FRIDAY NIGHT FISH FRY

(Centerville, Ohio — 1956)

Perhaps it was because my front teeth had only recently returned as viable chomping tools. Maybe it was because I hadn’t eaten since lunch, but I was hungry as hell in a room full of heaven-bound perch partisans. The large, brightly lit grade school auditorium remained rather bleak with drab tile, chilly echoes and dusty curtains, separating the saints from the sinners.

At the far north end, adjacent to the stairs were the heralded cooks…The Knights of Columbus. They looked more like the Knights of Hudepohl* sipping away at one hopped diversion that would never be declared even a venial sin. As the fish sizzled, the men of the parish drained their mugs, keeping a watchful eye on hush puppies and slaw.

Everyone smoked. This was America in the Cold War, the days of Beaver and Wally, Dwight Eisenhower, and muscle cars. Puffing was part of the admission price, I guess. This was before the great enlightenment with regards to first, second, third and fourth-hand tobacco. This was before the insurance companies, losing money on health claims, strong-armed the feds to legislate anti-smoking propaganda in schools like this one.

The scene: Humphrey Bogart takes a bullet in World War I. He’s about to go under. What does his buddy do? He puts a lit Viceroy or Chesterfield in his mouth, and tells him to hang on until the medic gets there. Bogart smiles and sucks in a lung full of smoke…

     In no time the hall was full of people wanting to eat fried fish. The cooks now had become servers and plopped the prescribed ingredients down on paper plates. The line was long but, as I said, I was quite hungry.

I looked up toward the action and saw Mr. Petrocelli serving up the fish and Mr. Schultz manning the hush puppy tray. Both had red noses and smiles. Mr. Gillhooley, a man who according to close friends even smoked in his sleep, was standing by in foggy reserve. He filled the glasses of his two colleagues and topped off his own mug for good measure.

Watching as my fellow diners found empty card tables and began to eat I became desperate. There were my mother and sister chowing down. Even my baby brother was gnawing on a piece of fish.

If I don’t get some fish soon I’m going to pass out. I caught another whiff of smoke. The wheels of a seven-year-old’s mind only turn so far. What is the attraction with this puffing? Will I smoke and act like this when I embrace adulthood? I remained perplexed as to the behavior behind the counter. Beer and cigarettes…and maybe laughter in the dark. Probably a lot of converts.

After what seemed as long as the drive across Nebraska I got close enough to pick out a piece of fish. That one, no that one, the one in the front, the big on…and more hush puppies,” I thought to myself. “I don’t remember when I was this hungry. I hope they don’t run out before I can land seconds.”

As I shuffled next to the serving table a terrible thing happened. Mr. Petrocelli switched jobs with Mr. Gillhooley, and Mr. Schultz was  up to his elbows in flour and grease. Now the lineup read: Mr. Petrocelli on slaw, with a pinch hitter called in to bat for Mr. Schultz, who had now switched to Schoenling**. By the time I arrived at the head of the line it was Mr. Gillhooley serving up the fish.

I watched in awe as he lit another cigarette. It seemed instinctual, even for a semi-polite seven-year-old to let a few people ahead of me. It was the Christian thing to do. That cigarette… Go ahead Mrs. Gmaz. After you Mrs. Higgins. You were here first Mr. McDuffy…No I’m sure. Please go ahead. The ash got longer. It looked like the beginnings of another Ash Wednesday on his lip. He’s gonna drop it. No. It’s holding firm. Gravity has got to make a play…It’s getting longer. It’s gonna drop right into the batter…It’s gonnna drop into the slaw.

By now my hunger had subsided. Mr. Gillhooley’s cigarette ash now measured about four inches. If he spoke or wiggled his face the thing would have to fall into the plate of some righteous diner. God help us if there’s an earthquake or a sonic boom!

Not taking any chances, I backed up so as to vacate the line that I had once held so dear.

The ash hung there, like a parched worm, like a burned out firecracker.

“Drop! Drop!” I urged silently. “Drop Gilhooley ash! Drop ash of Satan!”

“Wait! Kid, don’t you want some fish?” said Gillhooley, turning abruptly,  his cigarette ash floating harmlessly to the floor.

“Sure, Mr Gillhooley,” I said, recovering.

“Aren’t you Walt’s boy? Now there’s a fine gentlemen if I’ve ever seen one.”

“Thank you, sir,” I muttered, checking my fish for dark intrusions. It looked all right. As I walked away from the serving line my appetite miraculously returned. Even though the hush puppies were cold and the cole slaw was warm the meal went down fine.

I made it back into line for seconds thanking divine providence that the good nuns had not been invited to witness this impious fish fry.

– Kevin Haley

* a beer brewed in Cincinnati

**another beer brewed in the Queen City (Cincinnati)