Tales from theGrub ’n’ Rub

Peter Robin

Tales From the Grub ’n’ RubCopyright © 2012 by Peter Robin

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eBook ISBN 978-0-9812451-5-7Print book ISBN 978-0-9812451-6-4

Cover illustration by Mishell RaedekeAuthor photo by Bruce Kemp

FORDustin, Darcy and Colin

Piu Forte Nell’ Auversita

CONTENTS

Introduction 8

Grub ’n’ Rub Café 12

Wide-eyed and Fort-ified 29

Bad Company 55

The Significance of Jink 72

Getting the Clamps On 97

Schooling the Blink 104

Acknowledgements 126

Peter Robin 128

Maybe it’s my age, but I sure hear a lot of opin-ion lately on the best way to check out when it comes to starring in some coroner’s croak fest. Seems like every time a person we know faces a grave situation it sparks a shitload of morbid debate on the preferred way to go, the pros and cons of each suggestion rolled around the Grub ’n’ Rub Café with a solemn delight that used to be reserved for cutting remarks, cheap gossip and putting a tickle on the girls that work there. Like any of us are gonna have a choice, unless we pull the plug ourselves that is.

Everyone has an opinion though, and I have to admit that some of the choices, especial-ly those of a sexual nature, are pretty enticing. Matter of fact, I brought a couple of the really interesting suggestions home with the thought of maybe firing up a little undercover research project with my personal assistant, the minister of domestic affairs.

INTRODUCTION

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“Not thinking to kill ourselves Maia, just take it to the coma stage,” I explained, “you know, in the interest of furthering our understanding of the human condition.”

I tell you though, I am getting frustrated. Time was, she’d have been all over an inves-tigation of this nature like white on rice, now she acts like it’s the best joke she’s heard all year, hooting and cackling fit to scare the crows. Undignified, if you ask me. Disrespectful too.

“Ha!” she snorted, giggling like a schoolgirl. “I understand your condition just fine already you goofy old goat, but it’s not your birthday. Besides, I know you’re about half comatose already, but it might take me five minutes more to put you out for the count and right now I’ve got an impor-tant tee time to make.” With that, a hug and a teasing little peni-squeeze, she was out the door, her laugh, and something about “a horn-dog old dreamer” floating in the air behind her.

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See what I mean? No respect, goddamn it. It’s enough to make a guy start sniffin’ around for a new associate. I just might do it too, but first I gotta have a little nap so I’m all rested up for the rigors of the search. Anyway all BS aside, after the reception I got for the terminal tail project I pretty much lost my enthusiasm for the whole dying thing. I was thinking about it though, kind of giggling to myself and wonder-ing what Hank would’ve had to say.

Hank—damn it anyway the guy’s been gone five years now and I still catch myself pictur-ing his response to all the crazy crap, imag-ining what he’d have had to say. Guaranteed he would’ve come up with a good one. You’ve never seen a guy could whip out a giggler like Hank. And I can laugh about him now, but it’s taken me some time getting to where I could. He was a real stand up, tell it like it is, kiss my ass and hope to die straight arrow and I didn’t really do him justice with the eulogy.

It just wasn’t the time and place, and not because we were in church either. Old Father Pat probably would’ve pissed himself laughing if I’d started in talking about the real Hank, but right then I don’t think I could have even if Ruthie had wanted me to. Instead, I just stood up there choking down the hurt, holding it together long enough to blubber through some

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stuff about how he’d always loved Ruth, had his heart set on her from the day they met and how proud he was of those kids of theirs. Even man-aged to get out a little bit on the force of his per-sonality, the way he could unite and carry the community and what a loss it was for our little town, but that was about it.

It was all true of course but there was so much more, and all that dying talk down at the Grub kind of brought it home and made me want to get ’er down while I still can. I look around now and I’ve gotta face the facts. There aren’t that many of us old mission school delinquents still hanging in there. Still and all I’m glad I waited, or maybe just wasn’t ready, because as much as I loved the man, I realize that he is just a part of what I really want to talk about—a coming of age in place and cir-cumstance that even for the ’60s was unique. Of course Hank still figures pretty big in this account as he figured pretty big in my life, but this is really about a whole generation of hay-wire young innocents.

So, for the kids who oughta know, their parents who sometimes forget and all those deprived of growing up in a time when the clos-est thing to Facebook was a party line, a text was sent by passing notes, and we didn’t tweet, but often tooted, here is Tales from the Grub ’n’ Rub.

A rough-hewn structure anchoring the north-ern edge of town, it was counterpoint to Rich-ardson’s General Store at the other and there wasn’t much town in between. Built in the ’20s to serve as a last good time to the placer min-ers heading off to the gold claims, and a first good fleecing on their way out, it now served the public in a slightly less glamorous capaci-ty. By the late ’50s when I first knew it, the plac-er miners were pretty much gone. It was loggers who kept the place going then, most of them complete gentlemen who treated the waitresses with a degree of respect that was almost comical. This, despite the fact you would be hard pressed to put together a tougher pack of old humps and harpies this side of Hollywood.

Officially, the place was known as Dave’s Dine and Dance, but no one ever called it that. To everyone in the country it was just Dave’s, the only licensed watering hole within an hour

GRUB ’N’ RUB CAFE

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of bad road. A “lounge” it was known as back then, and a fitting description that was too. On any given weekend there would be one or two patrons lounged right under the table, but not to worry, they were always treated with respect befitting their condition. Any waitress treading carelessly on these unfortunates was apt to earn a sharp rebuke from our man Dave—and drag-ging them out feet first was definitely consid-ered bad form.

Practical jokes such as “pantsing” the poor guys and tying a blue ribbon around their doin’s to indicate first prize, were frowned upon for all but the most irritating, know-it-all types.

The patrons for their part were only there for a good time and an unofficial code of conduct was generally adhered to. Disagreements were settled outside, language in earshot of the wait-resses was kept pretty clean and playing grab ass with the girls was a privilege reserved for the boss alone. There was the occasional excep-tion to the rule, however, and it was due to one of these that the diner earned its more com-mon identity. In the process, it became a pop-ular tourist destination and living heritage site.

Breakup it’s called in the north country—the end of the winter logging season. On this partic-ular wind-up weekend, Dave’s place was hump-ing (in a figurative sense only of course—that

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we know of anyway). The waitresses, squeezing through knots of drunken loggers, were happily dishing out eats, drinks and wisecracks in equal measure. The last really busy night of the year, it was bound to be a shaker and all the girls want-ed to work.

For the men, a joyous feeling of completion was in the air, a sense that having survived another season in bush camp, a blowout was well deserved and for this night at least, any-thing goes.

Not everyone was tuned to the same frequen-cy, however, and in the case of one girl, the mes-sage never got through at all. Looking for all the world like a lard-assed Persephone, the goddess of spring (if the goddess just fell off the turnip truck) the new girl, Ivy, was pirouetting by with a tray full of burgers and beer. Johnson Polanski, unable to resist the bounce, slipped up behind and put the grope on her.

Well, Lord galloping Jesus! That was not in the program as far as Ivy was concerned. Before the tray even hit the floor she had whirled around and laid a clamp on the Johnson that had the deviant dancing on his toes. He was moaning for mercy and the bush apes—always loving it when one of their own suffered an embarrass-ment—were on their feet cheering her on.

“This place,” she snarled, “is the Dine and

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Dance not the Grub and Rub. If you want the honey, Mister, you’re going to have to milk the bees.” This brought a delighted roar of laughter from all within hearing distance and a flush of embarrassment for Ivy, who muttered; “You all know what I mean.”

She gathered from the reaction that she’d got off a good one, though. Feeling rather pleased she administered a parting crush that threat-ened permanent deformity and dropped poor Polanski in a weeping puddle of remorse, hands clutching the manjiggles and taunts ringing in his ears.

Well, despite Ivy’s protests to the contrary, the Grub ’n’ Rub it was from that day on. Even Dave who might’ve been expected to protest the loss of name on the label was quick to get with the program. It was a period of seismic change with hippies and draft dodgers flooding into the country and our little town was not immune to the forces buffeting the outside world. A joint called the Dine ’n’ Dance wasn’t going to pull the trade off the street anymore, but the Grub ’n’ Rub? That had a degree of frontier cachet that appealed to all the unwashed and suddenly there were loggers rubbing with the long hairs, dodgers and horny old codgers like Dave.

With just the right mix of insult and indigest-ibles, it was always a great place to hang out, but

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the north country is full of those and that’s as far as it would have gone were it not for a bit of fortunate circumstance.

A reporter for a national US magazine—doing a piece on American expats—wandered in one evening and was totally captivated. In my opin-ion the guy fell head-over-heels for Ivy at first blush, and who could blame him. She may have been more burly girl than girly girl, but damn fine looking real estate all the same. This guy devoted a full-page article to her, the Grub and the larger than life characters that worked and frequented the joint. Suddenly, it was on the map.

Tourists making their way to Alaska picked up on the article and a few of these hardy souls—wanting to experience some local flavour and have their picture taken in front of the Grub—began making a side trip. Word of mouth made it even more popular. The place became so damn busy, Dave was able to hire a full-time cook and devote proper attention to developing his long-neglected Hemingway persona.

A big hound named Muff was brought on board to round out the eccentricity and he too became part of the legend. This dog developed the startling habit of jamming his cold nose in the nether parts of unsuspecting ladies. Com-plaints were usually met with a: “Hell, I’d do it myself if I could get away with it,” response that

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Dave laughingly claimed got him a lot of dates. He took to holding court in a corner booth,

regaling all and sundry with tales of back in the day when men were men and half the wom-en were too. He got so damn good at this that he started to believe his own stories. The next thing anyone knew, he hooked up with a bare-foot flower child and was going back to the land at a commune in the Kootenay Mountains.

That was the last anyone saw of Dave for four-teen years and other than a platinum old floo-zy from California who came in every summer hoping her stud muffin was back, no one real-ly missed him.

No, Dave being gone didn’t really matter. Ivy was running the show by then and she had blos-somed into a personality that eclipsed in real time anything that Dave could conjure up from his imaginary past. Even her name had grown.

Married now to Eldon Nyborg, the boisterous beauty of limited education and deficient vocab-ulary was known far and wide as “Fugginivy.” This from the husband prefacing every account of their relationship and experiences with: “Me and fuggin’ Ivy...”

Business was good and got steadily better as word spread of the delicious insults and libel-lous scorn served up with the toothsome gro-ceries and, if you were lucky, an under the

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counter shot of her special loudmouth that the locals claimed would “fuggin’ knockyurcockoff!” Assuming you had one I suppose.

The premises were expanded soon after Ivy took over and a supporting cast that met her high moral standards was brought on board. The gonorrhoea twins were a feature attraction for many years, as were Hose Clamp, the Jaws of Life and even a few unsavoury types that slipped past Ivy’s guard from time to time.

The tourists absolutely adored her, and some-what surprisingly—given her outspoken nature and negative image—the townsfolk did as well. She loved to sit out on the front porch banter-ing with everyone passing by and greeting the gawkers alighting from their RVs with a: “Grab your bag and the one you’re married to and come on in.”

The locals would thin out a bit during the tourist season but kept the place going all win-ter long. Even Johnson Polanski was known to drop in from time to time. Having regained his sense of humour, along with his original cal-ibre, he was able to laugh with the rest when the girls changed the jukebox name of Gene Pit-ney’s classic It Hurts to be in Love to The John-son Song.

The dance floor remained a huge attraction and it became a rite of passage for young men

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to have their first legal drink at the Grub and a turn around the tile with Fugginivy. A really stiff drink, because as one wag put it, “a waltz with Fugginivy was just like dry humping a grizzly bear.” I dunno how the guy researched the comparison, but having experienced the dance personally, I would say the description was apt. She always smelled real nice, but she was solid like a concrete crapper and her only dance was up close and personal. I never heard of a birthday boy coming up for air and imme-diately requesting a second go.

The old joint underwent a surprising facelift and change of direction in the ’80s when Ivy unexpectedly dropped the Grub’s lounge licence and converted to her own version of haute cui-sine hot doggerie and coffee bar. “We have to move with the times,” she said, and there was more money in lattes than liquor now, what with everyone pursuing a healthy lifestyle and jogging around doing yoga and shit. Thankful-ly the rude and crude stayed put and if the cli-entele changed, well that just gave Ivy a fresh new audience.

It was mostly just salesmanship of course, a jolt of ignorance that people drove out of their way to experience and she truly enjoyed dis-pensing, but that wasn’t really her. Ivy was one of the kindest people you could ever get to

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know; a woman, who, as Uncle Lance put it, was all big heart and bum. The girls who worked the place now were mostly college students and more than one got a little extra help from Ivy to see her through. They were her girls and she was mom to each and every one. God help anyone who didn’t treat them with respect.

Two things guaran-damn-teed to set Ivy off were bigoted assholes and anyone who was wil-fully hurtful to her staff. I never had the cour-age to ask if it was okay to be just a bigot or just an asshole, long as you weren’t both. The orig-inal diva of disdain, she didn’t differentiate. If Ivy thought someone had it coming, she would rip them a new one that would send the cul-prit slinking for the door—and I wanted to fin-ish my pie.

Most of her put-downs were pretty clever and some were legendary, especially those directed at the swank. One of my favourites was the time a couple of Bible-thumping doorknockers wan-dered in to experience a little iniquity first hand and maybe sprinkle a light dose of holier than thou on the morally corrupt.

Now you gotta know that Ivy had nothing but respect for other folk’s beliefs, the fact she didn’t share them notwithstanding. Father Josh, the Catholic priest, a great favourite of the girls, was a regular at the Grub, and Buddy Stroller, a

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popular young evangelist, was often with him. So it wasn’t like the joint was off the mission-ary map. Those two, carrying on a good-natured banter with everyone and his Uncle Bob, were well-loved characters in the supporting cast, a draw in their own way like Fugginivy herself.

These new divine drop-ins were a different breed, however. No sooner were they settled in with their cake and coffee than they began espousing their sanctimonious view on the whole damn diggings, most especially the queen of the pit—Fugginivy. I gotta say she held it all together pretty good, never lost her temper and stayed polite as hell—even treated them. They left after a bit, chuck full of smug and righteous satisfaction, but not before clearing the place of everyone that dropped in for the perk and got an unwanted shot of preach to go with it.

Unbeknownst to them though, they weren’t done yet. The problem with living in a small town is—it’s a small town—and everyone knows where you live. At five that evening when her night shift girls came on, Ivy gathered up her husband, along with the day crew, and selecting the more obnoxious of the two mooching mis-sionaries, paid a return visit.

Well, wouldn’t you think that folks who spend their leisure time irritating their neigh-bours would know better than anyone not to

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answer the doorbell? I think I would, but then again I don’t spend my free time irritating my neighbours, not on purpose anyway. I dunno, maybe they were thinking they’d snared a few converts—and wouldn’t that look good on the resume. Whatever it was, this guy no sooner opened the door than Ivy bounced in with a big beaming “Hello,” and giving no time to object, pushed right through to the kitchen—her mob in hot pursuit.

“Hi there,” she exclaimed to his mousy little wife, giving her a warm hug as she did so. “I’m a friend of your husband’s.” With that brief intro-duction out of the way, she deposited herself at the kitchen table, pulled out a well-worn copy of The Joy of Sex and began to read it aloud, paus-ing periodically to point out this or that illus-tration. Her old man and the girls were right behind, making for a rapt, and in the case of her husband, vocal audience.

“Oh goddamn, I remember that one,” he exclaimed happily to a pair of stunned hosts and a delighted crew of waitresses. “Me and Fug-ginivy did that one in the back of Arlan Stone’s ’55 before we was even married. Holy crap, my back’s still sore!”

I don’t think Ivy had taken the time to explain to Eldon that he didn’t have a speak-ing role in her little production—and it was too

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late to rein him in now—he was having way too much fun.

“Bert,” he said, “Bert, that’s your name ain’t it? Listen, Bert...”

“You ... you ... you better go now Mr. Fu-uh-, Mr. Ivy. We’re going to have dinner now.”

But Eldon wasn’t paying Bert any mind. “Eldon, Bert. Eldon Nyborg’s the name. God-

damn it now, pay attention, this is real good stuff. Ya know Pat Polson? Yeah, ya gotta know Pat; everyone knows him—call him Pork Chop Polson count of his being a little porky? Well Pork Chop swears that book saved his marriage. Says him and his old lady went through it cover to cover on a canoe trip up on the Nations. Nev-er left camp for two weeks and came back a hap-py little hound with a fresh new appreciation for his wife is what he said.

You know Bert, ya oughta think about that. I imagine your Bible thumpin’ brings a few sad folks some comfort, but a little thumpin’ the sheets ain’t such a bad thing either. What the hell. Just look at me and Fugginivy here.”

But Bert wasn’t looking at Fugginivy. No, red-faced Bert, his mouth going like he was sucking lemons through a water hose, was all a-focus on Eldon, stammering out a protest every time the man slowed to take a deep breath, but Eldon was addressing his wife now.

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“Holy smokes woman,” he said, a big lecher-ous grin creasing his face, “this takes me back. I’d pretty much forgotten ’bout the old instruc-tion manual the last few years. I must be getting old. How’s about you and me, we do our own lit-tle weekend refresher?”

“Ma’am,” he said then, turning to Mrs. Bert and going all serious, “you really oughta give these recipes a whirl. Lord lifting Jesus woman, look at that old man of yours. He’s so backed up and stressed out he thinks its normal—wants every one of us to be the same way. You gotta give that dog a scratch girl, know what I mean? Rub a little honey on the hang down.”

And so it went for another ten minutes or so, Ivy reading aloud and Eldon raunching out the colour commentary. The Moral Warden, having delved deep and found a little courage, was pro-testing vigorously, while his wife, open mouthed in wonder, was rubber necking the whole ser-mon and sneaking the odd peek at the pictures. Ivy’s girls weren’t just sneaking a peek—they were crowded in over her shoulder, thorough-ly enjoying the whole performance.

“OK, OK, that’s it,” Ivy exclaimed sudden-ly, snapping the book closed and bringing the hilarity to an abrupt halt. “Mister,” she said then, staring down a red faced and furious bab-bler. “Mister, you and your friend came into my

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home and took full advantage of—no that ain’t the right word—what you done is, you abused my hospitality. Maybe where you come from that’s all right and folks put up with that sort of thing, but around here, to me and mine, that’s a bullshit deal.

Now, you and the little woman are welcome in my place any time, and the same goes for that soul shepherd buddy of yours was with you today—but the preaching Bert? That gets checked at the door.” With that Ivy got up from the table, gave the wife another big hug, whis-pered something that had her blushing like a schoolgirl and trooped the company out the door.

Well, like the kids say, “It went viral.” That little exercise in manners was the talk of the town and a source of amusement for weeks—yet another chapter in the rich volume of put-downs and attitude adjustments courtesy of Ivy and the Grub ’n’ Rub. To be sure, most weren’t nearly so dramatic. No, the majority were sim-ply your garden variety, stay at home, good-natured insult and mockery type, but all were part of the show and cherished—even by those on the receiving end.

I tell you, it was worth the prospect of getting caught in the crossfire just to witness the back and forth—especially in the morning when the

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old boys held court. Those guys, the whole shit-teree retired, lived every weekday morning for only two things: telling lies about back in the day and besting Ivy in a smart mouth compe-tition. They did a whole lot better with the lies than besting Ivy, but it was sure-nuff good the-atre.

All good things come to an end though, and as I write this account I’m sad to say that the Grub ’n’ Rub in full velour is gone forever. Eldon was killed in a logging accident a few years back and that hammered Ivy real hard.

He had been her life, a cloak of comfort always there in the background, letting her run the show, but always there. Now an under-tow of sadness was tugging at her buoyant spir-it and it seemed like overnight she started to show her age. She carried on for a couple of years after, working hard at hiding the hurt and making like she was doing fine, but it was pret-ty obvious her heart wasn’t in it anymore. One day, right out of the blue, she called in all the staff, laid on a big bonus and announced she was shutting down.

Well, Greenpeace save the horny toads! If there was ever any doubting the importance of Ivy and the Grub to our little town, it was washed away right there. “Shocked and sad-dened,” is how the mayor reacted to the news,

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and he was echoing the feelings of all. Saw-mills, mines, logging and trucking outfits—any of them could close their doors and the town would shrug it off. But this? This was soul strip-ping, fuggin’ serious and folks weren’t about to let it happen.

A town hall meeting was called and every institution from the Chamber of Commerce to the Historical Society was tasked with find-ing a solution. A delegation was appointed to raise funds locally while putting the strong-arm on business and government for cash, simulta-neously approaching Ivy with an offer to pur-chase the property—an offer that was prompt-ly rejected.

“No,” she said, “no, you can’t buy the place, but I will lease it to you for a dollar a year pro-viding certain conditions are met.” Those condi-tions included: a promise to stay open for a min-imum of ten years, retain any of her staff that wished to stay on, and abide as close as possible to the original atmosphere.

“We’ve always been a little refuge of honesty,” she told me later. “I know some folks don’t like it when they hear the truth, figure I’m an igno-rant old fool should get with the times, but fug-gem! I’ve always been proud of the way we took a stand on stuff and didn’t bow to that spineless politically correct horseshit. Last thing I want is

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those clowns making the Grub into some kind of hoity-toity doughnut dive just fit for culture cops and tourists.”

Well, for old timers like myself it isn’t quite the same, but the transition has gone pretty smooth and by all accounts Ivy doesn’t have to worry about the place turning genteel any time soon. Granted, the girl they hired to play Ivy is a bit light in weight and a degree or two short in attitude to really flesh out the role, but the old-timers with their boisterous BS are pick-ing up the slack, so what the hell. The place still pulls in the pilgrims who don’t know any bet-ter and just watching their delighted reaction keeps the memories alive. Sometimes things do turn out right.