Where Is Ritchie Quinn?
Names from the Past: Richie Quinn, Chico, and Bill Morrissey
March 17, 1947
Shouts, swears, drunks, fights – “Ye narrowback bastard, take that!” Another St. Patrick’s Day in Danny’s. My head splits as the bar is swamped by a mob of misfits wearing green hats and shamrocks, and shouting “Erin Go Gragh” and “Bold O’Donahue”. I may seem overly caustic, but when you tend bar you tend bar your enthusiasm quickly attenuates during holiday celebrations especially when you must endure the festivities as a sober spectator. I mean for God’s sake, how much baloney can a bartender endure? For example, propped at the bar, Old Man Mulrooney, who looks like Abe Lincoln with DT’s, sighs philosophically as though the world breathlessly awaits his message, “An Irishman is many things”. Without sounding unduly critical I’m sure that my definition of “many things” differs dramatically from Mulrooney’s.
“Use ta be a great fighter, that Ritchie,” Red tells young Bob Hall. “But he’s all shot now, his nerves you know. Caught a piece of shrapnel in the squash.” Red taps his head. “You know what I hear? I hear that he got it on the left side of his head, and because of it, he drags his right leg. Sounds crazy, don’t it? But that’s what I hear. The docs at the V.A. been working on Richie for over two years but he ain’t never gonna be the same. His hands are so shaky he can’t even hold a glass of water. Damn shakes, he’s worse than Jerry Collins.”
Poor Ritchie, the best boxer, great baseball pitcher by far the greatest athlete this block ever produced. A legend, come and gone.
Well, anyway the mob fizzles out until by supper-time only a few of the regulars remain. It’s been a long day so I break a self-imposed rule (draw a beer) and join in the bull session, reminiscing about Ritchie, Joe Scarletta, and Blackie Hession and all the different guys that come and go in tavern legendary.
“Hey, Bill,” asks Red, “Ya remember that sailor, Chico? Ya ever hear from him?” Chico – that’s surely a name from the past. Chico. A red? A savior? Soldier of Fortune? Who can read motives?” A real nomad.
“No,” I answer, “Last I heard was that postcard from Spain. Something about he was a machine gunner with the Lincoln Brigade. That must be ten years ago.”
March 17, 1947
Shouts, swears, drunks, fights – “Ye narrowback bastard, take that!” Another St. Patrick’s Day in Danny’s. My head splits as the bar is swamped by a mob of misfits wearing green hats and shamrocks, and shouting “Erin Go Gragh” and “Bold O’Donahue”. I may seem overly caustic, but when you tend bar you tend bar your enthusiasm quickly attenuates during holiday celebrations especially when you must endure the festivities as a sober spectator. I mean for God’s sake, how much baloney can a bartender endure? For example, propped at the bar, Old Man Mulrooney, who looks like Abe Lincoln with DT’s, sighs philosophically as though the world breathlessly awaits his message, “An Irishman is many things”. Without sounding unduly critical I’m sure that my definition of “many things” differs dramatically from Mulrooney’s.
“Use ta be a great fighter, that Ritchie,” Red tells young Bob Hall. “But he’s all shot now, his nerves you know. Caught a piece of shrapnel in the squash.” Red taps his head. “You know what I hear? I hear that he got it on the left side of his head, and because of it, he drags his right leg. Sounds crazy, don’t it? But that’s what I hear. The docs at the V.A. been working on Richie for over two years but he ain’t never gonna be the same. His hands are so shaky he can’t even hold a glass of water. Damn shakes, he’s worse than Jerry Collins.”
Poor Ritchie, the best boxer, great baseball pitcher by far the greatest athlete this block ever produced. A legend, come and gone.
Well, anyway the mob fizzles out until by supper-time only a few of the regulars remain. It’s been a long day so I break a self-imposed rule (draw a beer) and join in the bull session, reminiscing about Ritchie, Joe Scarletta, and Blackie Hession and all the different guys that come and go in tavern legendary.
“Hey, Bill,” asks Red, “Ya remember that sailor, Chico? Ya ever hear from him?” Chico – that’s surely a name from the past. Chico. A red? A savior? Soldier of Fortune? Who can read motives?” A real nomad.
“No,” I answer, “Last I heard was that postcard from Spain. Something about he was a machine gunner with the Lincoln Brigade. That must be ten years ago.”