No Hill Too High for a Stepper

by Mike Mahan

  Often we would bring along a black guy named Goochie, who could play the blues on a guitar better than anyone we knew. We would give him a dollar or two and some vodka, and he would play while we began the game of “pass it.” The first boy would pass the bottle to the girl next to him. She had to drink from it or do one of two things: kiss the boy next to her or pass him an article of her clothing. This pattern was followed, and some threw clothing into a pile, while others smooched with the boys next to them. This routine was followed until a body of semi-clothed bodies were writhing in passionate kisses on the blankets. Goochie’s music supplied the exact right touch.

  This bacchanalian evening would continue until someone realized we had to be back at the college before lock-up, which was ten during the week, eleven on the weekend. There was a great scramble to get the discarded clothes back on and the couples piled back into the cars for their return to the college. “Pass it” had given us an excuse for making out, and when mixed with a measure of vodka we thought life couldn’t offer much more.

  21

  Alcohol

  Alcohol was a no-no in my house. I never saw even a sip of wine poured in the house. Because of Mother and Momma’s hatred of the demon rum, all of Dad’s drinking had to be done on the sly outside the house. He kept a bottle of moonshine whiskey in the coalhouse, and I felt sorry for him when he would head out there and take a pull off the bottle. Sassy and Pete Givhan on Highland Street had mixed drinks and served them to their friends. The Jeters had liquor in their house. So did Mrs. Rogan. And Dr. Acker kept a bottle of bonded whiskey in his office at all times. When I had visited Aunt Tootsie in New York, they always served Dad drinks, which he seemed to enjoy mightily. I was embarrassed that my parents ran a dry household on Shelby Street. Social drinking, I thought, was cool. But, because of my upbringing, I greatly disapproved of overdrinking.

  Stinky Harris, Joe and Jack McGaughy, and dates enjoying “pass it.” The sandy beach and seclusion of Bulldog Bend was the perfect place for this coming of age game.

  Stinky Harris, left, Joe McGaughy, and friends.

  The group’s motto, “Whenever, if available.”

  All of us boys wanted to imbibe, but drinking had to be a clandestine affair. Occasionally Ed Givhan, another classmate named Kenneth (Hanky-Pooh) Rochester, and I would slip a drink of whiskey from the Givhans’ stock, but usually we bought our alcohol from a black man named Moses, who lived out at New Camp, which was the colored camp at Aldrich. He sold pints of bonded whiskey and cans of beer, but we thought those cost too much, so we usually bought his home brew. It packed a lot of wallop for the money. Stinky Harris would drive us out there, usually at night, and one of us would go up on the porch of Moses’s unpainted cabin and knock on the door. I was a little scared, but I’d go up pretty often. Moses would crack the door no more that eight inches and look you over. His face was backlit and eerie.

  “What you want, boy?” he’d ask in a gruff voice.

  “Three bottles of brew,” I’d say.

  “Boy, I’m of a good mind to tell Mr. Stanley what you doin’,” he would say, but I knew that was an idle threat. He certainly did not want to miss a sale. He would then come out the door, and I’d follow him across the road to the spring. He’d lift the door to the spring box and pull out the Clorox bottles of cool home brew. “These are four bits a bottle,” he’d say, as if we didn’t know, and I’d hand him the crumpled dollar bill and the quarters.

  The next step was open to debate. Where would we go to drink it? Usually we decided on the Montevallo Cemetery, though sometimes we’d go out to Ed Givhan’s cabin on the creek. But we couldn’t wait. We’d unscrew the lids off the bottles, and the yeasty home brew would foam out over the neck. The malty smell hung heavy in the car, and we would take gulps of the brew, relishing its strong, slightly rotten taste. And wonder of wonders, I was never made sick by the stuff nor did I ever have a hangover. That was not true for some of the others, and I quickly got a reputation for being a cool drinker.

  Everyone knew that Moses sold whiskey and home brew, but there were no policemen in Aldrich to interfere with his business. Shelby County was dry, of course, but no one enforced the law. I heard the matter discussed in the barbershop, and someone said, “Oh, he’s out there in nigger quarters. They ain’t gonna pay no attention to him.” I knew for a fact that he was selling liquor to prominent people in town.

  Another opportunity to drink came because Pete Givhan’s Coca-Cola bottling company served the Shelby County Gold Coast, a series of honkytonks on Highway 31 South and on Highway 280. Sammy Fiorella had a joint on the Shelby County side of the Cahaba River, and on the other side of the river was the First Stop. We’d send the oldest boy in to buy beer at these establishments, and often times they would return with a six pack. This area was known as lawless territory, and we were the beneficiaries of that status.

  My drinking was always done with my buddies during high school, except for one occasion. Putnam Porter liked to have a drink, and when he took some of us boys to Birmingham to nice restaurants he’d always have wine with his meals. Once when we were seniors he took Joe, Kenneth, Milton, and me to Joe’s Steak House, a private club in Birmingham, and he ordered all of us a Manhattan. I don’t know if I had ever heard of a rite of passage, but in retrospect I know I was going through one at that time.

  When I went off to Auburn for the summer quarter of 1952, my distaste for overdrinking evaporated. Since we didn’t have a car, I hitched a ride down to Auburn with my high school classmate Bobby Hawkins, with whom I would be rooming. Bobby and I were assigned to Magnolia Hall, and we arrived on a Sunday afternoon in early June and immediately found our room, selected our beds, and unpacked our gear. We both had meal tickets and would take our meals in the Magnolia cafeteria, which we found quite convenient.

  Among the other residents at Magnolia were some Korean War veterans who were naturally much older than Bobby and me and who impressed me immediately with their knowledge of the world. One of the things they taught me was that a man proved himself by how much beer he could drink, and I set out that summer to prove I was a man. The feeling of newly found freedom was profound. I had drunk a good bit of beer in Montevallo, but acquiring it was always difficult. Here at Auburn it flowed freely. I quickly learned the places in town that would serve you regardless of age, and I frequented those establishments.

  Opposite ends of the scale. On the left, Ed Givhan was the leader in the proper rules of social drinking. His philosophy, “No matter what time it is or what the drink is, try it, you might like it.” On the right, Bobby Hawkins, the teetotaler. “Always say no whatever the occasion.”

  Bobby did not develop a taste for beer the way I did, and he was much more serious about his studies. It never occurred to me that there was a correlation between the two, but I quickly found out there was. I was majoring in engineering, and I flunked the two five-hour courses I had enrolled in. But I must say that I did have a wonderful time, joining the ROTC, playing in the band, seeking out the company of any and all girls available. At the end of the summer quarter, I was naturally sad to return home, where the beer was not so free-flowing and the girls not so plentiful.

  Bobby and I went back for the fall quarter, and we found that we were really incompatible as roommates. His priority was education and mine was beer. A certain tension developed, and in the end I drew a line down the middle of the room indicating my side and his. We tolerated each other for that quarter, but after that we parted ways.

  Taylor Davis, an older Montevallo friend, had joined Delta Tau Delta, and he asked me to go out for rush. I did and wound up pledging that fraternity. At my first pledge party, I met Brian Johnson, a Korean War veteran who became a lifelong friend. He and some other Delt brothers got me a blind date for a rush party with a beautiful Tri-Delt, and when we arrived the Tri-Delt and I made our way down some steep concrete steps to the basement, where the bar was located. A
big red blinking light hung from the ceiling, and someone was playing 45rpm records so loud that the room was pulsing with rock and roll. I especially remember “Blue Suede Shoes” and “Shake, Rattle, and Roll.” But another sight really captured my attention. There next to the bar was the first keg of beer I ever saw. My mouth watered as I gazed on this sixteen-gallon stainless steel container from which people were drawing plastic cups of foamy golden brew. This was heaven, as far as I was concerned. The Tri-Delt and I filled our glasses and introduced ourselves to the others hovering near the keg. I slugged down my first beer, and I noticed that the Tri-Delt’s was almost full still. So I drew another cup, drank it quickly, and drew another. Then I suggested we go upstairs where there was a live band playing.

  The older brothers of Delta Tau Delta, all eager to share their knowledge of alcohol with their young pledge brothers. Left to right, Grady Hicks, a Shelby Street man and brother of Laura Ann, Brian Johnson, my drinking mentor, and Johnny Litton, a Wilton resident experienced in all the ways of consuming the “nectar of the gods.”

  I asked the Tri-Delt to dance. Sister had taught me well, and I could tell how impressed she was with my jitterbugging and bopping. I thought others were watching in admiration as well. I was getting a nice buzz from the beer, but I wanted more than a buzz so I excused myself and went down to the basement for another beer. As I left the room, I noticed that the Tri-Delt’s glass was still almost full, and I was shocked to realize an indisputable fact: that silver keg downstairs had a greater hold on me than this gorgeous beauty did.

  During rush, everything ran on a schedule, and at eleven o’clock we were to take our dates home. Brian Johnson eased up to me and said in a hushed voice, “Mike, my boy, I think you are in no condition to escort a young lady home. So I’ll take her for you.”

  As my legs were not working the way they should, I agreed. Even though I had only recently met him, I trusted Brian implicitly.

  “And one more thing,” Brian said. “You need to sober up, and this is how to do it. Go down to the bar and tell the brother bartender to give you a jigger of straight whiskey. Drink it down in one gulp, and in two or three minutes you will be stone sober.”

  Brian was a man of honor, I thought, and he certainly knew way more about these things than I did, so I did exactly as he instructed. That is the last thing I remember. I woke up the next morning on the concrete steps leading to the basement. The beautiful Tri-Delt was never seen again, but Brian became my friend forever.

  For the most part, I was moderate in my drinking after that. When I joined the Auburn Knights of Rhythm, we had gigs in Phenix City at places like the Hawaii Club and the Fox Club, and booze was flowing everywhere. But if I were going to play, I had to limit my intake.

  I broke my rule about moderation when working one memorable time. One New Year’s, some of my friends and I got a great job playing at the Tally Ho in Selma. I had had no experience with champagne before, and it was flowing that night. The owner brought a bottle over for the band to share, and we drank it right down. Very good stuff. At midnight he returned with a bottle for each member of the band, and I drank mine straight from the bottle. I was feeling no pain, but suddenly the nausea hit. I tried to ignore it, but there was no way. It was obvious to my fellow players that I was going to throw up, and as I abandoned my bass and ran toward the men’s room, Brian Johnson, who had come along for the fun that night, called out to me, “If you feel something fuzzy coming up, swallow, because it’s your asshole.” I got to the commode just in time. It seemed I threw up everything except my asshole.

  I felt awful on the trip back to Auburn. I began to have a hangover. Brian asked if I knew how to handle a hangover. When I said no, he told me I should drink a quart of water. When I got home, I did what he said and got drunk all over again.

  I now knew that I could be done in by champagne, but I had no fears about martinis. The Auburn Honor Band traveled to Atlantic City and Washington, D.C. At the hotel bar in D.C., the band director and some others were having martinis. I was late arriving, so my buddies said I needed to order double martinis to catch up. I took their suggestion and quickly drank three doubles. We were to go over to the Capitol steps to hear the Marine Band, so we started the trek over. Halfway, I lost my ability to walk, so I had to sit down on the curb. My friend, Art Sclater, a Korean War Merchant Marine veteran, flagged down a taxi and sent me back to the hotel.

  Sam Parrish, a friend who was skipping the Marine Band, was in the lobby, and when he saw me, he said, “You’re drunk as a lord. Come on with me.” We went up to his room, and Sam drew a tub of water and told me to get in it. I pulled off my shoes, then stepped fully clothed into the water. No sooner than I sat down did I begin puking, and as I passed out I could see the chunky vomit floating around on the water’s surface. I woke up hours later, very embarrassed and greatly chastened. I went to my room and showered and dressed. I was waiting on the others when they returned from the concert. I decided not to join them in the bar and hoped that Sam Parrish would keep his mouth shut.

  The Auburn Honor Band practicing on the front lawn of Thomas Jefferson’s Monticello a few days before my infamous martini episode in D.C. This image received national coverage and infuriated our university president. The trombone player at far right, Ben Gregory of Demopolis, was caught in an awkward pose and seems to have had a serious case of “crotch crickets.”

  A more alcoholically pleasant evening occurred in 1953 when the Auburn Honor Band went to Starkville to play at the half-time show. We were all thrilled when Auburn beat Mississippi State by one point. Mississippi State was pissed. Auburn fans even tore the goal post down, and the anger increased. To help bring Auburn fans under control, the API Honor Band began playing the National Anthem, but that did little good. We then played the alma mater, which seemed to do the trick. The field was cleared, and we broke ranks and ran to the bus. We had to pass the main male dorm, and we were pelted by beer cans and bottles. Finally on the bus, we were still alarmed as a mob of guys continued to throw stuff at the bus. The driver said that he was afraid to drive back by the dorm, so we took off in the opposite direction and parked away from the action. Some guys had stashed two cases of beer in the back of the bus, and we got it out and began to party. The cheerleaders were on the bus too, and some of us started dancing in the aisles with them. We continued drinking and dancing and singing as the bus began the trip back to Auburn. There was no restroom on board, and some of the girls did what I would have thought impossible: they peed in empty beer cans. This college life was quite educational, I thought.

  22

  Girls

  There comes a time when a boy gets his first whiff of girls and gasoline, and that is a mighty powerful combination. When it hit me, I was grossly unprepared for the effect. I had no real systematic understanding of the mechanics and science of sex, though I had heard quite a bit of talk. Dad had never given me the story, though I once heard Mama telling him that he needed to take me aside and instruct me, that I was coming to the age that I needed to know about the birds and bees. I was embarrassed hearing her telling him that, as I knew he was reluctant to approach me. So I remained in abject ignorance on the subject.

  Dad did at least advise me about my appearance. When I was in my teens and was getting interested in girls, Dad told me I should start paying more attention to how I looked. He taught me to use Old Spice deodorant and how to shave. He wanted me to use the straight razor, as he did, but sharpening the razor on the leather strop, using the shaving brush and cup to work up the lather, and completing the shave itself was just too much for me, and I was happy when Sister presented me with a Ronson electric razor that her husband Bobby had cast off. On some occasions, however, Dad would shave me in his shop, and I was amazed at how gentle his hand was. Once finished, he would apply a Rose oil aftershave that smelled wonderful, but burned like hell, and I left that shop smelling like a rose garden. No other boy in Montevallo was a
s lucky as I was, I thought, and I felt ready to go out and slay me a few girls.

  The girl across the street, Laura Ann Hicks, whom I silently longed for and whose friendship has lasted to this day. Photograph made in her front yard about 1951 with the Hartley house in the background.

  The first girl I really noticed for her beauty and sensuous qualities, Laura Ann Hicks, moved into the Craig House across the street when I was in junior high school. After Mrs. Craig sold the house, the house had gone down, down, down. The spectacular flowerbeds went to weeds, the rose garden was abandoned. There were no more petunias and pansies. Mother had wanted to buy the house, but Dad convinced her that it would be far too expensive to heat. No one else seemed to want such a big house, or, if they did, they couldn’t afford it. And soldiers returning from World War II wanted small ranch houses with picket fences. Then along came Roy and Laura Hicks. Mrs. Hicks, an absolutely beautiful woman, ran the five and dime, and Mr. Hicks was a telegrapher for the railroad. Their daughter’s name was Laura Ann. She was one year younger than me, and I noticed her immediately.