In the eighties, I used to enjoy watching TV shows like "Happy Days," because they were about the "Sixties" when I mostly grew up. I can identify with all of the characters in the series, I knew people just like them. Me? I guess I was sort of like "Potsy!" I'd follow my friends off a cliff if they convinced me it was the "cool thing to do!" Now "Fonzie," that was a different story. I remember the "Fonzies" of our day. People who watched "Happy Days" thought "The Fonz" was cool. I knew better. The "Fonzies" I remember would "cut ya" or punch you in the nose and take your lunch money.
In High School days (which actually began in the 7th grade because that's when you transferred to the "High School"), there were basically four ways to eat lunch. First there was actually eating the food served in the lunchroom (remember "CityBurgers?). Second, there were those who brought their lunch, but they still ate in the lunch room. I was in the third group. We left the campus every day and walked a couple of blocks to Biven's Market for a Salomi sandwich, chips, chocolate milk and a tiny pecan pie. The fourth group consisted of the "Fonzies." These were the people who stepped across the street from the school to a restaurant called the "Chili Bowl."
This was where the "baddest of the bad" (male or female) hung out. Kids who began smoking in the third grade went over there to feed their habit. I only went in there two or three times and I was "scared to death" each time. I saw guys in leather jackets with "greaser" hairdos playing with switchblades. They were pitching quarters against the wall and the smoke laid low about half-way between the floor and ceiling.
Frankly, I can't even remember if they even served any food in there. I just remember the leather jackets, the jukebox and the smoke. I remember the "bad girls" that smoked hung out there and were actually comfortable doing it.
In the seventh grade, we had a bully I'll call "Jackie G." in our class. He was the perfect example of what a juvenile delinquent was supposed to look like. He smoked. He cussed. He put about a handful of "axle grease" in his hair and combed it back into a ducktail. He wore one of those leather jackets that had zippers on each pocket and even zippers in the sleeves. He had a rabbit's foot hanging from the main zipper. He wore Levi jeans that were "pegged." He wore black leather shoes that came to a point at the toe. He had a billfold in his right hip pocket that was connected to one of his belt loops with a chain. He always had a cigarette dangling from his lips. I always heard he had a tattoo but I never actually saw it. He was one Bad Dude and we all knew it. Most of us who ate at Biven's Market ran out of the school when the lunch bell sounded so we didn't have to face the Chili Bowl crowd while we still had lunch money. More than once they forced us to "hand it over."
"Jackie G." quit school sometime shortly after the seventh grade (which should give a hint of his age...you had to be sixteen to quit) and as far as I know left town. I had heard he went on to "reform school" and later to prison but I never actually confirmed this. I just knew I was glad he was gone wherever he went. A few years later I was working after school and on weekends at Corner Drug. Since they were opened on Sunday afternoons, many of my Sundays were spent at the store. One day I was in front of the store up by the cash register and looked outside. Across the street, strolling as cool as ever was my old nemesis, "Jackie G." He still had his greasy hair, his leather motorcycle jacket, pegged jeans, black leather pointed shoes, chained billfold, etc. but something was different. While over the years I had grown to nearly my present day height (about 5'11"), Jackie G. remained at his height when we were in the 7th grade (about 5' 2"). I weighed about 180 or 185 but "Jackie G." still weighed about 130. Could it be that smoking had "stunted" his growth? (a term my Mother liked to use). For the first time in my life, I wanted to step outside and cross the street and confront "Jackie G." and make him pay for the two or three times he stole my lunch money. I wanted to draw a line on the sidewalk and dare him to cross it. I wanted to grab him by the front of his leather jacket and pull him about one-half inch from my nose and ask "Just What Do You Think You're Looking At, Punk?" Fortunately, common sense prevailed and I went on about my business. That was the last time I laid eyes on "Jackie G." Many times I have wondered what ever happened to him. He probably went on the become a successful businessman or something and would laugh at his lifestyle back then. Today, I hold no anoymosity toward him whatsoever. He's probably a nice guy (at least I hope so).
"Jackie G." wasn't the only "Fonzie" type character hanging out at the Chili Bowl. There were some pretty loose girls that hung out over there too. We ain't talking "Majorettes" or "Cheerleaders" here. We also ain't talking "Homecoming Queens." (Although a couple of them would have made pretty good Homecoming "Kings"). We're talking girls that could smoke an unfiltered cigarette like it was nothing. Girls that weren't afraid to hang out with the "Jackie G's" in their world. Girls that could probably ride a Harley-Davidson if they only had one. Girls that stayed out past 10 O'clock at night. Girls that could "cuss" with the best of 'em. Girls that weren't afraid of getting "licks" with Mr. Gish's paddle or spending weeks on end in detention hall. When I was young my buddies and I would even occasionally sneak into a pool room (especially Beasley's--it was on a side street) but you wouldn't catch us dead in the Chili Bowl. That place just had a bad reputation. No one was happier that I was when it was torn down and replaced with a respectable apartment complex.
I was one of the lucky ones I guess. I can only remember getting into one fist fight in my school years. It was during lunch time and we were playing basketball over at the gym. Tensions got high, words were said and a "fight" evolved. All I did was "furnish a face." It was over in a matter of seconds and from that point on, I learned to talk myself out of fights. It's worked pretty good up to now so I see no reason to change.
I remember a few years later when I was in basic training and they had us dig a foxhole, my drill sergeant admonished me because my foxhole was too deep. I told him "Drill Sergeant, this here ain't no "fightin" foxhole....This here's a "Hidin'" foxhole!" Works for me.
As time has passed and in my young adult years, I had occasion to visit some pretty "seedy" places. I can even remember going in a joint near the Louisville riverfront years ago that was a "strip" joint. It was dark and the characters in there looked a lot like "Jackie G,," although I never felt threatened by any of them (don't ask me why). This particular joint had one of the dancers that stripped down to an outfit you'd probably see on the beach today, but it was pretty baudy back then. When she took off her top, she was wearing three "pasties," complete with "tassles" that she could twirl in unison in one direction. I don't have to tell you where two of these "pasties" were, but the third?.... It was glued on the end of a "stump" where her left arm used to be, just below the elbow. As she performed, men of questionable character (including me I guess) hooted and hollered and whistled amidst all the smoke and dim lights. As spooky as the place appeared, it seemed like a Church compared to the now defunct "Chili Bowl!"
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