THE WEARIN’ O’ THE GREEN
Some places are known for their beaches, some for their mountains. Massachusetts’ claim to fame is the Cape and the islands, its sports teams (good and disastrous), and one of the largest Saint Patrick’s Day parades in the USA.
Here’s an excerpt from To the Next Home Run, from a chapter entitled “The Patron Saint of Southie.” This scene offers a glimpse of the event that ––to Bostonians––is as symbolic as Mardi Gras is to New Orleanians. From the time we join the parade route until we step into the [fictitious] Four-Leaf Tavern on Broadway for a pint, we are swept along with the tension and drama of the day which, in this story, takes place during the first year of court-ordered busing.
The storied St. Patty’s Day parade in South Boston, one of the oldest in the country, began at the Broadway “T” station, tracing West Broadway to East Broadway towards the Outer Harbor. Once it reached the bay and turned onto P Street, the back half of its route varied from year to year, a fact that mattered only to the homebound, the elderly, and the infirm who viewed it from windowsills and stoops as it wound to its finish in Andrew Square. Everyone else formed the green sea of humanity where the action was and always will be ––on Broadway.
The order of the day was tradition-bound. First, Boston’s politically-connected were hosted at a raucous pre-parade power-breakfast––presided over by various Irish pols. The hoi polloi party got underway later, spilling into and out of a series of dark joints dotting the parade route. Regular traffic suspended, the streets were jammed with a procession of firemen in trucks, policemen on foot and on horseback, high school bands, bagpipers and high-stepping Irish dancers, politicians and beauty queens propped on boot covers of late-model convertibles. Green-carnationed floats––bearing the messages of a dozen organizations––lumbered down the avenues, joined by church groups groaning under the weight of statues and Hibernian Society members carrying banners that demanded England Out of Ireland.
Spectators––thousands of them––mingled ten-deep at the curbs, in a variety of conditions not associated with sobriety. Every soul who wasn’t in uniform appeared in the most vibrant green garb available, many waving small Irish and American flags. As the day wore on, those clothed in olive and drab greens would likely be invited to defend themselves for not having the proper attitude towards the most sacred of Southie traditions: the “wearin’ o’ the green.”
The Four-Leaf Tavern sat at the intersection of West Broadway and Dorchester Street, where the parade made a short unwieldy jog to the right before swinging left down East Broadway. For years, that location earned its standing-room-only status as the prime location for viewing. The day’s hardest partying was done at the Four-Leaf which in turn provided the service of laundering record amounts of cash for its “investors.”
Rocky O’Byrne stood battle-ready at the tavern’s picture window that March Sunday morning, gazing out onto Broadway. It fell to him, as the manager of the Four-Leaf, to keep a sharp eye on patrons who looked like any kind of trouble during and after the parade. That, and to ensure that a believable amount of bar cash made it safely to the night deposit box by the time the street sweepers arrived. He also ran the loan business out of the back office. Keeping a tight lid on all phases of the operation served each of its parts, and Rocky ruled the operation with a strong grip.
* * *
Rocky went through a checklist with Teddy, his old buddy and the gruff head bartender––the supply of kegs in the basement, backups of Jameson’s on the shelf, stacks of clean glasses, jars of green eggs on the bar, a sufficient supply of toilet paper in the heads. He went through another list with the kitchen manager, tasting from the huge pots of corned beef and cabbage that bubbled on the six-burner stove. The cash for the loan operation was double-checked, bundled, and re-secured in the wall safe. Today was sure to be a long, demanding day, and he was satisfied they were well prepared for what he could imagine. Harder to prepare for was the unimaginable. Almost a school-year had passed under the court-ordered busing mandate to desegregate city schools. Southie still felt like a powder keg that could blow at any time.
Rocky stopped by the back bar for a final word with Teddy. He’d scheduled four bartenders to handle the parade volume, but routinely gave orders to Teddy and let them roll downhill from there.
“Pour a decent drink,” he muttered, “but the more booze, the more chance ya’ end up with a feckin’ fire outa control. So keep a lid on it. The cold’ll drive ‘em in. But I don’t need ta tell ya we hardly need trouble bringin’ attention. Anyone lookin’ for a loan comes ta me, as usual.”
“Gotcha, Chief,” Teddy nodded, and felt for the weighted club he kept by the side of the bar sink.
“Fa godsakes, Teddy. Try waterin’ the drinks or dazzlin’ them with ya charm first, huh? It’s Saint Patty’s Day. Goodwill towa’ds men and all that.” Rocky couldn’t help making one last comment. “That green vest ya wearin’ll dazzle’em, all right. Where’d ya get that thing? Ya look like some dandy from Dublin.”
Teddy returned the club to its place alongside the sink and, when Rocky turned away, threw him the middle finger. “Just gettin’in the mood, Chief, gettin’ in the mood.”
Rocky chuckled and shook his head as he strolled to the front door to unlock the heavy deadbolts. “Okay. Here we go.” The first revelers burst in with exuberant hollers. The day had begun.
©copyright 2023 by Jayne M. Adams
Well, 1975 was a tough year in Beantown. It was a tough time to write about, even from the vantage point of a new millennium. Some days and nights required a full box of Kleenex by my computer. The characters whispered their stories to me, I typed them faithfully, and was touched more than I could ever have imagined. Each of them will stay with me forever.
For them I say this old Irish prayer: “ Till we meet again, may God hold you in the palm of His hand.”