry wine. The patients seemed to appreciate it, even if the hospital didn't. As we would say, "F'em if they can't take a joke".
Ralph as Jesus Christ on Good Friday making sacrilegious appearances in a few bars with his disciples Garbo and Walter. They stopped by Big Sam's with coal oils smudge pots. Brother Mikey panicked, threw them and the lawn and shrubs caught on fire. When the fire department showed up, in his Valentine's Day boxer shorts and tank top, Big Sam tried to explain to them that he had just been visited by Jesus Christ and two of his apostles in a little red sports a car trying to get him to repent for his sins.
The July 4th trip to Bagnold Dam in the Ozarks with no windshields on the Healy or MG. Joe Don at Al Elam's rock quarry and the crowd of 25 or so that made the trip from Sammy's.
The Sammy's gang going to Saturday games in Lawrence or Columbia.
Have to stop here or I may deny myself more memorable moments in my life. Am sure that I will finagle a few more to relate in the future.
Am sorry that Young Walter is not here with Harley and myself to enjoy all the moments we shared. But as Walter always said to me, "brother, one of us is going to go first, regardless of who it is, keep being an asshole and push their buttons".
Hope all this can be a little food for thought.
Ralph
(This is a previous email sent Harley inre the music at Sammy's)
Harley,
Spent an hour trying to respond to your email. All of a sudden everything disappeared. This seems to be a common thing for me. For some reason, I am not suppose to get my words out there to the world.
A few things pertaining to music I remember. Had a few memories and stories that got lost unfortunately.
G3 on the Seeburg was Thelonius Monk's "Tea For Two". Giz used it as a "last call" song. Also the power of the "reject" button when someone played something that was a downer when everyone was going nuts. Scouring our copy of "Billboard Mag" each week.
Remember, we could go down to "One Stop" and pick out what we wanted. We always picked out the strangest groups and titles. We had the quarters with the red paint for "house plays".
The most played list: (Some selections never got played the whole time I worked there. Buttons Mufich couldn't figure out why The Top 10 seldom got any plays.
Hedgehoppers Anonymous - "It's Good News Week"
Dylan - (He dominated the jukebox). "Subterranean Homesick Blues", "Maggie's Farm", "The Times They Are A Changin", "Lay Lady Lay", "All I Really Want To Do", "A Hard Rains Gonna Fall", "I'll Be Your Baby Tonight", "I Want You", "It Ain't Me Babe", "Positively 4th (6th) Street", "Just Like A Woman", "Rainy Day Woman #12 & 35" (Everbody Must Get Stoned), "Stuck Inside of Mobile With The Memphis Blues Again", "Desolation Row" and of course "Like A Rollin Stone". (Strange how some of his tunes worked for a little bump and grind on the dance floor, had great pick-up lines for the chicks and didn't inhibit anyone from thinking they couldn't sing.)
Stones - "Get No Satisfaction", "19th Nervous Breakdown" and "Paint It Black"
Barry McGuire - "Eve of Destruction" (Got the most plays on the night we sold out everything in the house.)
Screamin Jay Hawkins - "I Put A Spell On You"
(The previous two guys, I believe we saw at the black church over in KCMo on Paseo where they had the Sunday afternoon services with guest singers or musicians. The Staple Singers also appeared there.)
The Animals - "We Gotta Get Outta This Place"
The Box Tops - "The Letter" and "A Whiter Shade of Pale"
The Byrds - (Gene Clarke, their songwriter and vocalist would come in from time to time when back home in KC.) "Turn Turn Turn", "Mr.Tambourine Man" and "Eight Miles High".
Christmas songs - Traditionally they would put in 5-10 each year. They would get a few plays with some accompanied crowd sing-a-longs, but when the crowd got wound up, the volume got cranked up and here comes Dylan and the Stones again.
You are right about the music being an integral part at Sam's. It was like a video game joystick that controlled the mood, tempo and action in the joint. Crank up the volume to get'em drinkin and minglin. Crank it up a little more to get'em crazier and more buzzed. Then crank it up to the max so the whole building and everyone in it shook. If you didn't know where Sam's was for sure, you knew you were getting close, for you could hear the music a few blocks away. Don't know about your hearing, but mine has never been the same. Young Walter attributed his two hearing aids to Sam's.
A few other thoughts and notes:
The only time the jukebox wasn't on was when "Rat Patrol" or "Bat Man" was airing on TV. Even then, the regular chimed in with the "zaps", "pows", "oofs" and hummed the theme song as the dynamic duo drove from the "bat cave" to save the day.
Don't think that very many had the songs on records to play at home, but it didn't take long for a rookie to learn the lyrics of "The Sammy's Top 20". Was mind bending to me is how on any given night, one group would sing the lead in lines and and the crowd like a chorus would respond. "How does it feel........Good. How does it really feel..........Real Good".
When I look back, the music reminds me in a way of the "Soul Train Line". Not for the dancing, but for the individuality each expressed as they made their grand entrances stretching their vocal chords in harmony to what was playing. It was like the high fives at the introduction of the starters before a basketball game or the models, en mass, coming down the runway at the end of a fashion show.
Most baffling to me was that Dylan's "Desolation Row" packed the dance floor. Still am trying to find the logic in that one. Do know that it gave us a chance to pick up empty bottles, dump the butt trays and wipe down a table or two.
The dumbfounded looks on the first timers faces when they looked for something to play on the Seeburg. They looked like they had just landed on Mars. It definitely wasn't the elevator music they heard in their college town hangouts or their AM car radios. Didn't take them long to assimilate though.
One other thing that intrigued me was when new records were put on the jukebox. The old ones always got saved for Sam. Think he took them home to the kids. He would go through all the titles, then put them on his thumb like a bowling ball. He would often carry them around like that for 20-30 minutes, occasionally twirling them, before he put them in the Olds. Is strange how we remember little tics of people.
Those were highly political times with the war and all. Guys were going to or coming home from Nam. Many of the regulars were in the reserves. Even though some of the music was anti-war or protest, hardly anyone got involved in those issues when they walked through that door. It was a time and place to celebrate and enjoy life to the utmost. Those that fortunately made it back weren't harassed or chastised, but welcomed back to join in the party we all hoped would never end.
Probably gave you much more information than you requested. Is funny how we sometimes take music for granted. Knew a few guys who did soundtracks and scores for movies. Their job was to enhance the drama, emotions and sense of time and place with the activities on the screen. Remember the organ player over at the old Paramount Theatre when we would go watch the silent movie revivals? When Walter was doing all the car advertising, they spent a lot of time selecting just the right music to relate to their targeted market group. Did a few set designs for a small theatre group in Palos Verdes. They always wanted a lot of visuals, I wanted minimalistic, for I thought the writing and the actor's ability to deliver the words were what the audience came for, not a Studio 54 freak show. Guess that's why I like the idea of your one-man shows. It is about the message and the messenger. Maybe I am strange, but I like "books on tape" so I can close my eyes and create my own visuals. Can envision you doing your presentation with a good audio man in the background interweaving Dylan or the Stones as quietly as an electric trolling motor approaches a school of bass.
Hope I have been of a little help.
Ralph