Evacuation Day

In the Commonwealth of Massachusetts they celebrate one obscure holiday which is conveniently concurrent with St. Patrick’s Day. It is called “Evacuation Day.” On this day, the state government closes down ... allowing its many pols and solons to gather at their favorite watering holes to celebrate the banishing of snakes from the ole sod. Once there, they donate a parcel of liquor taxes back to the treasury from which they draw their sustenance. Incidentally, the reason Massachusetts is called a “commonwealth” is that the Pilgrims believed “from each according to his ability and to each according to his need” ... a tradition that lives on in this state unto this day.

Evacuation Day was named to honor the purging that supposedly saved the life of Paul Revere’s mother when she had come down with the croup the night before her son’s famous ride. Her doctor, Elias DeBakey, gave her a double dose of ipecac and prune juice. Then he bled her with leaches; sweated her in a log-cabin sauna; gave her a soapy water enema; and finally, had her down a triple dose of bromide expectorant. She was “evacuated” so completely that she dropped nearly a third of her body weight. But, despite all this bad medicine, she survived ... and the people of the Bay State chose to honor this miracle by declaring this day an annual holiday.

The Irish, when they are not blowing each other up, spend a good deal of their time writing blue-ribbon prose; and, as already noted, have an affinity for amber liquids. On Evacuation Day this tropism becomes an obsession. Brass-railed bars with names like “Galway Bay” and “Glacamora” fill with corpulent-visaged Celts downing tuns of Harp lager and Guinness stout. And, at the tables, sit hoards of green-tie trenchermen devouring nitrided corned beef, bilious cabbage, boiled Bliss potatoes, and Irish soda bread. In the more radical of these establishments, Erse is spoken to cover the intrigues and cabals being planned, abetted by the bravado of booze.

These Sons of Erin, having sated and slaked themselves, finish the day with some sort of melee. On this day, a bloody nose or a broken tooth is a badge of honor. But the belligerents know it’s time to go home when they start seeing leprechauns prancing among the pots of shamrocks on the bar top. Then, after everyone has left, the leprechauns really do emerge, belt down the bar spitsies ... and, invariably, start their own brouhaha. But when in turn, these elves start seeing even littler people hidden among the mosses and detritus of the clover pots, even the leprechauns call it a day.

© Copyright, George W. Potts

Katz's Meow

Katz’s deli brimmed with portlies this cool Autumn forenoon. Many were gofers multi-ordering over-stuffed sandwiches and Dr. Brown’s for their office betters. The countermen were operating with the dexterity of Japanese griddle chefs, stabbing pastramis and beef briskets from the steam table and slicing them onto seeded rye or pumpernickel till a quick glance at the customer told them to stop. If said customer was clever enough to extend a greenie on the countertop, the cutting continued until there was a kalbfleisch tower.

Norris Nasselrod looked markedly out of place as he pushed his way into this odoriferous Octoberfest. He was athletically thin in a white tie and tails. The Hamilton that Norris slyly edged onto the counter had every white-apron in the place scrambling to take his order. But Moshe Poppel quickly testosteroned his right to hook and land this flounder. Moshe had established this pecking-order apex by “accidentally” dropping a butcher knife on the foot of any fellow worker who looked cross-eyed at him. He had done this so often that Blue Cross had specifically excluded this medical condition from further insurance re-imbursements.

Moshe took Norris’ order of a corned beef on marbled rye and outdid himself to justify the impending generous tip. A whole slab of steaming Jewish chateaubriand disappeared under his huge chef's knife and reappeared precariously balanced on serving-platter-sized crust of piebald provender. When he was done, he tucked three half-dones on top of this cholesterol cornucopia while wrapping it in an expanse of waxed paper.

As Norris was given and paid for this gastromonstosity, he deftly retrieved his sawbuck and slid through the lunch crowd like Paul Horning through the Cleveland Browns’ secondary. He penguin-suited his way out onto Houston St. and into a waiting cab before Moshe’s jaw stopped dropping. The derisive laughter and applause from the assembled lunch patrons and his fellow workers caused Moshe to redden from the neck upwards. By the time this sanguinity disappeared under the white yarmulke that Moshe was prone to wear, his whole face and most of his bald head were a bright crimson. The metaphor was obvious to everyone. Henceforth, Moshe was secretly referred to as “Pimple” Poppel.

© Copyright, George W. Potts