Ocean City '60s

Recently I was reminded of days gone by when the world was so much smaller and less complicated. 

I’ve always had a love for nostalgia and frankly most of the pieces that I ended up writing were reminiscences for magazines like Sports Illustrated, TV GUIDE, and Field & Stream. My memoir The Inn: Memoir of a “Storied” Past, is clearly the story of a little boy growing up in an ancient Inn, who inhales the personalities of the elderly characters/early dwellers….guests who came back summers to people the place. 

The boy, during those years is treated to an educational childhood that years later results in his becoming an adult raconteur who finds himself telling tales to anyone with two ears who might be willing to listen.

I only mention my published books here because their titles include the story word.

Pen Men---Baseball’s Greatest Stories Told by the Men Who Brought the Game Relief; V&Me---Everybody’s Favorite Jim Valvano Story; and Stories I Couldn’t Tell Until My Mother Died. 

Hey, that should be proof alone, I can’t help myself.  So, back to the trigger for this blog. Several weeks ago, I got an email with a photo of two attractive ladies, wondering if I knew who they might be.  The clue was remember 1964 Ocean City, Maryland.   

Did I know the answer immediately? No, but pretty soon, having given my elderly brain a kick back or two in time, I came up with two pretty good guesses---Mary and Sonja. 

Delighted to hear from them, pleased to see how well life must have treated them since the 1960s, I suddenly found myself in that cussed Way Back Machine of mine, recalling innocent summers that blessed us with a day---when those of us who worked and played there---could cross the Bridge into OC around Memorial Day and work, beach it, fall in and out of love and party hearty until we returned to reality after Labor Day.   

Did we worry about the demands of college? Did we have an idea that we might all have to grow up and take on all the responsibilities of real jobs, marriage, raising children, and the fact that some of us might just be drafted and shipped off to a place called Viet Nam?  

I was one of the lucky guys who navigated through those carefree Ocean City summers, got drafted and then rejected and never went to Nam. 

Others went and didn’t come back.

Those ladies who sent me the photo were thankfully reminding me and others on their email list, of Ocean City, Maryland, and those 1960s Summers of Fun. 

And what a gift to this would-be blogger. The stories are on the way, flowing back, but first things first---my Ocean City job resume.

Hired off the pickup curb for local labor where I spent several weeks on my hands and knees weeding a wealthy realtor’s lawn.

A month as a laborer working for a Baltimore construction company building a Water Purification plant on the Bay. 

Two months as a dishwasher at Jack English’s  House of Chicken. The remaining days (which ran over into the following summers) as a bus boy at The Embers Steak House. 

---Side jobs for extra money included washing dishes at a pancake joint on the Boardwalk and dressed as a chef, working in a window on the Boardwalk making fudge for The Candy Kitchen.

Having spent three fun-filled summers in OC, I’ll try to make the stories of our living quarters brief, yet shall we say, not too offensive, but visual. 

Our first landing place was Mrs. Santos’ apartments. During those summers we lived in three dives and if there was any commonality among these residences all were about two beds short of the inhabitants. They were manned by us, unkempt slobs, and all were drastically in need of “improved” plumbing. 

The first habitat along with being the bedding for six that housed eight guys (and yes Girls when the landlady turned her head) featured a bathtub and shower crawling with blue crabs that Bill Zimmerman was “planning” to steam when he finally had enough for a decent meal (which he never did).  

When Mrs. Santos heard a party in progress, passkey in hand, she would enter, screaming “Everybody out!” to what at first blush appeared to be an empty apartment.  We hid as many as 19 partiers (a record) in the bathroom. 

Oh, and did we party? There was a beach party nightly which (considering the restaurant’s hours) typically started at midnight and ran until the wee small hours. In 1964, at a wholesale place on the bay called The Ice House, a case of Yingling Beer cost less than $3. Hard to believe! But this was long before Yingling became a status beer and our party intake typically started with six Buds chased by as many Yings as we found “necessary.”  

Back to the residences. Following eviction from number one, the second apartment came equipped with its own police force. Clearly a bad choice for six randy guys, as it seems that the owners lived upstairs and with binoculars enjoyed their days counting the number of girls who trapsed in and out to use the “facilities” and outdoor shower.  

As for overnight girls, this was just kids sleeping together, with any in-house sex being more of a wish than a reality. Too many inhabitants and too little privacy when you had miles of beach and moonlit nights right outside your door. However, this in-door cuddle setup ended one night with the realtor and an OC cop ambushing us about 3 a.m., looking for illegals, girls who were regular overnight guests. They eventually found Claudia hiding in our bedroom closet. Hey, as the punch line to the old joke goes, “Everybody’s gotta be someplace!”  

And finally, there was the third residence, which clearly won the prize. It was a dilapidated duplex shack on the Bay with six of us piled into one side and six lifeguards residing in the other half.   

How was the plumbing?  Well, this little Shangri-la was nestled on cement blocks and when the ONE toilet overflowed with great consistency, we just got a large drill, bored a hole in the bathroom floor not unlike a drain, and swept up after ourselves.  

A “lovely” spot, and I won’t forget the morning that the OC police showed up saying that they’d had a report that there was a car submerged in the little pond just off our front porch. One of the lifeguards wandered out and said, “Oh, yeah, that’s Billy’s car. He wouldn’t pay his rent so we just sank his car. But no worry, we got his paper work out of the glove compartment, then dove in and put the antennae down. It’s okay, we’re all lifeguards.”  

Considering that these aforementioned residences were in fact our summer homes in OC, there will be more stories that include them---one and all!  

The Workplaces! 

We were waiters, bell hops, busboys, dishwashers, lifeguards, beach boys and fry cooks. But most of the really good restaurant memories come from our outrageous interactions and service with our dinner guests.

Okay, I got fired from English’s House of Chicken twice, once for suggesting where one of our waitresses could deposit English’s Original Tub ‘O Chicken. And again, later within five days of Labor Day (we were promised a $5 bonus for every week we lasted until Labor Day) I was given my walking papers for soaking down that same hostess with my dishwasher’s power hose.  

She had it coming! 

But the real treasure trove of restaurant stories come from a Steak House called The Embers where I spent several years working as a busboy in the shadows of a wait staff that, along with Phillip’s Crab House and Crab Haven, boasted the best-looking waitresses in Ocean City. 

Oh, speaking of best-looking girls. Every afternoon when we were living on 14th street, we would sit in lawn chairs and whistle and stomp as Linda Harrison came along, headed to Phillip’s Crab House where she worked as a hostess.  Oh, you might remember Linda as Nova in the Planet of the Apes movies. She would go on to be a soap opera star and marry Richard Zanuck (Jaws, Cocoon, etc.), the son of Daryl F. Zanuck. 

Before I get to some of our outrageous behavior, I’ll try to set the stage by offering up a brief view at what OC looked like back then. As I recall, the boardwalk had just been rebuilt  after an early 1960s storm. The new boardwalk ran from the inlet which is 1st street and went along for about 2.5 miles to around 23rd street.  

The little carnival park at the inlet end offered up a Ferris Wheel, a ride called the Wild Mouse and a whole lot of tourist crap where visitors to our fair city could buy everything from OC T-shirts to bumper stickers that said, Hey Hun: I GOT MY TAN IN OCEAN CITY.   

Vendors sold pizza by the slice and ice treats called Sno-Balls. Thrashers famous French fries was a favorite.  

A stroll up the boardwalk featured old hotels like the Geroge Washington, the Royalton and the Mayflower. This new stretch ran, circa 1964, all the way past 27th street. Oh, the boardwalk fronted a dance hall called 9th street that offered Hootenanny’s at night. When there wasn’t a Hoot, a DJ played the 60s hits—Get Around, Under The Boardwalk, Don’t Let the Sun Catch You Crying, the Girl from Ipanema. The dancers in our crowd did the Cool Jerk, the Twist and the Hand Jive.  Next door there was a sundry shop---Ninth Street News and Toys (or something like that).   

Oh, a little tram ferried the tourists from one end of the new boardwalk to the other.  We of course would never deign to ride a tourist mobile. 

If the truth be known we looked down on the tourists, which clearly spoke to our arrogance. Without the tourists there wouldn’t have been work for us Summer Job Snobs. 

Restaurant work began at 4 o’clock, so typically we took up daily residence---blankets, surf mats, suntan lotions (we used baby oil mixed with iodine) on 16th street near the Sea Scape. This big hotel will be the focal point for an OC classic porch pirate story found in this blog.

While we’re on the beach this might be good time to offer up a few details of our days there on the sand.  

The views on sunny days were spectacular: Green lazy ocean lapping at us, with a view down the beach of tourists under colorful umbrellas, beach boys placing canvas chairs in the sand, vendors selling cold drinks, lifeguards (the Kings of the beach) perched atop their stands ever vigilant.

There in our little surfdom we had Surf mat races, and tanning contests. We lathered each other up with that baby oil concoction. Our transistor radios played the songs of the day, like Under The Boardwalk. 

The girls wore two-piece bathing suits and we wore surfer trunks. Footware was unheard of.

We featured Terry the Tuna, a kid who was like a gymnast and when tourists would plant their umbrellas or blankets to close to our territory we’d shout, “Tourists Tuna, Tourists Tuna” and he would walk on his hands and stare into the poor humans who had dared to enter our grounds. 

One of the waitresses we worked with was a real beauty and her boyfriend was a major character, a very funny guy. It was his habit to enter the beach several streets down and come running in tight little crazy circles screaming at the top of his lungs, “Jane, Jane, I love you, Jane!” Jane would try to get off her blanket and escape but invariably he would come flying in and pounce on her!” 

I’m sure if the Tuna visit didn’t spook the tourists, the “I love you Jane” idiot did.

Did we actually surf? One of our roommates had a board and could surf. We called him Hobie, in honor of Hobie Alter, the famous California surfer. The rest of us rode the gentle waves on surf mats which kept us busy for most of the long leisurely summer days.  

Pat, blonde, very sexy---bikini, the whole deal---sold tourists those little telescopes featuring pictures of the families. She was the best and had more BS with her than there was salt in the ocean, “Now, when this arrives at your home address you will already be registered for the Ocean City Family of the Year so good luck with that---a $100 prize is nothing to sneeze at.”

I would like to have had a nickel for every time I heard a kid say, “Momma, please, please, maybe we’ll be the Family of the Year!” Or noted the father leering at the bikini clad Pat.  

Oh, we had the best parking in Ocean City. I had an old 1949 Mercury and when we arrived at our spot there in front of the Sea Scape, we would just unload our gear and leave the car either double parked or in NO PARKING zones. The police would tow the car to a very convenient empty lot and when we packed up to leave, we’d simply go to that lot, pay the officer a $5.00 fine and be on our way. What a great deal for preferred parking. But I’d be lying if I said they didn’t eventually put an end to this by towing us to a lot about two miles up the beach at a pick up fee of $20. No more preferred parking!!! 

Now, my apologies here for some of our behavior that would clearly explain why one of the most popular songs in 1964  was THE COOL JERK!  

Sadly, we often viewed the families who dined at the steak house as targets for tips and our childish antics. They saw us as the kids who delivered their food. Generally, very nice folks, they were just trying to enjoy a vacation at the beach.

There were members of the waitstaff who handled their tables in a professional manner---suggesting things from the menu, making appropriate conversation with service as their watchword.  

Others not quite so much. Because there were no fact checkers many of the waiters had two standard lines of BS. They were almost always in pre-med or pre-law programs in college or they’d ask us bus boys to leak the information to our diners that that their waiter was an All-American Lacrosse player at the University of Maryland or at Johns Hopkins. 

Practically speaking, when working the Candle Light room, we---Sandy and I--- had a drawer in an antique corner cupboard lined with tin foil. When ordering, she, the waitress, would push the Number One steak, a 16-ouncer that most often proved to be a bit too much for the ladies.  

I would watch and when I saw anyone slowing down on the big steak, I’d reach in to take the plate away, suddenly stop and apologize, saying that I thought they were through. If they then called it a day I’d go ahead and take the “leftover” plate away and haul off to the kitchen where I would wrap the steak in foil. When the customers departed, I’d waltz the steak back. Sandy and I would slip it in our “food drawer” which was equipped with knives and forks. And when there was a slow time, we’d turn our backs to the room and enjoy a tasty steak dinner. 

There were singular events that I must admit I find memorable. Like the day I was busing tables and just as I had explained to a table for eight adults that we were, sadly, out of cheese cake, I heard a familiar voice behind me. It was Bish Baker, a great guy and a waiter. The waiters all wore red jackets, so his attire obviously gave him credibility. When he walked up to the table (and he wasn’t even waiting in that room that night) and berated me, the table of eight almost stood as one and cheered.   

“This young man is on probation, now I want him to take your order for cheese cake and deliver it now!” Then Bish spun on his heel and strutted out of the room, headed for the Saddle Room, his station of the night.  

I don’t know how I explained my way out of this “joke” but I must have come up with something because we were in fact out of cheese cake. 

Ah, but the fun had just begun. I scooted to a work station, grabbed a number of those little round paper plates, got a magic maker, and folding the plates into little rockers I headed to Bish’s waiting station. When I’d identified his tables and had scripted ASK YOUR WAITER ABOUT FREE CHEESECAKE, with Bish looking on, I placed the little rockers in the center of all of his tables. 

Moving on, I’m not proud of this or was ever a part of it but from time to time alcoholic bottles---usually from the bar---found their way to “freedom.” 

Like the night George stole the fifth of bourbon. It was a Sunday, the bar was closed (Ocean City Blue Laws)  and I, being his busboy for the night, happened by in time to see the bar’s doors swinging. George (who was a little guy, a Mickey Roonie lookalike) came limboing out of the bar with a bulge in his waiter’s jacket. Giving his jacket a loving pat, he gave me the shush sign and said, “Hated to take this for a walk but its Sunday and I forgot to buy anything for tonight’s party.” 

Fast forward about an hour and a family of four landed at one of George’s tables. The father said, “We just drove in all the way from Pennsylvania. I’m parched how about starting me off with a Jack Daniels and water.”

I looked at George. George looked at me and said, “Sir I’m sorry no alcohol in Ocean City on Sundays, blue law.” The man gave him a look like he’d stolen his first child. 

As I filled the water glasses George suddenly disappeared and when he returned, he plunked a red goblet in front of our unhappy customer.

We waited and eventually the man took a big swig and I swear you couldn’t have slapped the smile off his face. He took another hit, and then another and said, “I didn’t realize how thirsty I was. I think I’ll have another glass of water. 

Not a word was spoken to his family. This

continued well into drink number three. And as he polished it off and suggested perhaps just ONE more, friends arrived, a second family from Pennsylvania.

The man looked at George and said, “Before we order I’ll have a Makers Mark.”

Our original customer looked at George, shook his head no, winked and said, “Sorry Robert, no alcohol on Sundays in Ocean City, blue law.”

How big was the tip?  I don’t recall but I know George had a record Sunday night and I’d have loved to have been there when our “first client” told his friend about Ocean City’s  incredible “Sunday water.”   

I think we might call this next memory the big tip! One night I was busing for Jeanie, another real looker by the way (sorry but she really was) who was waiting on a table of four married couples who appeared to be about our parents’ age.   

Everybody always fell in love with Jeanie. And in this group one of the mothers had a great interest in our lifestyle, what we--waiters, busboys etc.---did away from our jobs there at the restaurant.  

Keep in mind that I merely observed, which is what we typically did as busboys. Stayed back while Jeanie won their hearts with wholesome stories of how we were like brothers and sisters who worked, hit the beach and on occasion partied together.  

With that one of the mothers volunteered the following. “I’m so glad to hear about your lifestyles. You know last night we wandered into some sort of Go Go Dance place and they actually had girls in little swimsuits up on tables dancing. All I could think of was ‘If that was my daughter!’” 

At the end of the meal when the ladies repaired to the restroom and Jeanie went off to figure the check, I was busy clearing dishes. One of the men said, “Boy, she is something isn’t she. And not just attractive. She was so professional.” 

And I said, “Well all that and more. She lost her parents several years ago and she’s putting herself through the University of Maryland.  When she gets off work here at midnight, she goes right to her second job. She dances on tables at a Go Go place up the beach!”

Big, big, tip! 

Eddie, my favorite busboy, had two talents. One was a great impression of Robert Mitchum. Mitchum owned a farm in Trap, Maryland and there wasn’t a week that went by that someone didn’t fuel the rumor that Robert Mitchum was coming to the Embers for dinner.  

The waitresses would be sitting in the back of the restaurant in a little corner called the Hideaway, fixing their hair, touching up their makeup before and during work and I’d race in and shout, “Mitchum’s here!” 

Oh, baby would they scramble, come flying off their chairs and then, here Eddie’d come, wandering around the corner, his face pinched in, sleepy eyes, doing his Robert Mitchum. 

Well, you can imagine how this went over after about the fourth false alarm. Finally, and what are the odds?  Eddie and I had been screwing around, and so our head waiter told us to make ourselves useful and sweep the front sidewalk. During this work detail, a gold Cadillac rolled up. The door popped open, and there we were with none other than Robert Mitchum.  

I remember two things very clearly. One his wife was with him and they appeared to be fighting and I heard him say, “Well, I bought you that %$%ing Mink Coat.”

And two, he wore a blue tuxedo and looked like a movie star. Honestly, I don’t think they stayed that long, maybe just a drink in the Embers Bar. But I remember that I looked at Eddie, he looked at me, we dropped our brooms and took off for the Hideaway.  

“Mitchum’s here,” of course fell on deaf ears. And my only other memory of this was that there were a number of our waitresses, when they found out who had actually dropped in that evening, put Eddie and me at the top of their “I will never speak to you two jerks again” lists. 

It wasn’t just the girls who placed Eddie on their UNWANTED list. It seemed that other than the Mitchum impersonation that he spent most of June working on a unique plan that would enable him to steal a case of Guinness beer from the cooler in the restaurant’s kitchen.  

Not because he had to have the beer, and not because he had the mentality of a bank robber.

Eddie hated the little French Chef who ran the kitchen like it was Stalag 17. The two of them had numerous dustups, threatens to fire, suggestions from Eddie that he would kick the little Frog’s ass on his way out the door. 

So, finally, he comes to me and says, “ I’ve got the plan. This is going to work like magic! We’ll be drinking Guinness tonight after work before the clock strikes twelve.”

And the truth be told it worked, well almost worked. Frenchie’s office door was just to the right of the door to the restaurants’ parking lot.  

So, Eddie, one step at a  time waltzed by the Chef’s door holding a case of Guinness in his arms. Just as he got in front of the door, he faked a trip and as the Chef came rocketing up from behind his desk, he’d see the empty cardboard box hit the floor. “Just taking this to the trash,” Eddie said. 

Eddie paced himself and when he made his third case drop with Frenchie screaming “Vous serez congedie” (you will be fired) Eddie went back to his work station and waited. An hour later he made one last pass carrying the motherload. Frenchie just looked up from his desk and said, “you have been warned.” 

No trip, just a nice waltz into the parking lot cuddling a full case of Guinness.

Home free!

Sadly, not home and not free.

Behind him as he slipped the beer in his car, he heard that phrase again, “Vous serez congedie!” 

You will be fired. 

And he was! Frenchie took him up to the owner’s office and they, like the old west, gave Eddie 24 hours to get out of town. 

Now, things, like beach jobs were different back then. And this story, although we don’t recommend theft as a hobby, has a happy ending. 

Eddie walked across the street the next day wearing his white shirt and black pants and bowtie and took a busboys job at Mario’s a rather nice Italian restaurant. And just for fun we agreed that he’d come back on he Fourth of July and bus one last table with me at the Embers.

Things were a madhouse over the fourth, so wild that the kitchen staff would come out and help bus tables. 

Guess who oversaw us, wearing his high white chef’s hat as Eddie and I cleaned a table. Eddie turned to Frenchie and said, “I could sure use a cold Guinness but I guess I better get across the street. Oh, and let me know if Robert Mitchum shows up again!” 

The next memory is dedicated to the group who pulled off one of the most historic heists in the history of Ocean City.  It appeared as it is presented here in my book Stories I Couldn’t Tell Until My Mother Died.

The Big Catch 

It was the summer of ’64, Labor Day weekend. I was a freshman in our group but had one thing going for me. I had the only car. Well, a car of sorts: It was that 1949 Mercury handed down to me from my sister who had it handed down to her from my grandmother and grandfather Cairns.

Until the night that this story takes place, the only thing that car did all summer was, as you may recall, get towed. Again, we’d load about ten kids in it, drive it to the beach on 17th street, and park illegally somewhere near the Sea Scape hotel’s beach where we swam daily.   

Because Rem Lane, Ocean City’s sheriff, lived on 16th street, there was a vacant lot near there where illegally parked cars like mine were towed. When this happened, we all kicked in a dollar and had all-day parking for almost nothing. 

A nice scam until the car that had earned a summer’s reputation by annoying the local police became the getaway car in a major theft.  It’s about midnight on the Friday night before Labor Day. Lynn and his girlfriend Jane (a great friend from my home town), along with my apartment mate Bill Zimmerman and Jane’s sister Claudia, all showed up at our apartment saying they needed the keys to the Mercury. 

I was drinking as usual (that’s what we did at midnight in Ocean City, Maryland), and I’m sure that they hadn’t considered me for what would be their version of an Ocean’s Eleven caper. All they wanted was the keys to my car.  I held out until they shared their plan. 

Lynn had worked as an employee at the Sea Scape since he was 16 years old. This would be his last summer. He’d graduated from West Virginia University in the spring and was going off to law school that fall.  The hotel’s manager/owner, whose name won’t be mentioned here was a guy whose favorite indoor sport was employee abuse.  

So, Lynn had a plan that had been on the back burner for summers, one that would avenge all those who had spent their summers working there (maids, bell hops, waiters, waitresses, desk clerks). That night we’d right the wrong. 

In the hotel’s lobby the owner in question had on display a prize swordfish—a trophy that he cherished. The fish he’d caught and had mounted was a Sea Scape conversation piece. 

Lynn’s plan was to steal the fish.    

I clung to my car keys until “Steal Team 6” relented and let me join them.  They would park the car well up the beach (the Mercury, a sore thumb on wheels, could be easily identified by any employee of the Sea Scape who saw it). I would be dropped off on Baltimore Ave. and stroll up the street from the downtown area, walking through the court yard that fronted the hotel where I’d scout the balconies to make sure they were tourist/witness free.  

Jane, Lynn, Claudia and Bill would walk down the beach equipped with a blanket suitable for wrapping fish.  The girls would then drop back to the car while, after getting the high sign from me, Lynn and Bill would hop up on a cigarette machine, unhook the sword fish from its wall mount, and voila! After hiding it in the blanket they would then take off to Jane and Claudia’s apartment. 

Oh, problem! 

The girls happened to live in an apartment over the sheriff’s garage. I kid you not. They rented from Rem Lane, the Sheriff of Ocean City.  So now we are in real time and the heist’s unfolding.   

The night watchman (I learned later), who Lynn knew well, walked right up to Lynn, Bill and the girls,  lit a cigarette and chatted with them for about five minutes.  I’m prancing up and down looking up at the balconies. I finally see Bill and Lynn with the blanket headed toward the lobby/cigarette machine (under the fish) and mounted trophy.

Suddenly I hear Bill’s bird like whistle. I made one final check of the balconies and (all part of the plan) come back at them with a soft cough. 

Then all hell breaks loose! 

Bill jumps up on the cigarette machine, finds that the fish is bolted to the wall, and as he wrestles it from its moorings one of my balconies erupts like a forest fire. “Hey, what are you kids doing? Hey!, Hey! Hey! Hey!” With that Billy loses his balance, the cigarette machine tips backwards and Bill, and the machine and the fish crash into the tile lobby.  I know because I’m hearing all of this as I’m running like a bandit down Baltimore Street.

Here’s my lasting memory, one that told me I wasn’t really Ocean’s Eleven/Swordfish Team 6 material. I was wearing (hey, it was the 1960s) thick black horned rimmed glasses. So as not to be identified, I took them off and hauled ass down Baltimore, legally blind.   

As I turned the corner on 16th Street, I slipped the heavy lenses back on and see Bill and Lynn running ahead of me with their blanketed bounty.  I huff and puff up, join them and I swear to God, as we went up the side steps of the sheriff’s garage to the girls’ apartment a siren cut loose below us.  

It was Rem firing out of his garage to answer the call from the Sea Scape.

Lynn hid the fish, still wrapped in its robe, under  Jane’s bed. We drank and waited.  

Finally, the phone rang. Jane and Claudia with bad news, stupid news. The getaway car/’49 Mercury had been followed all over Ocean City. Wherever they went it seems the Sea Scape’s night watchman was right behind them.  So, they finally just stopped at a pay booth (this was pre-cell phones, of course) and made a call to us.

Oh, where did they decide to make this call?  Well, right in front of  my apartment house. The place down by the bridge where Bill and I lived.  There are fifty pay booths in Ocean City, Maryland, and they lead the cops to our place.

They were advised by Lynn (remember Lynn was going to law school that fall) to park the car downtown legally, then calmly walk home. About forty minutes later we heard the garage door open and close. It was Sheriff Lane pulling in under us.   

Almost on cue, right behind the slam of the garage door we heard the girls, coming up the steps. And after about ten or fifteen minutes of “Why didn’t you do this!” “Why didn’t you do that!” we suddenly just stopped, hugged each other and drank, toasting perhaps one of the greatest catches in the history of Ocean City, Maryland!” 

*It should be noted here that this was the summer of ’64, when we were kids without a care in the world, stealing swordfishes off hotel walls. Lynn and Jane would marry a few years later. Bill would marry my friend Claudia and then die a heroic death on April 28, 1968, in a horrific battle on Chu Moor Mountain in the Central Highlands of North Vietnam.  

And as I recall this story, I’m hardly surprised that while I ran down Baltimore Street with my glasses off that it was Bill Zimmerman who jumped on that cigarette machine and wrestled the fish to the floor.

Now, I must make my one final goodbye to Ocean City—take that trip back to reality--- and do so with a deep bow.  

In August of my last summer, we were informed that there would be a new Matre d’ joining us at the Embers---a man who was not to be toyed with and in fact the very man who years before had the distinct pleasure of giving Dean Martin and Jerry Lewis their very first (break) gig at the 500 Club in Atlantic City, New Jersey. That was his story and he was sticking to it.

Our new “manager” at the Embers had retired to Ocean City, Maryland as a favor to the very tough owners, Sam and Ervin, who had probably tired of all the unprofessional behavior.

When my college roommate called and said that he had a new Plymouth Fury and was planning to go west and wondered if I wanted to ride shotgun to California, I came up with my plan. 

My answer was yes but first I had to get fired. I decided that it would be a real resume booster to have been fired by the man who had first hired Martin and Lewis.  

Sorry folks, but that was the plan.

I owed Big John, our steak chef a favor for stepping in when a fry cook had come after me earlier that summer. So, on the morning of my departure from OC I waltzed into the restaurant, headed to the steak pit, carrying---for all to see---a fifth of liquor for Big John. 

As I walked by the man with the Martin and Lewis creds, I was nabbed immediately with a “Where in the hell do you think you are headed with that?  Punch out. You are fired!” 

Success!  But how could I ever be sure, connect the dots, proving that this was in fact the man who had hired Dean and Jerry then fired me? 

Fast forward to a night, long after I’d crossed that bridge of summers past, I was married with children watching the Late Late Show with Tom Snyder. Snyder was interviewing Jerry Lewis and when he asked about how he and Dean had started Jerry Lewis said, “There was this guy in Atlantic City, New Jersey, who gave us our first shot at a place called the 500 Club.”

Then naming him he said this guy was one you didn’t toy with! “If he threw you in the ocean, you might find yourself wearing cement shoes!”

Of course I couldn’t have been happier with this confirmation from Jerry Lewis.  

Remembering my rather fitting departure brought back the Ocean City I knew and loved, memories of that time and place when life was fun, harmless and oh so carefree.