Christmas at Kilroys

The snow is falling a bit harder now.  The Foothills along the Colorado Front Range and Northeast to Nebraska expect to get about 5-10 inches depending where you are. It doesn't matter to me, I'm off for four days and I look forward to the peace and quiet. I can smell the comforting aroma of a freshly brewed pot of coffee coming from the kitchen.

A few years back I ran into this Pipefitter on a job who told me this story, I'm sure it's all true, well some of it anyway.

His name was Stan Clausen, we called him Uncle Stanley. Uncle Stanley was famous for telling stories; stories that were sometimes less than believable because they usually involved the consumption alcohol, or they were being retold while under the influence of alcohol.

I was  working in downtown Denver at the time, putting up one of the many high rises being erected during the big oil boom in the early eighties. It was Christmas Eve, and a Friday, so the General Contractor decided to shut the job down early that day, production was a joke and lets face it by 1:00  the crew had dwindled from 15 men to about 6, many not making it back from lunch. Those that remained, Uncle Stanley included, all agreed that in keeping with spirit of the holiday we should meet at Kilroy's for a drink.

Kilroy's was a little local bar, within walking distance of the job site, today townhomes stand where the bar used to be. It was about 2:00 in the afternoon when we walked into the bar, the ironworker's from American Bridge and Iron, the contractor doing the steel erection on the job had beaten us there, that was no surprise. We grabbed a table by the front window and ordered the first round.

The walls in the place were draped with strands of red and silver garland, twinkle lights hung over the mirror behind the bar giving it that warm holiday glow. The barmaid, was sporting a red Santa's Hat, with a sprig of mistletoe pinned to the top of it, an inviting offer once the beer had kicked in. The first beer went down fast and a second round was called for, with a shot of  tequila to warm the spirit. It looked to be shaping up to a long night. Being an apprentice the honor of buying a round was out of the question, some unspoken rule that I was willing to abide by.

As we sat at our table, I noticed an old Blue Cadillac that was parked in front of the bar, it's trunk was open and the driver was fussing with items in the back. One of my journeymen saw that my attention was drawn to the action outside our window and commented. "Looks like somebody's  having a five finger discount, trunk sale." I looked to him and asked him what he meant,  my tongue felt like it had grown too large for my mouth as the second beer and tequila were beginning to take affect. "The tools in the trunk, what color are they painted?" I looked back out the window, the afternoon sun was casting long shadows down the street, the light was fading but I could still see in side the trunk of the Cadillac. It was filled with electric power tools, side grinders, Milwaukee  Port-a Bands, and steel cases with the name Hilti Rotary Hammer on the panel, each of the items was spray painted with florescent orange paint. I wouldn't have given it a second thought  if it had not been brought to my attention. "Orange." I said it almost in disbelief, like some little kid being shown a card trick, then asking the magician how did you know?

"Natkin Orange, son of a bitch probably works for them to boot, that's fucked up." The men I worked with wouldn't think too much about cutting out early and charging the full day, but to steal tools from a contractor? Especially a contractor they worked for, that was way below the line. Like some cosmic karma on cue, two of Denver's finest, a "To Protect and Serve" emblem printed on the door, pulled up to the curb. The soft slush and snow sprayed over the concrete curb just missing the store front window, causing every one at the table to draw back instinctively avoiding the gray liquid slop.

The red and blue lights of their cruiser, clashed with the holiday theme inside Kilroy's. Uncle Stanley ordered a third round from Mrs. Claus the bar maid, who was beginning to look more alluring with each libation. She returned with the round, exchanging our empties with six Budweiser Long necks, "Man that's screwed up, and on Christmas Eve how sad is that?"

My journeymen turned to her, "Stupid shit, deserved it!" Defining the line between what was, and wasn't acceptable for everyone at the table. The barmaid sensing the general mood, nodded and made her way back to the bar.

"I spent Christmas Eve in jail once." It was Uncle Stanley. Actually it didn't surprise anyone, but words like, "You're Shittin me!", and "Get outta here!", were followed by a, "What the fuck did you do?"

"Well actually it was kinda funny. I was working in Los Angeles welding beer tube at the  Budweiser  Brewery." Stanley took a long sip of his beer, as if following some kind of script, the affect worked as everyone leaned closer to hear Uncle Stanley's story.

"It was closing time, and I had just managed to get in two quick rounds at last call." Uncle Stanley stated this fact like some kind of alcoholic badge of honor. "The problem was, I forgot to take a leak before I left, I don't know what the hell I was thinking."

I looked out the window as the two officers were placing  handcuffs on the trunk salesman and gently guiding him into the back of their cruiser. A city impound truck had pulled up, and was in the process of hooking up the Blue Cadillac, the flashing lights on top of the cab cast an amber glow on the face of our story teller.

"So there I am outside the bar, it's two in the morning and I got to pee like a racehorse." Everyone at the table nodded, each of us recalling being in a similar predicament.

"So what'd you do Stan?" The question was on everyone's mind. Ironically the answer was obvious to us all, but what kind audience would we be if we didn't ask.

"I was trying to be as discrete as I could. I mean, I really thought that peeing in an ally was a whole lot better than peeing in the public street, however the L.A. County Police Department didn't. So off to the county jail I went." Stanley was on a roll, he told us he was booked for public  drunkenness, and urinating in public, obviously this was a common occurrence, considering they had a charge for it.

A forth round made it's way to our table. I felt the need to slow down, but Uncle Stanley was just warming up, it seemed the more beer he drank the better the story got.

"So there I was, locked up in a holding cell, on Christmas Eve, Hell it was Christmas morning by now. The place wasn't packed, there were two benches in the cell and I sat down and leaned up against the wall. Looking down at the floor and across to the other bench I noticed two shinny black boots, well one was shinny, the other boot was covered in somebodies lunch if you know what I mean."

On the juke box the holiday classic, "Grandma Got Run Over By A Reindeer" could be heard in the back ground, the ironworker's from American Bridge and Iron were getting a little loud, and Uncle Stanley glanced over his shoulder annoyed. One of my journeymen yelped out, "Hey we're talking over here!" Pretty gutsy, I thought. We out numbered them by three, not that that means anything to a drunken ironworker, but they must have been in the holiday spirit. They lowered their volume and Stan continued with his story.

"So here's this guy with one shinny boot and the other boot that looks like a cat 'ralphed' on it.  He's got the white furry cuffed red pants, the black belt, and matching red jacket. I say to my self, Stan... I think maybe you've had a bit too much to drink!" Everyone laughs, probably thinking the same thing. "So...  now I'm thinking, Salvation Army? Macy's? What the hell is this Rent a Santa doing locked up in here?"

Using a gesture to emphasize his story, Stan gives a come hither motion with his hand, "So I invite this St. Nick guy to sit next to me on the bench, the old guy gets up and the dude sitting next to him slowly slides to the floor, right into the you know what...  yeah!"

Everyone at the table lets out a moan, we were definitely getting into Uncle Stanley's tale. Pausing he motions for the barmaid, and with his right hand he makes a circular motion, indicating another round. I am in trouble, my face has gone numb, and I dread the thought of having to rise from the table to go to the mens room. I make a time out symbol with my hand,  grab the back of my chair as I stand up, I fight to find my balance, and march off to the bathroom.

Minutes later I return to the party, a fresh Long Neck is sitting at my place. Stan picks up the  story right where he left off. "So I ask the guy, what did you do to get locked up in here? And I swear to God. He tells me...he says, it started out as a Breaking and Entering charge, but they changed it to criminal trespassing! At first I thought you mother fucker, robbing people on Christmas Eve, serves you right!" We all nod, ready to kick the Red Suited Robbers' ass. "So here's where it gets weird."

I think, weird? Uncle Stan your sitting in a drunk tank, with a Rent A Santa that's covered in vomit, and now it's 'getting' weird? Uncle Stanley and I had two very different ideas of what was weird. Stan could see from my expression, what I'm probably thinking.

"No, seriously he tells me he is the real Santa Claus, and how Blitzen is getting up there in age and hes' been misjudging his landings on the clay tile roofs. Next thing he knows, somebody has called the cops when they hear all the noise, he gets cited for criminal trespassing, and now he's on a 72 hour hold because he lacks any kind of identification."

My journeyman laughed out loud; "Stan, get the fuck outta here!"

"No really, I'm not kidding. The old guy starts to cry and carry on about his sleigh, and reindeer and how he still has to finish the run. I felt bad for the guy." By now everyone is busting a gut and waiting for the punchline.

"So what happened next Uncle Stan?" The mood at the table was deteriorating fast, the alcohol was talking it's toll. The look in Stanley's eyes revealed a sadness, almost pleading for someone to believe him. Stan grabbed his bottle of beer and tipped it up, finishing the last of it's contents. He fiddled with the damp label on the bottle. "What could I do? When they called my name for my release I gave him my I.D., he gave me his hat, and I let him go in my place."

There was dead silence at the table at first, then a chuckle from one of the fitters at the table, followed by a crescendo as everyone howled out in laughter. "Stanley, you're fuckin killing me!"

Uncle Stanley looked down at the wet ring on the table top left by his empty Long Neck for a moment, and then up at the crew. "Yeah, pretty funny story Huh."

The barmaid, called out. "Last call fellas." Everyone at the table looked to Uncle Stanley, waiting for his response. "Not tonight guys, I got places to be." In unison the crew rose from the table and pulled out their wallets, indiscriminately they tossed down their part of the tip. We walked out the door of Kilroy's, a fresh dusting of snow had fallen, the air was crisp and we could see our breath. Uncle Stanley turned left, and I with the rest of the group turned right.

I don't know why I turned around, but when I did I saw Uncle Stanley don an old Red and White Santa's hat as he rounded the corner on to Sherman Street. Merry Christmas Uncle Stanley; I said in a whisper, as he slipped out of site.

Merry Christmas Everyone.