1974- Did we ever get out of there? A few weird memories

I was listening to an oldies station on Radio365 this afternoon and Wings’ “Band On The Run” came on. It's never been my favorite McCartney song, (I'll probably always leave that to that cacophonous power pop mess - Jet), but it is a pleasant enough tune, and it does remind me of times gone for 31 years. It came out about this time of year and stayed throughout the summer. I've always believed the summer of '74 was a weird one, perhaps the strangest year of my life. And I've never really figured out why I feel that way - perhaps that IS the reason! It just seemed to be one of random and strange events. It might be because I’d just turned 18, or perhaps due to finishing my first year of college, or getting my first real job (janitor and later a bellhop at the local Holiday Inn). But it just felt weird, even in retrospect. It was a hot summer, as usual, filled with very bad wine and very good friends. There was still a lot of hanging out with the old neighborhood gang – the last time that would occur. A lot of the people I’d known my whole life, and the rest going back for many years: Edmund, Bruce, Millie, Ron, Rick, Walter, and Cliff. There were parties at a friend of Rick’s named Paul, at his parent’s townhouse in Old Town that were so smoke filled that I’m surprised they didn’t set off alarms at Alexandria’s fire stations. I guarantee you that there wasn’t a living canary within miles after one of those bacchanals. And the wine! A cheap chemical stew so foul that it’s a wonder that subsequent blood tests haven’t resulted in the EPA declaring me a Superfund site.
And strange women – someone named “Boston” who appeared to be 20 months along in her pregnancy. And then there was Alice. I’m sorry, I won’t repeat the stories involving her. I’ve embarrassed some of you enough about those episodes… As for the rest, let decorum be maintained…
There were constant excursions to 14th Street. For those of you too young to remember, or out in the hinterland, this was the center of, shall we say - hedonistic excess, in the District. Ron loved to go, and of course the rest of us would follow. That and the strip joints on upper Wisconsin sure provided an 18 year old with an education. And that’s where we dip back to Band On The Run. That and ZZ Top’s LaGrange were the two big songs always seeming to play on the strip joints’ sound systems. Whenever I hear them, I still think back to hostile barmaids serving incredibly overpriced and watered down beer as we sat trying not to gape, (well, at least I tried to remain demure…). Then one night, some asshole decided it would be cute to give one of the girls a whistle to blow along occasionally to the music while dancing (a whistle like a policeman might use). The first time it happened I nearly dove under the table! I wasn’t looking at the girl (see, I told you I was demure), and suddenly I heard this damn whistle go off and my mind immediately raced back to every police raid scene I’d ever seen in the movies! It can ruin a mood, I’ll tell you. I’ve hated whistles to this day.
At any rate, being able to hang out at such landmarks as Clancy’s, This Is It, Good Guys and the other rat traps I found to be quite valuable. At 18 I became a grizzled veteran of the whole sordid scene, it held no mystery to me, and I also learned early on that I didn’t really like it. Over the years, I was able to turn down many invitations to partake of that world without feeling shy or embarrassed – been there, done that, bought the t-shirt.
And there were good stories too. One night Edmund befriended some drunken Black thug who had a gang he wanted us to join. The initiation consisted of us allowing them to beat the shit out of us beforehand. Edmund agreed to meet him at the appointed place and time, and we left the bar in a mode of travel that preceded and excelled Stealth technology by several years. The location is one I vowed never to venture near to up to this day.
Another time Ron had actually managed to hook up with one of the dancers at a joint called the Fireplace (I’m told it’s a gay bar now – wheels keep on turnin’…). At any rate, we were all sitting together there, and I guess Ron got up to go to the bathroom, leaving me to make small talk with her. Deciding that a conversation on Chaucer, the I Ching, or geopolitics would probably not be productive, I decided on a simpler approach: “So, you work here?” I still remember with great amusement her response. She tilted her head ever so slightly back, with her chin elevated in a position of achievement, and with a flash of pride in her eyes declared in a perfect New Jersey accent – “Oh yea, I’m a PROFFESSIONAL!” “You’re parents must be very proud”, I muttered into my beer…
There were other little twists going on too. I mention them not because they’re particularly interesting or important, but because any retelling of that era would be incomplete without them. Frosted schooners at Lums on Route 7, with a juke box that Ron could inject a quarter into just the right way to get it to play free songs (shades of Fonzie!). There were also a series of lights on 7 that Ron had timed perfectly so that he could race towards the Red and pass through just as it turned green. (I should point out at this time that Ron was one of the funniest people I’ve ever met. He could take on a situation or a person, and with a glance, a raising of the eye brow, or a low uttered exclamation, “yo”, he’d have us in stitches. It is impossible for me to think of him without a smile. I sincerely believe that given a right turn here and there, he’d be hailed as a comedic genius today in pop culture).
And there were our beloved cars – the Dustpan, the Starship, the Yo Mobile and of course, Cliff’s Corvair of Death! Plus the other hangouts we’d frequent – the Electric Circus down on Route 1 (a pinball joint with the worst pizza of all time), Gunchers, the Warehouse, the Aeroplane and the Exchange were all regular stops. (The Exchange merits its own story some time. The bartender was Ed Raskind, an old high school teacher to Cliff, Edmund and myself and a legend at both T.C. Williams as well as the D.C. bar scene. Listen to Billy Joel’s song, “Piano Man” – THAT was the Exchange.). I’ve forgotten a lot of details about these places. Hell, it’s a credit to my brain’s fortitude that I remember ‘em at all.
Looming over all of this was Jack In The Box. A grease fueled Mecca for all of us untermencsh. I’ve written about its glory in past missives and will not repeat myself here. Suffice to say, it’s a raggedy Olympus to those “Spirits In The Night” who were hanging out in ’74.
Hmmm, as I look over this gentle little jaunt down memory lane, I see references to doper parties, strip joints, bars, pinball parlors, and Jack In The Box. Not exactly the coming of age story of a young Mennonite in the 1890’s… But looking back, it seems to me that there was a sort of innocence about the whole thing, (which may say more about me than some would care to know). What can I say, it’s a weird compilation of events, and that was the summer of ’74…