Editor's Preface
1977
Danny’s Tavern was owned by a bookie named Timothy Brennan, AKA “Booker T.” and herein is a collection of stories preserved by the part-time bartender, Billy Flynn, concerning hundreds of characters over a forty-year period (1935 – 1975).
Billy saw guys survive World War I only to be crippled in the Depression. Watched their sons and grandsons go into World War II, Korea, Vietnam, and into the social and drug jungle era of the 60’s and 70’s. Met a hundred and one immigrants from the four corners of the earth. Hob-knobbed with the best and the baddest – people at their finest and worst. And he wrote if all down, along with his victories and defeats. He believed that if you want to explore people, go to a tavern. You’ll see what birth, a death, joy and sorrow, and a win or a loss really means.
The story is highly subjective to me because I’m part of Danny’s myself. Maybe that’s why the word “history” strikes the right chord. I personally know many of the individuals and the events.
Danny’s Tavern is named after Bill’s brother, Danny, Booker’s best friend, who was killed in the First World War. The tavern was opened just after Prohibition, and before I was born in 1935.
About two summers ago, while passing through Dorchester, I dropped into Danny’s for a beer on a Saturday afternoon. Booker T., must have been in his seventies, and he was slightly inebriated.
“Hi Muzzy,” (my nickname, most city kids have a nickname), “I heard that you wrote a book?” He leans on the bar, drains the glass and stars through me as though he’s sizing me up. “I remember Bill telling me that. You know, my buckaroo, me and Bill grew up together. In fact, his brother, Danny joined the Army with me. Two great pals they were. But Danny got killed in France; named this place after him, I did. All I got now are the memories. And the older I get, the more it means.” He nods his head. “Bill’s the only guy I’d trust with a million bucks or even my life. The only one. It’s tough to find someone you can trust one hundred percent.”
I mumble, “Ya, Bill’s a nice guy. Everybody likes him.”
He leans close to me. I can smell the alcohol and nicotine on his breath. “You know how he was always writing and all that. Never got published big time, except for the ‘Dorchester Monthly Tribune’. That bothered him.” Lights a smoke, eyes squint in thought.” I’ll admit some of his stories he showed me were ok. All the others sucked. Course I aint much for books. My interests are with the tavern and a few ventures here and there.”
“But listen Muzzy,” hand on my shoulder, “you want to earn a couple of bucks?” He jerks his thumb towards the back room. “I got most of Billy’s stuff. Five or six boxes locked in a beer chest. Pretty safe, but it’s just gathering dust. I owe it to my buddy to do the right thing. It meant a helluva a lot to him. I promised him. And a promise made is a debt unpaid.”
“Ya, I’m sure,” I answer.
“He collected a lot of stuff… and this is where you come in,” he cuts me off. “I’ll give you the papers and boxes and all and I want you to put it together. Make a story and get it published.” He squeezes my shoulder. I’m amazed at the strength of his grip. “I want someone who knew him to do it. Someone who likes books and understands this neighborhood. Most of these clowns around here can’t get past the Sports page. Now what’d you say?” His grip tightened.
Booker continues, “If it don’t get published, then that’s the way it goes, but you’ll still make a few dollars.” His final comment, “All I really want to do is the right thing. You know what I mean? Do Bill right. In fact, can you watch his dog Jenny for a while? She’s asleep in the back now. A bar is not the place for a dog.”
I took the boxes, six of them, and a black lab puppy named Jenny. To be perfectly honest, he forced the task on me. Booker, old as he is, still has a certain way of getting messages across. At home the dog finds a bed and the boxes lay in the cellar untouched for a couple of weeks. Then, one day I began to rummage through a jumble of bundled papers. Like a junk photo box under Grandma’s bed or in an attic, once you start, you can’t stop. It’s akin to the evil attraction of spying on someone, or reading a diary. I know how Max Perkins must have felt with Thomas Wolfe’s giant jigsaws.
The dog, the story, and my family began the bonding process.
Now, as far as editing goes, my biggest problem is what to include and what to delete. In a story such as this, what is really important? How can you attempt to assemble a meaningful story from a pile of papers? You’d have to be an engineer to piece together this puzzle. Took me 2 years to finish the final book and submit to publishers. The track I took was to illuminate the changes that have occurred with respect to the neighborhood. We’re all aware that change is part of life. And in forty years (1935 – 1975) there’s been a lot of changes. Maybe people basically don’t change but their environment certainly does resulting in various responses, some positive and some negative.
After rummaging through the boxes, I decided that the best approach was to divide each section of the book into decades, in chronological fashion from the 1930’s through the 1970’s.
Bill’s source material was as follows:
Newspapers/magazine clippings. I used a local publication – the “Dorchester Monthly Tribune” for most of the historical data, especially as it relates to Veterans.
Conversations recorded by Bill. Note: I have not the slightest idea which are facts and which is fiction.
Diary notes. What I call a “diary” is little more than Bill’s innermost thoughts. Bill had his private thoughts but I deleted many of the more private ones. Little was written about his woman friends – he was a widower – in fact, his wife and only son died tragically from the flu in 1933.
Short stories written by Bill (along with a few of the tens of rejection slips).
Jokes/graffiti as seen on any tavern toilet wall or heard in the bar were heavily edited to weed out those comments which bordered on savage or pornographic.
Sketches. Most were done by Red Driscoll, a roofer and the neighborhood artist.
The Odds and Ends are a random selection taken from Bill’s “stuff”. Copious notes (short stories, observations, conversations, news and radio media) Bill had exceptional hearing ability. It was said that he could hear a roach walking across the bar.
Danny’s Bulletin Board. This brainchild of Booker T’s to provide an outlet for the customer’s thoughts and new comments – often to his dismay.
Original characters. Billy listed 26 patrons in 1935, which proved central to the cast. As the years passed the list dwindled – of course, new patrons entered the scene, but were not added to the original list. As a finale in 1977, I tracked down the whereabouts (or demise) of the more prominent patrons – no easy task, let me assure you.
In a few weeks I meet with Booker down at Pocasset on Cape Cod, and am introduced to his lovely wife and kids. After lunch I ask Booker, “Before I attack Bill’s boxes of papers, give me some guidelines of what you expect.” Booker is very quiet. “Kindly”, he says.
“Muzzy, let me give you some important background concerning me and my feelings for Danny – and tell you how he died. I never talk about it – too painful – a pain in my chest that is excruciating. I have never told this story to anyone – my wife or even Bill. He was a great kid. If it wasn’t for him, I’d be the one planted in the cemetery in France. Forged our birth certificates using bleach water to erase the ink. Only sixteen we were. Of course, I gave the recruiter a few bucks. Christ, it was all a joke until we hit the trenches. If we made it, we planned to open a joint. We went through it all. It was awful.
“Before we’d go over the top, they’d pump us full of booze. Then I got hit, all tangled in the barb wire in a shell hole. Pinned down all day, weaker than all hell. Bill, the only thing that pulled me through was that I knew – I knew – Danny’d come for me. And sure as hell breaks loose – flares and machine guns. That don’t stop Danny, he drags me on. He’s hit himself, half his leg gone, but he don’t say nothing. Gets me into the trench, presses my arm and says, “See ya Booker.” The he coughs up gobs of blood and says, “Tell my ma…”. He never finished that sentence.”
Booker squeezes his eyes. “Jesus, Muzzy, I better stop. I’ll be bawling all over the place like a school girl. But I miss Danny so much. You know that every few years I go over to Verdun; I sit along the grave and tell Danny how much I appreciate what he did for me. Gave up his life so he never come home and got a wife and a family. God, it’s awful to say, but it’s true. I often ask God, why me to live and Danny to die?
“For hours I speak with Danny. Talk all about our Danny’s Tavern – and the group. How Bill lost his wife and baby and what the Tavern looks like – The Honor Roll to Danny on the wall. And Bill’s list of the patrons.
“You know, Muzzy, it’s really weird shit when you’re in a graveyard carrying on a conversation. I hear Danny’s voice in my head. And I tell him that I love him – why God took him and not me?
“I even tell him about you and Bill’s book – he’d like you too. I’ve left some chapters of the book so he knows what I’m talking about. I even bring Red’s sketches and photos and sometimes the “Dorchester Tribune” and leave it at his stone.
“Well, Muzzy, you asked what I want from you – tell my story – how I loved the guys who work at a zillion jobs doing God knows what to support their families, an emphasize the sacrifices of the veterans. Both of these groups made this country the greatest in the world.
“It’s a good block. The people stand-up. Our kind of people. Got more guts and goodness than the whole of Beacon Hill. They ain’t all saints, I ain’t saying that. Sure we got the seamy side, but life’s tough and each guy gotta choose his own way of makin’ it. When you come down to it, it ain’t really no different than the Yankee bankers wheeling and dealing with stocks and interest rates.
“What ever you do, respect the veterans. If you enjoy your freedom of speech, religious choice, the right to vote, etc., then thank a veteran. Thank you, Muzzy, for listening to an old man chatter along.”
And so I began my task.
Danny’s Tavern was owned by a bookie named Timothy Brennan, AKA “Booker T.” and herein is a collection of stories preserved by the part-time bartender, Billy Flynn, concerning hundreds of characters over a forty-year period (1935 – 1975).
Billy saw guys survive World War I only to be crippled in the Depression. Watched their sons and grandsons go into World War II, Korea, Vietnam, and into the social and drug jungle era of the 60’s and 70’s. Met a hundred and one immigrants from the four corners of the earth. Hob-knobbed with the best and the baddest – people at their finest and worst. And he wrote if all down, along with his victories and defeats. He believed that if you want to explore people, go to a tavern. You’ll see what birth, a death, joy and sorrow, and a win or a loss really means.
The story is highly subjective to me because I’m part of Danny’s myself. Maybe that’s why the word “history” strikes the right chord. I personally know many of the individuals and the events.
Danny’s Tavern is named after Bill’s brother, Danny, Booker’s best friend, who was killed in the First World War. The tavern was opened just after Prohibition, and before I was born in 1935.
About two summers ago, while passing through Dorchester, I dropped into Danny’s for a beer on a Saturday afternoon. Booker T., must have been in his seventies, and he was slightly inebriated.
“Hi Muzzy,” (my nickname, most city kids have a nickname), “I heard that you wrote a book?” He leans on the bar, drains the glass and stars through me as though he’s sizing me up. “I remember Bill telling me that. You know, my buckaroo, me and Bill grew up together. In fact, his brother, Danny joined the Army with me. Two great pals they were. But Danny got killed in France; named this place after him, I did. All I got now are the memories. And the older I get, the more it means.” He nods his head. “Bill’s the only guy I’d trust with a million bucks or even my life. The only one. It’s tough to find someone you can trust one hundred percent.”
I mumble, “Ya, Bill’s a nice guy. Everybody likes him.”
He leans close to me. I can smell the alcohol and nicotine on his breath. “You know how he was always writing and all that. Never got published big time, except for the ‘Dorchester Monthly Tribune’. That bothered him.” Lights a smoke, eyes squint in thought.” I’ll admit some of his stories he showed me were ok. All the others sucked. Course I aint much for books. My interests are with the tavern and a few ventures here and there.”
“But listen Muzzy,” hand on my shoulder, “you want to earn a couple of bucks?” He jerks his thumb towards the back room. “I got most of Billy’s stuff. Five or six boxes locked in a beer chest. Pretty safe, but it’s just gathering dust. I owe it to my buddy to do the right thing. It meant a helluva a lot to him. I promised him. And a promise made is a debt unpaid.”
“Ya, I’m sure,” I answer.
“He collected a lot of stuff… and this is where you come in,” he cuts me off. “I’ll give you the papers and boxes and all and I want you to put it together. Make a story and get it published.” He squeezes my shoulder. I’m amazed at the strength of his grip. “I want someone who knew him to do it. Someone who likes books and understands this neighborhood. Most of these clowns around here can’t get past the Sports page. Now what’d you say?” His grip tightened.
Booker continues, “If it don’t get published, then that’s the way it goes, but you’ll still make a few dollars.” His final comment, “All I really want to do is the right thing. You know what I mean? Do Bill right. In fact, can you watch his dog Jenny for a while? She’s asleep in the back now. A bar is not the place for a dog.”
I took the boxes, six of them, and a black lab puppy named Jenny. To be perfectly honest, he forced the task on me. Booker, old as he is, still has a certain way of getting messages across. At home the dog finds a bed and the boxes lay in the cellar untouched for a couple of weeks. Then, one day I began to rummage through a jumble of bundled papers. Like a junk photo box under Grandma’s bed or in an attic, once you start, you can’t stop. It’s akin to the evil attraction of spying on someone, or reading a diary. I know how Max Perkins must have felt with Thomas Wolfe’s giant jigsaws.
The dog, the story, and my family began the bonding process.
Now, as far as editing goes, my biggest problem is what to include and what to delete. In a story such as this, what is really important? How can you attempt to assemble a meaningful story from a pile of papers? You’d have to be an engineer to piece together this puzzle. Took me 2 years to finish the final book and submit to publishers. The track I took was to illuminate the changes that have occurred with respect to the neighborhood. We’re all aware that change is part of life. And in forty years (1935 – 1975) there’s been a lot of changes. Maybe people basically don’t change but their environment certainly does resulting in various responses, some positive and some negative.
After rummaging through the boxes, I decided that the best approach was to divide each section of the book into decades, in chronological fashion from the 1930’s through the 1970’s.
Bill’s source material was as follows:
Newspapers/magazine clippings. I used a local publication – the “Dorchester Monthly Tribune” for most of the historical data, especially as it relates to Veterans.
Conversations recorded by Bill. Note: I have not the slightest idea which are facts and which is fiction.
Diary notes. What I call a “diary” is little more than Bill’s innermost thoughts. Bill had his private thoughts but I deleted many of the more private ones. Little was written about his woman friends – he was a widower – in fact, his wife and only son died tragically from the flu in 1933.
Short stories written by Bill (along with a few of the tens of rejection slips).
Jokes/graffiti as seen on any tavern toilet wall or heard in the bar were heavily edited to weed out those comments which bordered on savage or pornographic.
Sketches. Most were done by Red Driscoll, a roofer and the neighborhood artist.
The Odds and Ends are a random selection taken from Bill’s “stuff”. Copious notes (short stories, observations, conversations, news and radio media) Bill had exceptional hearing ability. It was said that he could hear a roach walking across the bar.
Danny’s Bulletin Board. This brainchild of Booker T’s to provide an outlet for the customer’s thoughts and new comments – often to his dismay.
Original characters. Billy listed 26 patrons in 1935, which proved central to the cast. As the years passed the list dwindled – of course, new patrons entered the scene, but were not added to the original list. As a finale in 1977, I tracked down the whereabouts (or demise) of the more prominent patrons – no easy task, let me assure you.
In a few weeks I meet with Booker down at Pocasset on Cape Cod, and am introduced to his lovely wife and kids. After lunch I ask Booker, “Before I attack Bill’s boxes of papers, give me some guidelines of what you expect.” Booker is very quiet. “Kindly”, he says.
“Muzzy, let me give you some important background concerning me and my feelings for Danny – and tell you how he died. I never talk about it – too painful – a pain in my chest that is excruciating. I have never told this story to anyone – my wife or even Bill. He was a great kid. If it wasn’t for him, I’d be the one planted in the cemetery in France. Forged our birth certificates using bleach water to erase the ink. Only sixteen we were. Of course, I gave the recruiter a few bucks. Christ, it was all a joke until we hit the trenches. If we made it, we planned to open a joint. We went through it all. It was awful.
“Before we’d go over the top, they’d pump us full of booze. Then I got hit, all tangled in the barb wire in a shell hole. Pinned down all day, weaker than all hell. Bill, the only thing that pulled me through was that I knew – I knew – Danny’d come for me. And sure as hell breaks loose – flares and machine guns. That don’t stop Danny, he drags me on. He’s hit himself, half his leg gone, but he don’t say nothing. Gets me into the trench, presses my arm and says, “See ya Booker.” The he coughs up gobs of blood and says, “Tell my ma…”. He never finished that sentence.”
Booker squeezes his eyes. “Jesus, Muzzy, I better stop. I’ll be bawling all over the place like a school girl. But I miss Danny so much. You know that every few years I go over to Verdun; I sit along the grave and tell Danny how much I appreciate what he did for me. Gave up his life so he never come home and got a wife and a family. God, it’s awful to say, but it’s true. I often ask God, why me to live and Danny to die?
“For hours I speak with Danny. Talk all about our Danny’s Tavern – and the group. How Bill lost his wife and baby and what the Tavern looks like – The Honor Roll to Danny on the wall. And Bill’s list of the patrons.
“You know, Muzzy, it’s really weird shit when you’re in a graveyard carrying on a conversation. I hear Danny’s voice in my head. And I tell him that I love him – why God took him and not me?
“I even tell him about you and Bill’s book – he’d like you too. I’ve left some chapters of the book so he knows what I’m talking about. I even bring Red’s sketches and photos and sometimes the “Dorchester Tribune” and leave it at his stone.
“Well, Muzzy, you asked what I want from you – tell my story – how I loved the guys who work at a zillion jobs doing God knows what to support their families, an emphasize the sacrifices of the veterans. Both of these groups made this country the greatest in the world.
“It’s a good block. The people stand-up. Our kind of people. Got more guts and goodness than the whole of Beacon Hill. They ain’t all saints, I ain’t saying that. Sure we got the seamy side, but life’s tough and each guy gotta choose his own way of makin’ it. When you come down to it, it ain’t really no different than the Yankee bankers wheeling and dealing with stocks and interest rates.
“What ever you do, respect the veterans. If you enjoy your freedom of speech, religious choice, the right to vote, etc., then thank a veteran. Thank you, Muzzy, for listening to an old man chatter along.”
And so I began my task.