Misspent nights at the Village

What is written here is in no way, shape or form, an endorsement or approval of the type of behavior documented. It was a different time.

The Village was, and remains in a diminished respect, a downtown Lancaster nightclub. At the time of this narrative, open, I believe 5 nights a week with some of the top bands on the East coast. Performers that have visited, either by booking or impromptu, included Warren Zevon, David Bromberg, Greg Allman, The Hooters and probably most famously, Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band. Their appearance was a surprise as they came in unannounced and played a set with The Sharks, one of Lancaster’s best rock bands.

For the twenty something crowd, it was the place to go, I am aware of at least three future marriages among my circle that began on the Village dance floor.

My gang’s first visit must have been the summer of 1973. I do not recall the preamble that eventually resulted in our entrance, but do recall that none us were less than inebriated. During the course of the night, as I entered the bathroom a fellow patron was heard to exclaim, “We got 4 standing, 2 sitting and 1 kneeling.” Looking in the stalls, sure enough, someone was driving the porcelain bus. I recall thinking, I hope it’s not anyone know. Just then the kneeler was heard to say, “I’m praying man, I’m praying.” Oh shit, it was one of my buddies, Cud. Helping him out of the club, I deposited him the the back seat of my friend Weid’s brand new Pontiac Lemans, which he had bought with the bonus money he received from signing with the White Sox. He loved that car.

So, off I go to find Weid and Toad. Now let me say, Toad was a large man, about six foot one and 300 pounds. Weid and I scoured the club, Toad was not in sight. We realized he must be outside, God knows where. As we exited the club we walk straight into Toad’s father. Now Toad’s father was a retired, no nonsense, Army Captain, who now built houses, we were all a little scared of this man. He looks us right in the eyes and demands, “Were is my boy?, he called me.” A search of the parking lot, starting at Weid’s puked up car, led us to the edge of the lot, where there were two billboards attached to the side of a building. These billboards started about four and a half feet above the ground. There stood Toad his head and shoulders hidden behind the billboards and his torso and puke encrusted legs in plain view. Off he went with his father, Weid back to his car to drive Cud home and wash his interior. Weid’s car smelled a little ripe the rest of the year, especially on those hot and humid days.

Another evening found the same four culprits at the Village. Cud and I in my MGB, Weid and Toad in the fateful Lemans. We were parked side by side in the first row of the lot, which was separated from a major street, (Chestnut), by a sidewalk. Both cars faced the street.

As we got to the cars to leave, Toad says to Weid, “I’m not riding with you, you’re too drunk.” Cud and I couldn’t argue with Toad and Cud certainly didn’t want to ride with Weid either. This infuriated Weid and he cajoled, yelled, belittled and cursed at Toad until he acquiesced and got into the car. Weid immediately peeled out of the space, right over the sidewalk and squealed his tires down Chestnut.

Cud and I got into the MGB and left the parking lot in a more conventional manner. Now we were driving the same way, (directionally), that our friends had just travelled. On South Prince Street a two lane southbound street, we came upon a double parked car, flashers on, glass and the right front door laying in the street. We looked at each other and said, “Weid.“

Later, at home, the phone rang, it was Toad. In a whisper, he says, “I think Weid might have killed somebody. He was flying down Prince Street and suddenly there was a a guy standing next to car, I screamed, we hit something and Weid just kept going.“

Luckily, the individual saw the car speeding towards him and jumped back into the car he had just exited, as Weid took off the door. Weid turned himself in to the Lancaster police the next day and lost his license for a year.

The main bouncer during these years was ,a man named Harley. Harley was well educated, possessing at least one degree in English, very friendly, and could hold his own in any conversation. Harley was also a trained boxer, at one time, the sparring partner for heavyweight contender Jerry Quarry. Surely not a man to be trifled with. He wasn’t vicious like some bouncers, much preferring to defuse a situation with talk.

The Village, in those days, had a small lobby that included a window where they collected the cover. Beside the window was the door into the club, directly inside that door was a bar that ran along the side wall, seating maybe twelve people. My friend Mike and I were seated directly inside the door, at the first two seats, talking to Harley. The door had a window looking into the lobby. We could see a group of about 5 or 6 men, trying to enter, arguing with the person behind the window. As we watch through the door’s window, Harley goes into the lobby attempting to get everyone calmed down, palms opened, raised to shoulder level. Suddenly one of the group throws a punch, then another and then a full blown melee ensues. Harley is in a boxers crouch, back to the cover window, head down connecting with uppercut after uppercut. But, he is outmanned and they are surrounding him, trying to get him off his feet.

Harley breaks for the door, bursting into the bar, he grabs our two beer bottles, breaking them over the edge of the bar in one move. Flying back into the lobby brandishing the broken bottles, he and his bottles quickly subduing the miscreants. Police soon arrived hauling the group off to the station. Harley returned to us at the bar, yelling the bartender we were drinking on the house tonight. He says, “Yah, I was holding my own for a while, but I needed an equalizer, there was just to many of them.”