Note: Some readers may recall this story from last year. I thought it was worth a revisit.
The Nuart Theater today, gone is the Lucky-U
All my father (RIP) could remember about the poem published in the now defunct Los Angeles Herald Examiner
was that it began, “T’was the night before Christmas and all through the….” That’s about as much of the poem as anyone in the neighborhood could remember, but the incident rang as loudly as the bells at St. Sebastian Church, about a half-mile away.
Indeed, it had
been the night before Christmas, and on Santa Monica boulevard (the old Highway
66 that started in Chicago, Illinois and ended at Palisades Park in Santa
Monica) was a notorious beer joint known as the Lucky-U, where the heartiest,
and mostly, Chicano spirit-enthusiasts spent many a day and night, after work, and on weekends.
Since the Lucky-U
was located two blocks from the Veterans Administration, many disabled WWII and
Korean veterans lined their wheelchairs along Santa Monica boulevard, where the
Lucky-U competed with a couple of other bars, one famously known as the Vet’s
Bar.
Seeing as it was
barely ten years since many of these men had returned home from battles in the
Pacific and Europe, some fresh from Korea, they numbed their ailing bodies and
minds in the local beer joints. Of course, the government denied war had
anything to do with their mental maladies, including all manner of substance
abuse, family disruptions, unemployment, and absentee fathers. Even those who
didn’t go to war, had a difficult time understanding many of their relatives
and neighborhood friends would not be coming home. At the time, there was no
Dr. Phil or Oprah to help out.
Inside the dark,
musty room, the Lucky-U reeked of booze and spicy food. After 5:00 PM, the end
of the work day for many of them, it was rare to find an empty stool at the
bar. The men played pool, sat at the few tables scattered about, but most stood
around, drinks in their hands, laughing and talking boisterously.
All of the men
knew each other, had been raised on Los Angeles’ Westside, and, many were, in
fact, related, their parents, refugees of the 1910 Mexican Revolution. Behind
the bar, was a kitchen of sorts, serving an assortment of Mexican quick-meals,
burritos and tacos. Some claimed the weekend menudo the best in town, or it was just an excuse to arrive early for the first drinks of the day. Everybody
knew the owner and bartenders, so it was what Sly Stone would come to call “a
family affair.”
Actually, a few
men claimed to have seen Door’s lead singer Jim Morrison knocking back a few
brews; though, nobody, at the time, knew who the long-haired kid was. Morrison
verified his presence in the Lucky-U to one of his biographers, years later.
Getting back to
the story, I will only use the protagonist’s first name, Joe, seeing as his
children and relations might still live in the area, which is highly unlikely,
since increased taxes and property values have driven out the old paisano
families, as John Steinbeck might refer to them. Yet, Facebook is a mighty
weapon, and who knows how many friends may read this, remember the name, and
pass it on to unsuspecting family members.
As noted, t’was
the night before Christmas, the bar had closed before midnight, seeing as even
serious drinkers needed to make it home to their families on such a blessed
day, our savior’s birth. Apparently, Joe had something else in mind.
He hid in the
bathroom and waited for the bartender to call out he was locking the doors.
There wasn’t much need to search the premises. Who would want to stay in the
Lucky-U after it closed, anyway?
So trusting was
the owner, he left the cash register full of money until opening the following
day when he would empty the till and collect the prior night’s earnings. My
father once told me, “Who would rob the Lucky-U? It was like a second home,” a
displeasing admission to many wives and children in town.
Eventually, Joe
came out of the bathroom. He called to make sure everyone was, in fact, gone.
He walked straight to the cash register, opened the till, and started cramming
the bills into his pockets.
Joe was a
long-time Lucky-U customer and not a thief, by nature. Surely, he thought long
and hard about the course of action on which he was embarking. He considered
the Lucky-U’s owner a friend, who was known to give patrons credit to partake
in the establishment’s delights.
Joe must have had
good reason to abscond with the cash. Here is where the story gets a little
murky regarding his motives. He might have been out of work and didn’t want to
return home broke and with no gift on Christmas eve for his kids. Maybe he had
bills to pay and found himself more desperate than ever. Or maybe he saw
an opportunity, and he took advantage of it. This, he never confessed to his
friends, but either way, he now had his pockets lined with enough money to do
whatever needed to be done.
As he made his
way to the back door, which led to a dark alley, the neon lights of the Nu-Art Theater
glowing across the boulevard, a thought came to him. Why not just one drink, on-the-house,
before making his getaway? One drink, how could that hurt? Booze always tastes
better when it’s free.
Sure enough, he sat
down and poured himself a drink. Once he finished, he figured it was time to
leave, but then, he thought, hey! Why not one more? He had his money and one
free drink. That should suffice. But now, with his whistle wet, the desire for
another became overwhelming. So, he took advantage of the open bar and poured
himself another. Well, you know what happened from here. He couldn’t stop, and
he just kept pouring and drinking.
The next morning
when the owner opened to collect the prior evening’s “take”, he found Joe
slumped across the bar. Of course, the owner was confused as to how Joe had
gotten in, seeing as there was no apparent break-in. Complete confusion, until
he looked down and saw dollars spilled on the floor beneath Joe’s bar stool,
and greenbacks of various denominations peeking out of Joe’s pockets.
I can only
surmise how the Hearst newspaper reporter learned about the break-in. The owner
must have called the police, as the precinct was just down the street behind
the old library, to report the robbery, which generated buzz from an otherwise
listless Christmas Eve news desk, sending the reluctant reporter from his warm
cozy desk in downtown Los Angeles out to the Westside to check-out the minor criminal
infraction.
After conducting
rudimentary interviews with people at the scene, the Herald’s reporter, his
creative juices flowing, decided against writing a mundane piece about a
neighborhood drunk serendipitously breaking into a local bar, chose instead
to memorialize Joe’s escapade in verse,
borrowing the elements of prosody from a Christmas poem published anonymously
in 1823 which began, “Twas the night before Christmas/ and all through the….”
