Mike Hoffay was sitting alone on the steps in front of St. Blaise. From inside the bar, the sounds of Roger Daltry lyrics echoed through the street, “No one knows what it’s like to be the bad man, the sad man behind blue eyes.” It was unusually warm for a mid-May night. I could feel summer settling in and as much I always looked forward to summer, I wanted time to stand still tonight. It was already Friday morning and I had made the decision three libations before to chalk up another missed day of high school. It was 1978, I had been 18 for four months, and I was spending another wasted evening attempting to drink away my teenage angst. I was convinced some of the answers lay on the bottom of my glass filled with Stoli and tonic. For me, the bar scene had become a very comfortable place for personal therapy and the village of New Paltz provided the perfect setting for my treatments.
The maturation process came slow for me both in the emotional and the physical states. Looking back to the day I had my first drink is as vivid to me today as if it was yesterday. I see clearly who I was with and what bar I was in. Keith Schiller and I entered Bacchus looking like Wilt Chamberlain and Spud Webb. It was December of 1976 and we had just played a basketball game in Marlboro. My body was starting to change, but I was still very small and my voice was still a soprano. It still makes me laugh, thinking back when Keith thought out of the two of us, that I should be the one to go to the bar and order our cocktails.
“May I please have a Bud Draft and a Sloe Gin Fizz?”
Much to my surprise, I was served my first drink without having to produce any ID, let alone a fake one. After drinking my alcohol- laced sarsaparilla, Keith and I drove off to a disco just on the outskirts of town called The Pilgrimage. This bar was far different from the town joints. The disco craze was at its height, and The Pilgrimage was one of the few bars of that genre to find a place in the hard rock and hard partying town of New Paltz. Amongst the bright lights and the large mirror ball hanging from the ceiling I could easily make out a six foot five black guy with platform shoes, in the middle of the dance floor rolling his forearms to the beat.
It was Anthony Monroe, Marlboro High’s center on the basketball team who had just lit us up for 25 points a couple of hours prior.
I don’t think there was a rivalry, but for the most part, the bars in the village of New Paltz were divided into two categories: they were either filled with college students or filled with locals. Directly across the street from Pine’s Funeral Home was a tavern called Zach’s. The bar was owned by a former New Paltz High grad, Dom Zacceho. Zach’s patrons were purely hometown boys and girls. It was rare to see anyone over the age of 26 in Zach’s. The barstools were lined with former glory boys and cheerleaders. The wooden booths were reserved for the current stars of the New Paltz athletic fields. The “One Saturday Wonders” were abundant in Zach’s, retelling tales of the big game against Highland or Wallkill. Only in their early 20’s, they spent a lot of time refining the story of the big moments on the gridiron or baseball field. The mix of the current high school students and alumni heroes made for some serious alma mater bonding. On and off the field conquests were embellished in proportion with the amount of ale consumed. Of course the young men tending the bar were the biggest stars in Zach’s. They were also the ones scoring the most with the teenage girls. Susan Savago was starry-eyed for Greg Garcia and they ended up marrying. The same went for Mike Beck and Jane McKenna. Romance came from behind the bar in the form of Bill Schiller, class of ‘72, and Nancy Bigelow, class of ‘78. What I recall most about Zach’s were the 100’s of albums piled behind the bar. I was impressed with the height of the stacks of 33’s. Despite the tremendous variety of music Zach’s possessed, the only voice I distinctly recall being blasted every night were the vocals of Meat Loaf. “I want you, I need you, but there ain’t no way I’m ever going to love you. Now don’t be sad, because two out of three ain’t bad.”
Directly west of Zach’s at the bottom of main street, McGuinn’s stood tall on the corner, proudly showing off its’ prime location. Unlike Zach’s, McGuinn’s catered to the college crowd and rarely did I see any of my high school friends passing through the door. It was a typical night in the summer of 1978, right around the time the light had finally given way to the dark. An old, beaten down, red station wagon rattled up to the front of McGuinn’s with the back end sinking from the paraphernalia loaded in the rear of the jalopy. Every Sunday evening that summer, Eddie Kirkland took the stage to perform his “one man sings the blues” act. The Gypsy of the blues, as he was known in the industry, carried all of his equipment in from his wagon without assistance. His pay for the evening would be the total amount of money from the two dollar cover that was charged to each individual entering the bar. On those Sundays in the summer following my high school graduation I was the doorman collecting the cover. Just 18 years old and I was already working in bars every night. Besides telling his stories in song, Eddie was a man of few words. After every song he would wipe his brow and ask the audience to “Have Mercy”. He would also ask the Good Lord to “Take a special liken” to each person in the crowd. I usually collected about 200 dollars for Eddie each Sunday, with one exception. On one particular Sunday, I had started my day off enjoying my drinks, which continued on the job. I remember Eddie shaking his head at me as I lay passed out in the bushes in front of the bar. I was only clutching the 20 dollars I was given at the beginning of the night to make change. The blues road warrior barely spoke a word that I had lost his night’s pay and headed to his station wagon. All I could I remember hearing was a raspy “Have Mercy.”
In between Zach’s and McGuinn’s, both literally and figuratively, sits Pat and George’s. It was, and still is, the only New Paltz bar where both college students and townies co-mingle without incident. True to its’ tagline, P & G’s is the cornerstone of New Paltz. Every person ranging from 18-85 within a 50 mile radius has a P&G’s story they are ready to tell. The establishment is a well-oiled, money making instrument. The shot and beer crew occupy the bar in the morning. The usual, large lunch crowd begins arriving around 11:30. In the evening the old-timers enjoy a nice dinner before the party crowd crawls out from under their rocks. The bar is a time machine in many ways. No matter the time of year, no matter the time of day, you are sure to find a legend of New Paltz amongst the employees or the customers. Marcus Conklin still mans the bar on Friday Happy Hours and has for nearly 40 years. On a daily basis, Dennis Tasker sat on the south corner bar stool nursing his 35 cent drafts that now cost him two bucks a throw. Charlie Hague, who graduated high school in 1978, is still collecting the cover charge at the front door. On any given night, I look at the patrons and can find my old classmates: Joey D., Robbie Ferrante, Susan Savago, or Barbara Buck.
For me it’s not the current clientele that gets my attention when I enter my old stomping grounds. Like many an old haunt, I can see ghosts of the distant past. I still see George Clark and Jackie Casey drinking White Russians as if it was their last day on Earth. I see Stormy behind the bar pushing a bowl of his chili in front of a customer. Warner Hein is patrolling the space at the opening of the bar. Anyone who grew up in the village of New Paltz knows Pat and Georges has a life of its own. The bar and restaurant were born in the fall of 1947. A few years later, a tall, 19 year old out of New York City named Randy, strolled into the cornerstone watering hole and hooked up with a girl who would later be my mom. In a way, P&G’s gave me life.
It was a month before graduation but I had already left high school behind me. I was unhappy with where I was, yet not prepared to move on. When I bumped into Mike Hoffay hanging outside St. Blaise I felt a pang of envy. He was only a sophomore, and as much as that time in my life was behind me, it was all in front of him.
“Hey Rich, aren’t you proud of me?” Mike said “I’m trying to follow in your footsteps, carry the torch for you.”
I was looking a bit puzzled as to the reference of his adulation.
“You know, burn the candle at both ends, party on school nights, close the bars down, and still get it done.”
Now I knew what he meant, and I felt a misguided sense of pride. This was my hometown; this had become my way of life.
Mike continued on with his dialogue, “Come on Rich, it’s only 3 am, I’m inside with Terry (Shand), come in and have a drink.”
I certainly was not going home but I knew it was time to move on.
I left Mike with some inspiration, “I’m counting on you to pick up the ball for me when I leave for college in the fall.” I said with a laugh.
“I’m walking up to Pat and George’s, I told someone I would meet them there.”
As I headed up the main street of my childhood, my mind was heavy on leaving. But even then, at 18, I knew all the roads of my life led back to where it began, P&G’s.
