Friday nights at the bar were lively and late
In the previous installment, a packed bar watched the boxing matches on the TV, betting with my Dad on who would win, then danced to music on the juke box.
One night when I was singing along to “A White Sport Coat (and a Pink Carnation),” a Marty Robbins’ ’57 hit, Mom walked up to me quite tipsy, “What’s that you’re singing? It’s not a ‘Pink’ carnation.”
I knew to go easy when she was lit, so I asked, “What do you think it is, Mom?”
“Green,” she declared staunchly. “Listen closely. There's no 'k' at the end. He's saying 'Green.”
“But Mom!” I said, pointing at the selection on the jukebox, “It says right there ‘A White Sport Coat (and a PINK Carnation)’.”
She was agitated now. “I don’t care what the hell it says, someone just typed it wrong.” And she started to sing along, saying “Green Carnation.”
I got bold. “Do you wanna bet on this, Mom?”
“What’s the stakes?”
I thought a moment. “Two weeks allowance,” I offered. “Deal” she said, and laughed her way back to the bar.
The next time we went to Kalispell, we went into Norm’s News, and I showed her the sheet music. I’d won the bet, but she didn’t give up that easily. “Dammit, it shoulda been a green carnation because men don’t wear pink.”
Around midnight, the crowd started to thin, and the music usually slipped to maudlin cryin’-in–the-beer tunes. Most of the families had left and I was by myself in the booth. The low light in the room had a rosy cast from cigarette smoke and the neon beer signs, like a sunset through a dusty sky. Some people pondered their reflections in the big mirrors behind the back bar, keeping their thoughts to themselves as they sipped on their drinks and smoked their cigarettes. Others were engaged in heated debate about some current event or philosophical point. Mom’s favorite subject was “the little guy,” which was a big Republican theme in the 50s, to win the votes of small businessmen. Dad supported the viewpoint of the many farmers in the valley, but often argued the opposite point, just for the sake of debate. If an election was coming up, they argued about who would win. A few customers like Lloyd and Gaynelle Kurth (who owned a prosperous cherry orchard down the east shore), just sang out of tune to the music on the Juke Box. When someone played If a Woman Answers, Hang up the Phone, Lloyd hollered “Come on Cyclone, lets dance!” I never knew why he called her Cyclone, but she always came to attention when she heard that call.
I eventually fell asleep in the booth, exhausted from my full exciting day, to wake up only when I heard Jens cry “Last call.” Then I knew it was time to start tugging on Mom or Dad’s arm so we could go home and let Jens close up. They were usually pretty high, enjoying the company of their fellow drinkers, so it often took a long time to get them to leave.
Out in the car, Dad always left his driver’s door open while he fumbled under the dome light for the right key. Mom inevitably said, “Close the damn door, Bill. It’s cold in here.” But he pretended not to hear. When he finally got the car started, he closed his door, put the car in reverse, and backed out onto Osborn Street. (One time he backed into a telephone pole, and Mom never let him live that one down, but he swore up and down someone moved the pole!). I snuggled close to Mom to keep warm, while they continued discussing some fine debate point. And before I knew it, we were home. Dad took out the frying pan and made bacon and eggs for a late night dinner. Sometimes Mom made waffles in the O’Keefe and Merrit waffle iron. It was round, and made of shiny chrome with black bakelite handles. It rested in a cradle so that you could turn it over to access one waffle grill on the top and another on the bottom, for two waffles at a time; it was my job to turn the iron. I don’t actually remember going to sleep, but I’m sure I must have, because the next thing I remember is Dad’s “Wake up Honey, breakfast is almost ready,” on Saturday morning.