Adventures of the Second Lost Expedition, Part III: Friday the 13th

Jan. 27, 1984

The Second Lost Expedition, Part III: Friday the 13th.

CAPTAIN’S LOG, BAR DATE XIX: Friday the 13th, would it be any different from any other Friday on Oliver Street?, the Captain speculated as the Second Lost Expedition gathered at the launch site of its suburban shuttle. This time they would push into the very heart of that hearty North Tonawanda thoroughfare, once celebrated in the Guinness Book of World Records for having the greatest concentration of licensed premises.

        On the first two legs of this quest to have a drink in each and every one of these establishments, Oliver Street had shown the trekkers 10 pool tables in 11 bars and a remarkable panorama of that fabled Lumber City clannishness. It seemed like everyone there was a regular.

        So was it bad luck or simple unfamiliarity that transported the troupe of seven into its preliminary fish fry spot 15 minutes after the kitchen’s 9 p.m. closing? “Sorry,” said Jo Koufonikos at Our Inn, 601 Oliver. “I just dumped out the batter.”

        Disappointed, the safari retreated through the falling snow to the southern end of its itinerary, inquiring at Andy’s Inn, 485 Oliver, and learning that the fish fry there ended at 8 p.m.

        Back they trudged to Mitch’s Del Taco, 474 Oliver, where they’d found sustenance in take-out form during the last expedition. Lest there be no place to take it out to, the Captain scouted Yoon Hee’s Rainbow Lounge, 468 Oliver. “Sure, it’s all right,” said the stocky bartender.

        At Mitch’s, the motherly chief clerk and taco maker mentioned that late nights had gotten quiet on Oliver Street lately. She reckoned it was all because of the police crackdown on drunken drivers. “The kids go home early now,” she said. “So does the older crowd.”

        Nevertheless, it was still early enough for the senior citizens at Yoon Hee’s. They lined the bar, absorbed in the Sabres game on TV. Gretzky had just picked up his assist, one elderly gentleman informed the Captain while the crew transferred his cane off the top of the corner table.

        Behind the bar now was a petite Oriental woman, who poured $1 mixed drinks and 65-cent Labatts drafts. A sign advertised three beers for $1 and 95 cents for a shot and a beer from 8 a.m. to 6 p.m. Monday to Friday. A comfortable upholstered bench ran the length of the barroom. Smack in the middle of the back room, instead of a pool table, there burned a big black wood stove.

        Wary of disturbing the environmental balance here, the trekkers neatly stashed their chicken wing bones and burrito wrappers back into their boxes and transported across the street to Palka’s Town Bowling Lanes, 465 Oliver. “Don’t go in there with your boots on,” the senior barmaid sternly warned them as they contemplated the eight alleys within, all of them busy.

        No pool table here either. The First Mate got two of the darkened video games turned on, while the rest of the crew admired the plastic Boston ferns, the brick arches behind the bar and the generousness of the drinks. Among the wonders – a gargantuan shot of cognac and a beer glass full of white wine. The Captain scanned the jukebox until he found “I’m Going to Hire a Wino (To Decorate Our Home).”

        Returning to Andy’s Inn, the troupe was informed that this would be a quick stop. “We close at midnight,” the pert blonde barmaid reported. “It cuts down on fights.”

        It was hardly a fighting clientele on hand, however, just three aging regulars, loudly competing at the pool table. Behind the bar was a display of Blind Robins, those rare and pungent salted fish snacks. The bolder crew members sampled them while the others commandeered the shuffleboard bowling machine and noted the heavy green plastic tablecloths and the neat little rear dining room.

        One drink and the safari shifted diagonally across the Wheatfield Street intersection to the Sportsman’s Inn at 500 Oliver, where, at the stroke of midnight, a frail, grey-haired Salvation Army woman strode through the door, brandishing the latest issue of The War Cry, which she offered to one and all.

        On her departure, the scene returned to normal. ESPN flashed noiselessly on the TV, Z-98 roared with its final pre-WRXT heavies on the sound system and the burly bartender chatted casually with three equally beefy buddies. Standing dark was the other half of this wood-paneled double storefront. Beyond the empty tables, sports trophies gleamed on the far wall.

        While the Chief Science Officer discovered that the billiards table cost 35 cents, the Captain set out to put a new high score on the Kiss pinball machine. Many quarters later, the record remained unchanged. So did the little old man sitting on the radiator in the front window. Here was a fellow truly down on his luck. On the way out, one of the crew bought him a beer.

        The Chief Science Officer had eyes for the private Dom Polski club at 576 Oliver. “Come take a look at this,” he urged the Captain as he returned from a peek inside. It was indeed remarkable. At 1:30 a.m., this was the liveliest spot on the street, full of under-30 revelers.

        The journey ended where it began, back with Gus and Jo Koufonikos at Our Inn, three blocks north of Sportsman’s. Here the crowd had thinned out, too. A movie about Elvis played on TV. Jo was preparing to leave.

        The genial Gus served up $1 drinks and the crew threw themselves at the Centipede video game, the shuffleboard bowling machine and the pool table. At length, a rangy regular named Bob Grant appeared and conquered the safari’s billiards and Centipede champs. Bob conceded that he wasn’t all that good at Centipede. The top score, the one in the hundreds of thousands, belonged to his brother George.

        Not to push their luck, even on Saturday the 14th, the crew entrusted themselves to their designated sober shuttle pilots. On this slippery night, they encountered no police interceptors, just huge, slow-moving municipal snowplows, spreading salt.