Big Brown

There are many legends about big tough men who could wrestle bears, cut down mighty trees with a single whack of a gigantic ax, slay their enemies by the hundreds, (the Bible is replete with such,) and in general instill fear or awe in their communities or even countries. Having said that, I must digress.

Greenwich Village was, once upon a time, cram-packed full of “Bohemians,” artists, writers, sculptors, dancers, poets, singers and musicians who entertained in coffee shops, and wannabees who looked more Bohemian that the aforementioned, probably because they had a helluva lot more money. I was born in Chelsea, next northern neighbor to “The Village, and ran its streets as if they were my own. It was a learning experience. The neighborhoods didn’t naturally blend with Chelsea’s predominately Irish Catholic neighborhood of longshoremen, truckers, bar owners and bartenders. This was true culture shock.

Anyway, The Village, especially the West Village, was a good mix of blue collar guys and families, and those who sought a more laid back, i.e., Bohemian kind of life style after the regimen of an office eight hours a day. It also had its share of truly extraordinary characters and legends, which gets us back on track.

In the West Village saloon fights happened quite often over turf, a woman, a perceived sleight, booze, the weather, political affiliations, staring at a person too long, or the time of night. My pal, Jay Bell, was one very handsome dude, had dozens of ladies fighting for his talents and was “good with his hands.” He would fight anyone, anytime, for any reason.

Once when in “La Perla,” the rough section of San Juan, Puerto Rico, a guy slashed his face with a knife, leaving a four inch scar. He almost beat this guy to death although he wasn’t “packing,” carrying a weapon. When they carted Jay off to the local hospital for immediate surgery, his assailant was brought in and laid next to him. The Puerto Rican police asked Bell if this was the dude who had cut him and Jay answered, “Never saw him before in my life.” The son of an admiral in the US Navy, Jay had done time and didn’t cooperate with the police under any circumstances.

While bartending in the “Kettle of Fish,” he met his Waterloo. Big Brown, the baddest, strongest , meanest sucker in The Village walked in and the place went silent, although it had a reputation for being a “bucket of blood.” Nobody messed with Big Brown. He started rocking the bar with his huge hands and announced that he could, “Kick the shit out of any sonofabitch in the joint. Nobody moved, Brown looked disappointed, muttered “chicken shit bastards.” This was before the African American trash vocabulary focused on mother.

Brown roared out and Bell thought about it for a moment. He took off his apron, threw it behind the bar and went after Brown, who weighed about 260 muscle pounds. Jay was about 180. Twenty minutes later he came back, bleeding profusely. He washed his face, took a drink of Scotch whiskey, swilled it around in his mouth, spat it out and announced, “You know, he was right.”

Brown was the toughest man I’ve ever encountered. One night he got into a hassle with two Sixth Precinct patrolmen, no strangers to violence, and they had to call for help. You could literally hear the nightsticks bounce off Brown’s head that night and it took five cops to get the cuffs on him. He put a couple in the hospital.

I remember one cold miserable Monday night in November. I couldn’t sleep and decided I would brave the sleet, wind ,and rain and walked for a dozen blocks. I gave it up and went into the Corner Bistro where the bartender, let’s call him Stevie, was standing, arms crossed, looking out into the frigid night. The big congenial bar was empty, a rarity, and Stevie was glad to see me. He would have been glad to see my dog for that matter. Sam, my retriever, would walk into the Bistro with me, put his paws on the bar and Stevie would fast slide ice cubes toward him. Sam never missed and loved Stevie.

We were both looking out the front window when the phone rang. He picked it up, blanched, asked “Are you sure?” then placed back the receiver. He looked at me and said simply, “Brown is headed this way.” We both lunged for the door to lock it, were turning to lock the back door when it crashed in and Brown, raging, drunk, and soaked, looked at the both of us and bared his lower teeth.

He threw down a nearly empty whiskey bottle, walled behind the bar, took another and started to pour it down his throat. “What are you ugly fuckers looking at?” he roared, and Stevie and I were wondering where we hade gone wrong. Brown took another huge swig, and with the booze flowing down his chin, glared at the both of us. One more drink and we were hamburger and we both knew it. I remembered the souvenir version of a Louisville Slugger baseball bat behind the bar, and though perhaps I could make a pass at it, but gave up the idea immediately. If hickory sticks and half of the Sixth Precinct couldn’t take this guy down, what the hell could I do?

It was then that I saw the gleam of something other than pure panic in Stevie’s eyes. Suddenly, he was transformed from a Village bartender into the gayest member of the gay community. He was totally swish and moved his ass and hips as he approached Brown who looked confused. Stevie put one hand on his hip, lifted his other arm with a very limp wrist, and gently patted Brown on his cheek and said, “You big silly. You drive me wild when you’re like this.” Stevie batted his eyes, puckered his lips and advanced on Brown who was absolutely stunned at this turn of events.

Big Brown threw up his hands, slammed into the frame of the oak door, shook his head and lumbered out into the street. His cries were unintelligible roars as he staggered across Jane Street. Neither Stevie nor I said a word for several minutes. Finally I looked at him and said, “You are the finest human being God ever put on this earth,” and walked out into the night.