The Blarneystone and How I Got to Work There

Frank Emerson Word Count: 2,355

790 E. Spiller Street

Wytheville, VA 24382

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The Blarneystone and How I Got to Work There

That’s the thing about this city: Somerville, Massachusetts. Friendly and funny, it’s sort of a half-way place that lies between Medford and Cambridge, just across the Charles River from Boston. It is an “All-America City.” At both ends of the town, there are signs that say so, just as big as life. I believe the moniker is an honor. I also believe the signs are there to let people know what they are getting into as they hit the city limits. I suppose “All-America City” means that this community symbolizes America - the good parts and the bad - but mostly good. I have not been there in years myself, but I remember it as if not remarkable - overall, a pleasant burg. It is probably the same today. Maybe more so, which is fair enough.

Anyway, at the time I am knocking around Somerville, there is a hotel in Union Street by the name of the Hawthorne Arms. It has seen better days. In fact, I am of the opinion that the Hawthorne Arms has seen better days right from day one. It is by no means a flophouse, but there is little danger of it getting a star or two in the Michelin Guide. The Fanucci Brothers Construction Company owns it. I think that maybe they hold onto the hotel for spare parts.

Now, in the basement of the Hawthorne Arms is a pub called the Blarney Stone—an Irish place and a very popular watering hole. Local belief has it that the Blarney Stone floats the Hawthorne Arms.

The pub is a decent-sized room with low ceilings and no windows. The decorations are minimal, and the furniture is scarred–up, but sturdy, tables and chairs. There are eight or ten stools at the bar, but it is mostly a table-service type of place—and good table service at that. The drinks are generous and cheap, which is always welcome news. There is food—after a fashion. I find that as a rule, it is not wise to order a sandwich that has a personal history, so most patrons stick to the liquids. There is a good stage, a dependable sound system, and heavy-duty Kleig lights to show off the performer and help him work on his tan. Irish folk music is featured seven nights a week. The joint reeks with atmosphere, and it does more business than you would care to shake a stick at.

Along with casual customers, there are a slew of regulars, who are familiar with the music and show their enthusiasm. There are no reserved seats, but some folks do receive preferential treatment. One of these is a gent named Tiny Biggs.

It is a given that the table smack dab in front of the stage is Tiny’s territory. Should somebody be sitting at that table when Tiny strolls in, that somebody is well advised to pick up his stuff and shift to another location, pronto. Perhaps “stroll” is not the right verb. Tiny lumbers. He is pretty good at lumbering, too, considering that although he is well shy of six feet tall, in fighting trim, he probably goes a good third of a ton. I am not talking “glandular case,” here. He just has these appetites, you know. Also, it is well known that, figuratively and literally, Tiny is one of the largest turf accountants and loan arrangers in the metropolitan area. Of course, Tiny Biggs is not his real name. Personally, though, I never hear anyone call him anything but Tiny Biggs, unless it is “sir”—which is probably healthy for all concerned.

Tiny is about as Irish as the Fanucci Brothers—which is to say he is not. But he is absolutely ga-ga about Irish folk music. In the Blarney Stone, he is always very friendly, very quick to stand for a round, and he loves his beer. He always has a couple of beauties with him. Usually it is Wanda and Trixi; they hang all over Tiny. He does not seem to mind this. They might even be all married up together or some such—I am not sure—but it is none of my business, at any rate.

They always stay around for the whole evening, drinking buckets of beer and singing along to everything. The more Tiny drinks and sings, the more he sweats. The odd thing is that when he sweats, he starts to take off his clothes. I have seen this ruin a performer’s concentration. Tiny never gets to the full Monty, mind you, but he gets close enough to make a person squirm, believe me. However, it never occurs to anyone to suggest to Tiny that he might want to cool it on this bit. The reason this never occurs to anyone is that a good deal of money changes hands among those who wager on when Tiny will start to disrobe and how far he will go with the routine. Groceries have been bought for a month and bar tabs paid in full on the strength of one of Tiny’s collar buttons. It is an intriguing contest and provides a good deal of excitement for one and all. No one is more involved in the speculating than the assistant manager, who is in the know and always seems to come out very well in the speculating department.

The assistant manager is named Carlos Sans. He is from Cuba and makes for an interesting fixture in the Blarney Stone. Carlos is an average-sized, average-looking guy who is very outgoing and generally seems very happy. This is fortunate, since Carlos is a veteran of the Bay of Pigs fiasco and is known to be a rough customer when agitated or around Castroites. Carlos loves to banter with the customers, but his accent makes Desi Arnaz seem like John Guilgud. Customers are sometimes not sure what the topic of conversation is or to what they are agreeing. There is a lot of nodding that goes on. As long as Carlos is smiling, you can pretty much figure that everything is jake.

All of these goings on contribute to the unique flavor of the Blarney Stone. People are nuts over the joint and want to be there, and more importantly, be seen there. This is especially true among the Irish musicians. The place is a legitimate and well-known showcase. Everyone wants to play there. It is what is known as a ‘good gig’—with one little drawback.

The top dog in the place is Jerry Fleming. Do not get me wrong—he is a nice guy. He is also very efficient, genial, and very loyal to the Blarney Stone. He treats the Blarney Stone as if he owns it—which he does not. This is the main reason the Fanucci Brothers keep him on the payroll—he is very protective of the Fanucci Brothers’ interests—particularly the Fanucci Brothers’ money. There is no better example of how he protects the Fanucci Brothers’ money than the wages he offers the musicians—not much. The thing is—Jerry is hip to the whole situation. Irish musicians are lined up and frothing at the mouth to get a crack at the Blarney Stone stage, so he is in the driver’s seat. In a nutshell, he gives the musicians two choices: take it or leave it. Of course, he does this with a smile and means no ill will. That is just the way it is.

Since the room is a good one, and Jerry is known as a stand-up guy and well liked, most of us take it. Besides, even though it is short bread, the drinks are free, and you can always pick up a few bob by getting in on the Tiny Biggs action. Sometimes you have to go along to get along.

Now when I first approach Jerry with an eye toward performing at the Blarney Stone, he turns me down flat. I am momentarily flummoxed. Then I figure he is having me on and say to him, “Right.” But he seems to mean it. Now I am really flummoxed. As I have a decent reputation on the music scene, I press him for a reason. Jerry hems and haws and shifts around a little, as he likes me well enough, and does not wish me to become wounded or indignant. I tell him I will not become either of these, or even irritated, but I would very much like to hear his story. Maybe there has been a misunderstanding and we can clear it up here and now. Jerry says, “Well, okay, then,” and comes clean, roughly as follows.

It seems that one night, a while back, Jerry is on his way home from his shift at the pub when he is forced to make an emergency men’s room stop. On a bet, he is off the beer and booze for a few days, and is not feeling himself. As a compromise, he drinks coffee by the urn. This keeps him alert and somewhat anxious. It also results in things such as emergency men’s room stops.

On this particular night, he screeches to a halt at a pub called Red Biddie’s. I happen to be appearing there at the time. He races through the front door and makes a beeline for the jacks. I recall the incident well, since from my vantage point on stage, I see him flash by without as much as a “How do you do.” I figure that is all right because from the looks of things, Jerry is a man on a mission. Anyway, at present, I am in the middle of performing a request from the audience, so I do not have time for any “How do you do,” myself.

Now the particular request I am performing is out of the ordinary. In fact, when the request comes up to me, I do not think it is an honest-to-goodness request, but a rib. However, I turn the tables on the joker since I know the song. It is none other than “Oklahoma!”—from the musical play of the same name. How I know this song, I haven’t a clue. Some things in life just show up. So there I am, doing “Oklahoma!” and I am going great guns altogether. I have the audience wailing away and singing like there is no tomorrow. They are especially fond of the part where we spell out the word “Oklahoma,” and they give out with great big “Whoops” and “Ya-hoos” at the end. They do this over and over again, and everyone is getting a big kick out of the whole production.

As this is going on, Jerry finishes his business and elbows his way through the crowd back toward the front door. Everyone is “Whooping” and “Ya-hooing” and carrying on. I manage to catch Jerry’s eye and give him a nod. He gives me a wave as he heads out the door.

“There you have it,” says Jerry. “That is my reason for not hiring you at the Blarney Stone.”

I am at a loss, and I ask him to explain.

Jerry heaves a big sigh and says to me, “I know you now what -about a year?”

“I guess that's about right.”

“Well,” he continues, “in all that time that is the only time I see your act.”

“But, Jerry,” I say, “I am going great guns that night! The place is going great guns, as well!”

“Oh, yes,” he says back to me, “but you only do show tunes. And show tunes will just not do for the Blarney Stone.”

I tell him he has made a snap judgment and that he is in error. It is no use. Jerry is hearing none of it, for everyone knows that once he gets an idea in his noggin, it is stuck there. I do some fast thinking and go for his soft spot.

“What say I do a free night at the Blarney Stone as an audition and prove to you that I have the goods?”

Jerry nods and says, “Hmm.”

I can see he’s warming to the idea, as the price is right.

“Let us call it a free week and you have a deal,” he says.

“A week? For free? Are you out of your noodle?” I ask.

Jerry smiles. “You know the two choices you have,” he says.

Well, I know when I am licked, so I agree. It just happens that he has had a cancellation the next week, and I am open, so the deal is struck.

I do the week, and I go over very well. At the end of the last night, I am packing away my guitar, and Jerry sidles over to me. He is grinning from ear to ear. “Okay, he says, “I am convinced. Good job. Let’s shake on it.”

He reaches out his hand, and I reach out mine. He presses something into my palm. I look down, and what is it but folding money. Not much, but it is folding money.

“What is the story with this?” I ask.

“Oh, hell,” he says. “I cannot hold you to doing a whole week for nothing. I just want to see if you would stick to your word. You are on the calendar from now on—booked steady. We will work out some dates. But I have got to tell you—there is a string attached. You must play “Oklahoma!” here at least twice a week. Those people at Red Biddie’s were going crazy that night!”

Over the next few years, I have a regular gig at the Blarney Stone, and everything goes fine and dandy. Whenever I get around to taking requests, Jerry always sends up “Oklahoma!” It is never far along into the song but doesn’t Tiny Biggs start sweating, the bets start to get put down, Carlos starts taking all action and in the middle of it, there is Jerry, large as life with the rest of the crowd, smiling, “Whooping,” and “Ya-hooing” away to beat the band.