The Anchor Lounge was another favorite venue for the Saturday Night Fights. Their constant barmaid, Inez figured in a lot of them.
Inez was middle-age and stout with beautiful white hair, that she had professionally set every day. It was her trademark. That and her Don't Mess With Inez reputation. She could handle most unruly customers herself and when she had to call us, we knew it we were going to earn our money.
Sometimes the customers called us on her. Once a responding cop found a drunk standing outside the entrance, with the rear end of his trousers soaked in blood. The cop inquired and got this:
"I wuz leaving and was gonna take two for the road. They wuz outta plastic cups so I just got two drinks in regular. Knowin' you ain't supposed to leave with their glasses, I snuck 'em in my back pocket. Was almost out the door when Inez stops me."
There was a quiver of terror in his voice when he mentioned her name. He went on.
"She spins me around, pushes me up against the wall and says 'No glasses out of the building'. I say I'd don't have any. So she says, 'Then this won't hurt,' and puts her hands on my hips and shoves me into the wall, bustin' the glasses and doin' this." He pointed to his ragged arse.
"So what you want me to do?" the cop said, "You want to press charges?"
"Holy Christ, no," the drunk babbled. "And get her pissed off."
At about 3 AM, one Saturday night, an officer was cruising by the closed Anchor when he heard muffled screams. On closer inspection he could tell they were coming from the lounge area, someone screaming "Oh God, help me, I'm blind." The cop radioed in to have dispatch notify Bill, the owner. Shortly, he arrived on the scene.
"What the hell," Bill said, unlocking the door. Inside the screams were ear-splitting, "I'm blind, I"m blind." Bill turned on the lounge lights. Under a corner-booth table they found the screamer, Six-Pack Slocum. He was in the fetal position, and drunker than Hogan's wife.
"Open your eyes," the cop ordered.
Slocum eased open his eyes, looked around, and weeping, said, "I'm healed. Thank you, Jesus. I'll never drink again."
Two miracles? The blind healed? More impressive, Slocum giving up the booze? Hardly. He was drunk again before noon. And the healing miracle was short-lived, too.
Turns out Slocum had decided he was gonna do some az-kickin' that night, just before closing time. This is a common side-effect of drinking too much liquid stupid. Staggering out on the dance floor, he made a terrible choice of opponents. It was NPD cop, Jack Bliss, who was big, strong, and ex-Airborne. One punch and Slocum went skidding on his back, across the slick dance floor and up under the booth's table. There he remained, passed out and overlooked when the bar was closed. He'd awakened in the dark lounge and, in his stupor, thought he was blind.
Others who'd been KO'd by Jack Bliss could attest that he could sure do that to you.
Inez was middle-age and stout with beautiful white hair, that she had professionally set every day. It was her trademark. That and her Don't Mess With Inez reputation. She could handle most unruly customers herself and when she had to call us, we knew it we were going to earn our money.
Sometimes the customers called us on her. Once a responding cop found a drunk standing outside the entrance, with the rear end of his trousers soaked in blood. The cop inquired and got this:
"I wuz leaving and was gonna take two for the road. They wuz outta plastic cups so I just got two drinks in regular. Knowin' you ain't supposed to leave with their glasses, I snuck 'em in my back pocket. Was almost out the door when Inez stops me."
There was a quiver of terror in his voice when he mentioned her name. He went on.
"She spins me around, pushes me up against the wall and says 'No glasses out of the building'. I say I'd don't have any. So she says, 'Then this won't hurt,' and puts her hands on my hips and shoves me into the wall, bustin' the glasses and doin' this." He pointed to his ragged arse.
"So what you want me to do?" the cop said, "You want to press charges?"
"Holy Christ, no," the drunk babbled. "And get her pissed off."
* * *
At about 3 AM, one Saturday night, an officer was cruising by the closed Anchor when he heard muffled screams. On closer inspection he could tell they were coming from the lounge area, someone screaming "Oh God, help me, I'm blind." The cop radioed in to have dispatch notify Bill, the owner. Shortly, he arrived on the scene.
"What the hell," Bill said, unlocking the door. Inside the screams were ear-splitting, "I'm blind, I"m blind." Bill turned on the lounge lights. Under a corner-booth table they found the screamer, Six-Pack Slocum. He was in the fetal position, and drunker than Hogan's wife.
"Open your eyes," the cop ordered.
Slocum eased open his eyes, looked around, and weeping, said, "I'm healed. Thank you, Jesus. I'll never drink again."
Two miracles? The blind healed? More impressive, Slocum giving up the booze? Hardly. He was drunk again before noon. And the healing miracle was short-lived, too.
Turns out Slocum had decided he was gonna do some az-kickin' that night, just before closing time. This is a common side-effect of drinking too much liquid stupid. Staggering out on the dance floor, he made a terrible choice of opponents. It was NPD cop, Jack Bliss, who was big, strong, and ex-Airborne. One punch and Slocum went skidding on his back, across the slick dance floor and up under the booth's table. There he remained, passed out and overlooked when the bar was closed. He'd awakened in the dark lounge and, in his stupor, thought he was blind.
Others who'd been KO'd by Jack Bliss could attest that he could sure do that to you.
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