The Erie Russian Club
(The summer of ’73)
I came out of the hot windless evening off the street in July into the cool cozy Russian Club, of Erie, Pennsylvania, myself; pass through the main lobby door into the barroom by the waiter, finding my way to the bar which looked into the dinning room, pulled up a stool. A few men I had seen before were standing at the bar, I had been a member going on six-months, a few men to my right were seated also on stools, I recognized them from before, I worked at Pennsylvania Electric Company, the director who was Russian recommended I join the club, and at his recommendations, I was given membership. They did some cheers, I joined them.
“Like a cigarette,” mentioned a short stocky man, Herb I think was his name, a rough looking character; I was all of twenty-four, ripe out of the Army, the Vietnam War. He pushed a pack of Camel cigarettes towards me in case I’d change my mind, I simple pulled out a pack of Lucky Strike lit one, he smiled. His fingers were thick, far from well-manicured, and the fellow next to him, who he was talking to—evidently before I arrived, had an even more of a grunt to his deep voice than Herb, with large puffy eyes, black curly hair, a little taller than Herb, both around forty-five, with un-ironed flannel shirts on, and dirty blue jeans on.
“Can’t taste those Lucky Strikes,” said Herb, “got to have my Camels. So how’s Henry down at the EPE (Erie Pennsylvania Electric)?”
He knew the director, he came drinking there on the weekends, today was Thursday, half-price drinks from seven to nine o’clock.
“Fine,” I said, “I really don’t see him much, I’m in the cellar sweeping all day.”
“Doesn’t take any brains to do that,” he laughed.
“I suppose,” I said, “but it pays well.”
He drew in a deep lungful of smoke from the Camel cigarette; let it out slowly making little circles, then let it all come out in one long smooth drag: “Give us a round here,” said Herb. I was drinking Coors, and he was drinking whiskey and water, his buddy had a bottle of Coors beer also.
“Only Russians can come in here, right?” I asked.
“American-Russians,” said Herb, adding “no wops or Mexicans or niggers allowed,” and he laughed.
“Nope,” said his partner, “just us Russians, and you know fella,” he went on to say,” the only reason you got a job out there at Pennsylvania Electric, is because you’re Russian. Henry would never have hired you otherwise, because I know him.”
I just nodded my head acknowledging his statement. I was starting to believe that because most everyone I met out at my place of work was in one-way or another connected to a Russian heritage.
There was a sudden silence in the bar area, the outside door opened up and someone had entered the room, a famous person, and varying number of eyes were looking at this fellow, even Herb, and his buddy, I slowly turned about to see who it was, a little tipsy. Then trying to figure exactly who the figure was—that moment of disconnected passion that comes during broken-up thoughts—unable to recognized exactly who he was, but knowing he was somebody imported, I went to ask Herb who he was, and just before I asked the stranger bumped into me—; there is a rear dinning room, where one can eat and drink nightly, it is a smoke-filled room, like the main bar area, just more refined—he bumped into me as I was saying “All right, who the heck is he?”
“That damn Jack Benny, he thinks he’s hot stuff,” said Herb, “he comes here now and then and thinks he owns the place, as if we all got to move for him, like a big shot!”
“Yaw, that’s him all right,” I said, “sure does look like him, saw him on television a few times. He’s Russian too, haw?”
There was lots of conversation over by the doorway, and all the way into the dinning room, they walked all the way back to the backroom, as if sweeping their way into the little backroom, beyond. My bottle of beer was half empty, and the night was getting on, I had to work the following day, and it was already 9:30 p.m., not late for a weekend, but getting late for a weekday. And I had two little twin boys at my apartment I had to take care of, so I abruptly swallowed my beer and bid farewell.
No: 643 (6-25-2010)
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