Summit Street is a strange road, too, any way you slice it. Mostly a one way, southbound conduit for US Route 23, it’s also mostly residential. But every block or so, it seems, there’s at least one business which has featured predominantly into the landscape for decades, if not our entire lives. It being Route 23, local boy Dwight Yoakam has even technically written a song in part about this.
Considering that Hudson Road is where Summit begins the one way split (turning into more of a sleepy, residential street north of here), it makes sense to begin our journey here, and head steadily south:
2515: Baba’s. Only added dinner hours June 2018.
2507: Rumba Cafe.
2500: the 3rd different home for Used Kids Records. This one is different in that there’s a performance area in one corner, a nifty little section where the brick lined wall is covered by reams of posters, with a sign bearing the familiar black and white Used Kids logo mounted right in the middle. I would be surprised if you found much Dwight Yoakam here, however.
2491: Wild Goose Creative. This is a really interesting space which holds everything from marathon epic novel readings, to screenings of indie films.
2216: Cafe Bourbon Street. The owner had to be talked into hosting live bands circa 1997, though they soon became a staple of this establishment. The exterior still looks basically the same, with that dark blue awning, the name spelled out in white.
Our first visit here will transpire only a few weeks before this development, however, during that summer. Dan rings up the house and talks to Alan, suggests we meet him at this place up the road called Café Bourbon Street. The two of us have never frequented this establishment, though it sits just a few blocks from our house. With its eyesore interior of tacky multicolored tile and walls painted so bright they nearly glow, the horseshoe shaped bar in the center is a point of refuge we scamper for and cling to, more so than usual. The bar stools represent a small chain of islands, ports against the storm of crass interior decoration. Of course we’re still left basking in an eerie hue of orange and green overhead lights, molding our faces into monstrous masks if we catch the wrong angle.
Dan is one of the good guys, among the cooler people I’ve ever met, a stout, dark haired, conscientious Jewish boy who’s loyal to his friends and kind to the casual stranger. When he smiles his face actually seems to shine, somehow. Our core group often remarks that he could and should probably be the fifth member of the inner circle. The only reason he isn’t, really, aside from possibly not having quite the same enthusiasm for our more off the wall stunts, is that his first passion has always been music, and he works relentlessly at it. Hence the instrumental demo cassette he’d played in our kitchen earlier this summer, featuring him and another friend, Travis Tyo, and a drummer we’re not familiar with by the name of Dave Copper. Now Dan tells me they’ve settled on the tentative moniker Superstar Rookie. I think it’s great and suits their sound like a well-oiled kick drum, but he is having second thoughts, at present considers it a mismatch.
The old man who runs this place is pacing around between this bar and the one next to it, Summit Station, a lesbian hangout. He owns both and oversees each through a door connecting these two disparate establishments, though he doesn’t seem to be doing much of anything at either. Wondering how he’s going to pay the bills this month, maybe, judging from the sharp creases on his brow.
Slinging drinks here, while the owner paces around, is a sharp Asian fox by the name of Seresa. Seresa, it turns out, graduated from Clearfork, a country school district in the sticks about ten miles southeast of Mansfield. She smiles a lot and flits through each of the conversations taking place at her bar, which at this hour and day doesn’t amount to much. Her shiny silver blouse and tight black slacks accentuate a body I’m already a big fan of, that and everything else I’ve seen from this girl.
“You gotta watch her, though,” Dan cautions, “she’ll start you a tab and keep slapping drinks down in front of you when you’re not paying attention. Last time I was here she hit me with an eighteen dollar tab.”
Aside from the three of us, Dave Kemp’s sitting further down the bar, at one of the corners, next to another face I remember from high school, Tiffany Miller. Tonight Kemp’s already drunk and just as hilarious as ever, though he’s also apparently taken a serious turn with his music, and is now playing in a band called Secret Of Flight. As for Miss Miller she’s wearing a sleeveless black blouse with tattoos up both arms. She’s younger than the rest of us and I never really knew her, but don’t recall that she ever looked this incredible before. Elsewhere, across the bar from us sits a tall, lanky goon who resembles the bass player from Nirvana, with a couple teeth missing and messy black hair. He and the chick sitting next to him, representing the only other people in the bar right now besides Seresa and our Mansfield crew.
One of the perks hanging out with some fresh faces delivers, apart from the possibility of catching up on old times, is that it allows you to shake up your conversational game. With Alan, Damon and Paul, the four of us pretty much never talk about anything else but girls, alcohol, and classic rock music. That’s it. Entire weekends have been kept afloat without a single variation in this material. Seated at the bar tonight with Dan, however, we’re venturing into offbeat topics such as Beethoven, jazz, and the films of Kevin Smith, all of which are welcome diversions – although some of the old standbys aren’t necessarily verboten, either.
“You guys try that Pink Floyd/Wizard Of Oz thing?” Bandman asks us at one point.
“No,” I admit, having somehow become the mouthpiece for our party as Alan’s not saying much tonight, “we keep meaning to rent that movie, but I always forget.”
“My roommate Norman tried it,” Dan explains, and by this he means Norman Flores, yet another familiar face from our Mansfield days, “but he said it didn’t work. I don’t really see the connection anyway – The Wall and The Wizard Of Oz?”
“No!” I protest, laughing, “it’s not The Wall you’re supposed to use, it’s Dark Side of the Moon!”
“Dark Side?” Dan returns, intrigued, as if he’s just been afforded some amazing revelation. “Well, no wonder it didn’t work…I’m gonna call him right now actually…”
At this, he strolls over to this alcove where a working payphone awaits. I take this opportunity to have a look around at the rest of this fine enterprise. A piano along one wall, a jukebox next to it. A tiny raised platform in one corner utilized exclusively on karaoke night, as they’ve never had live music here in all the years that old man’s owned this tavern. By the door, this minuscule booth with a window serving a small selection of pub grub, though closed at present and the lights turned off.
Concerning the embargo on live music, Dan addresses this upon returning, when he explains that they’ve just about convinced the wearied owner here to host his first ever rock band. Naturally, that band would be Superstar Rookie. They wouldn’t fit on the stamp sized karaoke stage, obviously, but there’s no reason a handful of tables couldn’t be shoved aside in that vicinity, enough to cram in their gear. They’ve been practicing with a singer of late, Brandon Tuber, and are just about ready to play out. The owner isn’t sold yet on the concept but they’re convinced they can draw enough if persuading him.
A line of mirrors, halfway up the north wall, has always lined the stage. They would string Christmas lights up and leave them well past the season, perhaps even year round. There for a while – I’m not sure if they still do this – musicians would get free Black Label beer on the nights they played.
2210 Summit Street: Is presently The Summit Music Hall, and there’s also a Crunchwerks eatery inside. The exterior is a sharp looking black with bright red trim, looks great, though I haven’t been inside. For the longest time, however, this was Summit Station, a prominent lesbian bar.
(click arrow to navigate)
-South Of Lane–
1990 1/2 Summit Street: disgraced former residence, an address that was quickly abolished as soon as we moved out. Dan Focht of Salthorse fame lived here right before us.
Downstairs and onto the rickety front porch, the winter air reaches our lungs with bracing clarity. The blizzard like conditions raging outside for much of the day and early evening have long since ceased, encasing our neighborhood, as is often the case after these storms, in a seeming stop motion stasis. Trapped under a sheet of glittering glass, our vehicles and houses, an illusion broken only by the traffic zipping past us on US 23, and the occasional restless human.
Three young children stand on the side of the road, directly across the street from Ruby’s, before the bus stop. With a tape measure stretched out across the slick pavement, each in turn takes a running start and skids across the ice, as the other two comrades measure his distance. Waiting out the occasional burst of cars zooming down the three lane one way route, the boys are admirably patient, they chirp merry gibberish to one another before consummating the next round.
“Isn’t that fuckin awesome?” Alan enthuses, giddy from the spectacle.
In flannel shirts, jeans, and cowboy boots, a trio of rough and tumble older gents drift past, chuckling heartily. By all appearances beer guzzling hicks bound for Ruby’s, they queue without pause and give one running start at this child’s game apiece. Each fares better than I would have expected, stumbling to a fitful rest maybe twelve feet down the line, though none can match the grace or distance of those kids and their tennis shoes. Hooting in the wake of this unseen diversion, or perhaps the fleeting memory of their own distant childhood stunts, our grey haired rustics glance up Summit for cars, they click their boots across the pavement and disappear inside the bar.
“I’ve got a new game!” Alan announces, after the kids have long since departed, as he and I stand alone, mesmerized before the hypnotic swish of tires on icy road.
“What is it?” I beg, jolted awake, enervated, by our spell out here in the cold.
“Throw the Snowball at the Car!” he declares, scampering down the three cement steps from creaking porch to powder crusted lawn.
We begin by standing in relatively plain sight, hurling meteors at passing cars as they sail south down our street. A week’s worth of ammunition rests readily all around us, leaving the only real challenge a scientific one, between the intricate arts of packing, timing, and firing. That, and the danger of being spotted, which drives us soon enough behind a pair of giant barren bushes near the sidewalk.
Breezing along at accelerated speeds even under such adverse conditions, we can’t wait for these cars to arrive directly upon us, or they’re gone before we’ve so much as gotten the projectile packed. The trick, then, is to loft our charges out there ahead of time, let them hang midair until the vehicles arrive and impact. Of course this complicates matters in that an occasional wildcard police cruiser peppers the deck, but we can’t discern their identities until it’s too late. We see a pair of headlights coming and the crystal spheres fly, beseeching success.
Stephanie steps out onto the front porch to enjoy a cigarette and let Stella run around. As the dog sniffs our tracks and then our ankles, disappearing around the side of the house for a moment, Stephanie watches our game with a wry smirk crinkling the corners of her mouth. Exhaling this frigid air in the same breath as her smoke filled lungs, but even thus obscured, given even the lack of comprehensive lighting, I can discern a difference between this expression and the one she’s always unfailingly worn up to this point. Just as this surfeit of snow signifies to me winter’s last hurrah, and the incipient arrival of spring, so too is our neighbor beginning to thaw out.
“We’re playing a game called Throw the Snowball at the Car!” I beam up at her.
“You guys are gonna get busted,” she laughs.
Well, that didn’t happen. We got away with so much at this house. Although it does seems really strange now – as it rightly should have at the time, i.e. before we did such a thing – to think that one night Alan, Snoop and I broke out my clubs and blasted golf balls from the front yard, to see who could hit them the furthest down Woodruff. Maybe I shouldn’t be mentioning this. But this is a prime example of how you just can’t win sometimes about your past: mention it and you are glorifying such behavior; omit this and it means you’re whitewashing the incident, attempting to bury it. But it happened, yes, interpret this how you will. Kiddies, just maybe don’t try this at your home – or anybody else’s.
1978: Ruby Tuesday, longstanding live music venue and dive bar of considerable renown.
1866: A gas station has sat here, at the corner of 17th, since at least the late 80’s. Was once a BP, is now a Shell, but more importantly to nearby residents, in whatever incarnation, it’s been open 24 hours for their cigarette and beer and late night junk food runs. Well, except this brief stretch where we’d find the door locked at weird hours, and it turned out the lone employee was shooting up heroin in the cooler. He didn’t last too long, however.
The Subway shop inside is even more of an institution and used to keep the latest hours on campus (3am Fridays and Saturdays, possibly Thursdays even), though I see they’ve now scaled back to a much more standard midnight.
1041 Summit Street
Has been Auto Transport Service Inc. since at least January ’01. So kind of an impressive run, actually. Damage free towing, 24 hours a day.
Also Reliable Advertising & Distributing Co. as of Jan ‘01
