Bartender Behind Bars

By Mike Murphy

My book is forty years in the making. If you like sex, drugs, and rock and roll, this book is for you. I hope this will bring back happy memories of the ’70s, ’80s, ’90s, and 2000s. I put you and my head as I reflect back to the party days. You will meet famous people like Ted Turner; Jane Fonda; Chris Evert; Ernie D.; Dennis Conner; Governor Carey of New York; and Angus King, the governor of Maine to name a few as Gerry Garcia sang. What a strange trip it’s been.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Mar 11, 2019
• ISBN: 9781644249376

Mike Murphy

Mike Murphy is a successful entrepreneur, speaker, coach, and philanthropist. He is the founder of the Love from Margot Foundation, which supports women with cancer, and Mountains of Hope, a transformational retreat center in Colombia. His first book, Love Unfiltered, was a Wall Street Journal bestseller. He divides his time between Northern California and Colombia.

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Bartender Behind Bars

Mike Murphy

Copyright © 2018 Mike Murphy

All rights reserved

First Edition

PAGE PUBLISHING, INC.

Conneaut Lake, PA

First originally published by Page Publishing 2018

ISBN 978-1-64424-936-9 (pbk)

ISBN 978-1-6624-4472-2 (hc)

ISBN 978-1-64424-937-6 (digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Zappia’s on 88 is located in Newark, New York. The owner is Frank Zappia and his wife Pat, his father Papa Joe and wife Rose, along with grandchildren Andy and Joey. I’m at a party one night when Frank Zappia comes up to me and tells me I will be his next bartender. I’m only eighteen years old. So here we go off to the races. I train as a barback for a couple of weeks and study my drinks from an old Mr. Boston’s journal. It contains all the basic cocktails from cream drinks to manhattan to martinis and the popular drinks of the time. Every Wednesday night, it’s mug night—free beer from 9:00 p.m. till 10:00 p.m. with a purchase of a Zappia mug. The rock band is live with plenty of dancing and drinking. I work the bar with Jerri Salerno, Stan the Manpolack, and Dumb Fuck Wilson. Dave got that nickname from Dave Johnson a local contractor.

Frank has our initials embossed on our collared shirts. Dave’s initials are DFW, so his name became Dumb Fuck Wilson, which is totally unfair as Dave is a smart guy. At the door is big Dick Albright, checking IDs. It is a typical Wednesday night. A couple of big guys from Seneca Falls starts a fight, and it gets way out of control. Big Dick is no fighter; he’s getting clocked, so Dave jumps in. Now he’s getting the shit kicked out of him. The fight moves into the kitchen where Pat Zappia and I are.

She screams at me, What the hell are you going to do?

I grab a chef knife and tell the thugs, Get the fuck out before I cut you up like a codfish. I am not kidding in the aftermath. Frank didn’t press charges as it goes against your liquor license if you get to many points against your establishment. Both big Dick and Dave quit.

Our house band plays every Wednesday, Friday, and Saturday. Lead vocal is John Eagle, John Aquista on bass; Steve Salerno on keyboard, and Danny on drums. Big Dick runs the sound board. He’s been rehearsing with the band for his stage debut. Big Dick comes out jamming the song Sex, Drugs, and Rock and Roll. That’s all my body knows. The place goes nuts. Dick’s a big hit. For a big guy, he’s got some moves.

I can’t tell the story without talking about Frank Scorhe Zappia. He went to high school with my mother Pat Murphy along with Fred Ringo. Frank has a huge black-and-gray Afro, thick black glasses, and an Italian temper. When Frank gets pissed off, which is about every couple months, he’s the guy who will take a rack of glasses and smash them all over the kitchen. I love it. He’s also a little prejudice, although he mellows as he ages. When white girls dance with Puerto Ricans or blacks, he would find excuse to kick them out. I don’t go for that bullshit.

One afternoon Frank Ringo, Charlie San Angelo, and I go out to Sodus Point for a day of boating and cards. The name of the game is Pitch high-low game. The stakes are high—$5 a game, $2 a set, and $25 a point, best of three. Frank and I win the first two games. We take a break. Ringo starts to piss off the bow of the boat. Scorched ball slams the boat into gear. Ringo pissed all over his khakis. He’s not a happy camper, and if anybody else has done that to Ringo, they would have history. Frank just laughs. We proceed to lose the rest of the games, but the tide has turned. We spend the rest of the day at Conelly’s Cove.

My little buddy Philgrham comes in he’s half-shit face. He’s wearing my Boston Red Sox cap. Back then, Newark had a single. A baseball team, the Co Pilots—just like everybody—came to score chicks. So when one of the players flips off my cap, Phil rewards him with a mug to his skull. Half the Co Pilots proceed to kick the piss out of Phil. I go to court with Phil. Judge Biddle throws it out. Phil has no money, case closed.

One incident, my brother Danny comes in. He’s not feeling pain. Frank wants him out. I tell Danny it’s time to go. He looks me in the eye, and I know. I mean it. He slams the bar back. Dennis Keys in the back to the floor. When he gets up, I tell him he’s lucky as Danny would have kicked his ass.

Frank sends me and Big Dick to Rochester to pick up two strippers for a stag party at Zap’s. Big Dick thinks he’s going to get lucky. Dick’s got the bait plenty of coke. The girls are hot, of course. They dress to kill. They don’t trust Dick, but me, I look sixteen—baby face. The call girls want half the money up front, so we give in. The blowers start giving blows jobs in the office. When it’s the groom’s turn, Phil Depaul—his future father-in-law—is watching; it ain’t happening on his watch.

Another Zappia story starts like this: I’m to meet this good-looking girl Cindy Ponte at the bowling alley. I go there and have a couple of beers. Cindy is with her mother, so no Irish luck this night. I cruise over to Dom’s East Newark Grill in my just tuned-up Fiat, never it ran so well, so that would be short-lived. My cousin Steve Kline is hanging out in there when we closed the joint. When we are leaving, I tell Steve I am going to give him the ride of a lifetime. We are not getting very far. I’m going to fast and try to take a turn in third gears. I crash into a tree on Bartle Avenue down the street where we reside. We are okay, but he’s pissed off and calls me a fucking asshole. He’s right and walks home. Before the police arrives, I call John Aqusiqia. He owns Collison 31. He’s not a happy camper and tries to yank me out. I’m almost off the hook when the local cop arrives. Sergeant Grisam checks me out and tells me I have two choices—the hospital or jail. I opt for the hospital, of course.

In small-town Newark, I know everybody. After stitching me up, I ask the nurse on duty, Mrs. Derr, What’s next?

She informs me a blood test. I had a few beers, maybe one to many?

It’s early March in upstate New York. It’s cold and wet without wanting. I sneak out of the hospital without sneakers or socks. I fly out the exit door and hit the backyards where I have grown up—Murph’s turf. The cops are in hot pursuit. They’re pissed off. I got away by crawling across the canal bridge. I crash at my mom’s house on her couch in the family room. I wake up to loud rapping at the front door. My mother comes in, and I know that look: I’m in trouble. She tells me Sergeant Grisam’s at the front and door very upset. They seem to have been looking for me all night thought I might have drowned in the canal. The sergeant swears someday he will get me. I must say he’s a man of his word as this incident will come back to haunt me. The next night, ladies drinks free for one hour, with Strubing and Carle jamming, all the nurses from the hospital come. Mrs. Deer has my socks and sneakers in her hands. Then over the bar, Big Dick gets on the Mike and calls me crashed Murphy, always a jokester. I put my 1962 Buick LeSabre back on the road, the infamous Purple Pimp Mobile.

Back at Zon 88, we are playing card after hours at Zappias. The name of the game is pitch—you know the stakes. If you sweep three straight, the loser has the option to play for double the stakes. You always play to get your money back me, and Frank never lost three in a row. That goes on until Pat Zappia gets a phone call from a local cop’s wife as her husband lost his paycheck and would go to the State Troopers if the gambling don’t stop. End of card games.

One last Zap story—I and Stan the Pollack are closing one night. I ask him if he’s going to Perkins for breakfast. He says, Not tonight, I’m too tired.

I say, Good night. I’m not going home. Mary the cocktail waitress will be up hot horny. I’m going to check her out. When I pull up, Stan’s car is already there. He’s beaten me to the punched. That Frank’s golden rule, No screwing around with the help, I used that line on Mary the next night. We go at it right on the floor of the living room. Now that’s living. As a bartender behind bars, I get plenty of girl’s action. Not to brag, it’s just the way it is. Freddie Ringo is the guy who trained me. He once told me a good bartender never gets married. I look at him and quip, Ringo, you been married twice.

His comeback is like, I said a good bartender never gets fucking married.

I met my next girlfriend at Zap’s. Of course, I was on my stage behind the bar. She is Debbie Vandane from Sodus, New York. A very good-looking brunet former cheerleader and damn good tennis player has a good job and a green Mustang. I’m all over her like a hound dog in heat. We hook up. I’m living in an animal house just up the street from her apartment in Bartle Avenue. I padlock my door in the basement and pretty much live with her. I meet her parents, and they like me. They have a nice house swimming pool. Debbie looks damn good in her swimsuit. We hit golf balls in her backyard. Her parents are members of Sodus Country Club. We cruise to Orbackers and have milkshakes and cheeseburgers. I’m falling in love. We play tennis at Perkin’s Park. She is a very good player. We kiss in between sets. I don’t care what Freddie says; Debbie’s a keeper.

One bloody Sunday, we go to the Foghat concert at Sodus Point, New York. The joint is jumping; the Dolphin is slamming the Verkeys brothers let Muph and his girl slide no cover for the bartender from Zap’s. We have a couple of beers. I’m driving, and the band plays Slow Ride. We are dancing. It’s a perfect day so far. We get out to the patio overlooking the bay. It’s a beautiful day. The powerboats and sailboats can hear the music. Then I spot my younger brother Danny. He’s smashed. I introduced him to Debbie, and he’s out of it. Danny’s been out on Kevin O’Neil’s motorboat all day with Jimmey Hemridge and Huna man and anybody else. Danny drops a bottle of genny beer he’s barefoot and almost steps on it. We offer to take him home. Danny storms away. About five minutes later, I hear he’s fighting outside. I run to the front of the Dolphin. Danny’s bleeding from the head. The rescuers’ wagon offers to let me ride to the hospital to comfort him. I grab his hand and pray to god that he will live to see another day. Me and Debbie drive to the emergency room. A bunch of Harley guys are there hanging out. Apparently Danny and Greg Dhont were fighting between cars when one of the Harley guys slams both of them. Vicki Burn is a registered nurse. Our neighbor in Newark tells us Danny’s got a fractured skull, and it’s not good. The next morning, my brother Tom comes to Bartle Avenue. Danny Murphy is dead at twenty. My mother has the wake at her home on Madison Street. It’s an Irish wake keg of beer nobody can drive we will get them home.

The house is packed. Danny is very popular. A good friend Mike Carney can’t accept the fact that my brother is gone. He’s buzzed; we all are, so my mom opens the casket. Danny’s been autopsied, and it’s not a pretty sight. That ends the wake. Rest in peace, little brother. We bury him the next day. Debbie never attend the wake. She can’t handle it. She isn’t at my side when I needed her most, so she history.

When the final Phil Graham starts, I am still slinging the suds at Zap’s. I get word from Creep in Fort Lauderdale, Florida. He’s getting married. I take the week off and fly down south and, like a fool, start hitchhiking to a hotel. My first mistake I is take off my shirt to catch some rays. My second mistake is I get picked up right away. I’m young, naive, white, and good looking. A character by the name of Otto picks me up and offers to split a hotel room for half the rate. He’s a businessman, Otto tells me. More like he’s on the hunt. I tell him I’m a bartender from New York. He ask if I like to drink some liquor. I say yes, and we stop. He buys a bottle of Tanqueray gin, some tonic, and lime. We check into the motel. I make a couple of cocktails, and we shoot the breeze. He tells me he’s married with two children, a boy and a girl. Next thing I know, Otto suggests we crashed out. I’m tired from the flight, I agree. I wake up with Otto next to me, so I jump out of bed. I tell him, I will kill you, you dirty old man. I proceed to tell him, If I was your son, I would spit on your grave. He hands me fifty dollars so I don’t call the police. That’s the last I ever hear from Otto the queer. In the meantime, I never find creep. What a waste of time. When I get back to Newark, I’m still living with Ron.

Ron Concert, he tells me to sit down; he’s got bad news. I come to find out my buddy Phil Graham is dead. He is found on Welcher road on his way to see his girlfriend at the time Jackie Deldurk from Marion, New York. He’s been run over more than once. He’s also been in a serious fight, according to the autopsy. Well, rumors are flying small-town Newark. Those close to the investigation know its murder, but Phil has a reputation. He is a young punk who likes to drink and fight, so no big deal; everybody knows who killed Philip then ran him down like a dog. Those guys responsible, turn yourselves in before you all go to hell. How can you sleep at night? Rick Healey, you’re the big DA. Reopen the case before I give this info to Unsolved Mysteries. I kind of doubt Newark wants to be known as the town with no pity. I stay at home for the rest of the summer. Ron the boss at Woodhill Apartments. Jim Eldridge and Rick Gravino also work under Ron. Some nights I stay at Nancy Wallace apartment.

In the city, one night of wild sex, I wake Ron up when I toss him her panties at him what a wakeup call. All I have to do is punched in at the barn and go back to sleep until 10:00 a.m. As long as the grass is mowed, by the end of the week, my job is done. These are slow summer nights, so Ron and a couple guys start the infamous war games. It starts small little things like your furniture being toss over and shaving cream in the phone. One evening, Kevin Sully Sullivan tries to sneak up on me, and Ron is waiting for him. We have a thirty-gallon pot of warm water mixed with pepper chino juice. We drenched Sully. His roommates get us back, but we have the atomic weapon. So after a busy night at the Mason Jar, I pull into the complex. There smoke is still pouring from where Ron and company let off the