The Reason I was Speechless at Work
It was the summer of ’84, the Tuesday after Memorial Day. My first day at a new job. I stood in my boss’s office, soaked to the skin, my hair matted down, and unable to speak.
Why was I soaked?
A thunderstorm raged outside. Being an ill-prepared young man, I did not own an umbrella or a raincoat to protect myself from the elements.
Why was I unable to speak?
Glad you asked.
That summer, my friends and I rented a shore house in Belmar, New Jersey, just a half-block from the beach. It was the upstairs of a two-family house, unreasonably small for the number of people renting it. However, it had a bathroom and a refrigerator filled with beer.
It was perfect.
This was our first year in Belmar. We had recently graduated from our summers in Manasquan and Seaside. Because of that, we were not familiar with the local bars.
That problem didn’t last long.
That first Sunday afternoon, we walked into a bar that soon became our second home. We would spend every weekend there, surrounded by like-minded idiots, bathed in floodlights while the smell of stale beer and sweat hovered in the air.
Fun fact: I spent that entire summer down the shore and never got a tan. I was paler when the summer ended because of the absence of vitamin D due to my total lack of direct sunlight.
This was Mary’s Husband’s Pub, and it turned out to be the greatest bar I had ever been in.
That first time, we moved through the crowd, getting a feel for the place, spotting some familiar faces from summers past.
The music blared through the speakers.
Screwy Louie was the bar’s DJ, a small man with bushy hair, aviator sunglasses, clam-digger pants, and a perpetual I don’t give a fuck grin. He played the best music I had ever heard.
We soon discovered drinks unheard of back home.
I was accustomed to shots of whiskey or tequila quickly followed by a swig of beer. Here, however, they had drinks named “apple pies” and “woo-woos.”
It turned out you didn’t just order a woo-woo, there was a proper way to drink it.
First, place your index and middle fingers inside the rocks glass, with your thumb on the outside. Then lift the glass to your mouth, down the sweet, sticky liquid, and quickly return the glass to the bar.
As if it were the most natural thing in the world, stick your fingers in your mouth, suck them clean, and pull them out with a pop. Then throw your hands into the air and shout, “Woo-Woo!”
(Don’t judge me.)
At some point in the afternoon, the crowd parted, and bouncers, clad in identical red shirts, carried something from the back of the bar.
It was several wooden pieces that they assembled into what appeared to be a small stage.
The music was so loud that it was hard to talk to each other.
I turned to a woman next to me and asked, “What is this?”
She responded, but I could not make out what she said, so I asked again as the bouncers methodically completed their structure.
Again, I couldn’t hear what she said. I leaned down and put my ear right by her mouth.
Above the music, she screamed the answer for the last time.
“Turtle races!”
I smiled, and she melted back into the crowd.
I turned back to the completed structure. Sure enough, it had several neatly numbered lanes partitioned by long strips of Plexiglas.
Suddenly, the rafters shook when Gary Glitter’s “Rock and Roll (Part 2)” blasted from the speakers.
Everyone cheered.
Turtles appeared and were placed in their respective lanes. A barrier kept them from rushing off before the official bell. I didn’t realize until after this first race (yes, there were several that day) that people could bet on a numbered turtle and win shirts, bandannas, even free drinks.
Within minutes, the official announcement was made, the barrier was lifted, and the race was on.
The Roman Coliseum had nothing on this place.
People screamed and shouted, their faces red. Poor, befuddled reptiles, their feet slipping in the beer and spit that flew from the crowd, moved patiently forward toward the finish line.
Some patrons lowered their faces to eye level with a competitor’s turtle and shouted, “Go back, you piece of shit, go back!”
Others provided encouragement: “Go faster, you piece of shit, go faster!”
It was the most ridiculous thing I had ever seen in my life.
Until the third race.
“What the fuck is wrong with you? Move!”
I shouted at number three, who, for some reason, decided to just sit still and watch the world go by. I screamed and threatened, but he acted as if he didn’t understand a word I said.
Red in the face by the time it was over, my shirt soaked with sweat and beer (neither of which was necessarily mine).
After several more races, the bouncers returned. They reversed their earlier routine, and the racetrack sections disappeared into the darkness at the back of the bar.
I had never yelled so much, and so loudly, at a poor, helpless, defenseless creature (unless you count watching the Vice-Presidential debate).
That night, I went back to the shore house exhausted, exhilarated, my throat raw and unable to speak.
Two days later, as my new boss walked me through the cubicles, I mimed my introductions. After each I would spot the confused looks on my future co-workers’ faces.
During those introductions, one thought kept going through my mind:
Damn turtles.
