One summer early evening, someone I’d never seen before walked through the door on the Henderson Street side into the Tunnel Bar. The regulars were laborers, truck drivers, area residents and street people of one sort or another. The rule proving exceptions — with the saloon just a block from the Jersey City side of the Holland Tunnel — could be anybody else. The newcomer was a piece that definitely came from a different jigsaw puzzle.
He was young, tall, thin, and very clean cut. His light brown hair was short, but not so much so to appear military or some other manner of institutional. He was wearing a suit, fairly new, but not expensive, without a tie. He was White and very much so — extremely pale tending to the albino. Besides genes, his skin also seemed never to have been exposed to sunshine. His features were fine, apparently not having had the experience of a fist fight or some other rough and tumble.
And this unknown quantity was mad. The look on his face of extreme displeasure made me concerned that some problem was about to arrive.
Then Jules — one of the wino crew who lived under the 16th Street and Henderson railroad bridge with the rest of the bompies — came in too. Jules looked very sheepish. Did Jules do something to annoy the man and now was looking for my help?
Jules took the lead and walked the 15 feet or so to the bar’s takeout order spot with the man following a few steps behind. Jules ordered.
“Six quarts of Thunderbird.”
A single quart of Thunderbird was an unusual purchase. Pints were much more common, paid for in change often a few pennies short. I was about to ask Jules if he had enough money. The man with him seemed to anticipate my question.
“Give it to him!”
Jules again to me. “And a quart of Fleischmann’s. A case of Budweiser.”
With the man vouching for the purchase, I now had no reason to be worried, as far as money was concerned. I began to assemble the order.
Jules now to his new friend. “Would it be OK if I got a pint of Fleischmann’s for myself?”
Annoyed. “A pint of Fleischmann’s for yourself?”
Jules went from sheepish to something approaching a cringe. I looked at the financial backer of this street soiree.
“Give it to him!”
When told the total, the man took out his wallet and without hesitation counted out bills to pay.
I packed most of the bottles into a box and handed Jules the pint of whiskey. The duo picked up the packages. They went out the door to Henderson Street and made a left in the direction of the railroad bridge.
The next day, when Jules came to the bar for his more usual pint of wine, I asked him, “Who was that guy last night?”
“He’s an undertaker.”
“Is he a relative of yours?” I thought that perhaps a nephew would pay for a party and still not be happy about it.
“Naw. He’s a queer. He buys us booze and then sucks us all off.
# # #
I was told that Jules was a machinist and had brothers who owned a shop. Jules could work there whenever he wanted, but preferred not to.
