HEYJOE!OUR FAVOURITECURMUDGEON

JOE BAGEANT TAKES USFOR A TRIP AROUND HIS

HOME TOWN – WITHTWO STOPS FOR BEER

A PHOTO ESSAY BY SEAN GALLAGHERWORDS BY JOE BAGEANTC

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AROUND MY HOME TOWN(WITH TWO STOPS FOR BEER)These photos of Winchester, Virginia and nearby West Virginia were taken by New York photographer,Sean Gallagher. Most of my essays and stories are set and rooted in this old town and the surroundinghistoric Shenandoah Valley. The first Bageant came here in 1755. We’ve been here ever since, and seemto have chiefly occupied our time geting fatter and more religious. This is my home. Home to everythingthoughtless and dangerous about America these days, home to most of the people I have loved andcertainly home to all my ghosts. JOE BAGEANT

l This is my house at102 Peyton Street. From the rear balcony I can look down on thegrave of my originalancestor in America,who came to America in 1755 with the BritishArmy and served withthe young GeorgeWashington in the army of General EdwardBraddock. The housewas a fixer-upper whenmy wife and I bought itin 2000, and it’s stillhollering to be fixed. We call it “Chateau deFatback.” It is walkingdistance from all myneeds, the bank, thebeer-joints and thebarbershop. Butespecially the beerjoints, so let’s take apictorial stroll down tothe Royal Lunch Tavern.

l Two blocks from myhouse lies what we callthe “giant mutant JimCrow apple.” Many ofthe old line familieswho keep our townunder their thumbmade their money with apple plantations.They kept wages atstarvation levels sopeople would alwaysbe willing to pick. Nowthey bring in thirdworld pickers. The local apple business ispretty much kaput,thanks to China, butthey still cram the oldapple propagandadown everyone’sthroats. Everything isapple this and applethat. Thus we suffersuch indignities as this big red pimple on the streetscape.

l Two more blocks and you come to ournoble 1840 courthouse,Confederate statue and all. We call thestatue Ole Reb and itwas a high schooltradition to do things to Ole Reb at graduation,like put a bra on him, or hang a rubber on him or a German helmet, whatever…These days suchvandalism is a seriouscrime. My mainexperience in thecourthouse was beingtried for sale ofmarijuana when I wasyounger. I was thetown’s first pot bust in1967 and was acquittedbecause the policemanaged to arrest me for the one sale I didn’t make.

l Believe it or not, this is my local bank.During the Civil War itwas a hospital, as wasevery nearly otherbuilding in the old coreof Winchester. After the Battle of Gettysburga ten-mile long wagontrain of wounded arrivedin Winchester, itself the scene of four majorbattles and over seventysmaller engagements.Which makes it a biteasier to grasp whythese people cannotseem to forget the Civil War. Then again, if Europe can put World War II behind itand get along betweennations, why can’t abunch of crackers in theAmerican South do thesame? Huh?

l Along the way ...This fundamentalistmission is right aroundthe corner from theRoyal Lunch tavern.The town is encrustedwith fundamentalistchurches and missionsof every stripe. Nearthis one is a creationistchurch that blasts anti-Darwin tapes and runsvideos about dinosaursbeing “Jesus horses” inits storefront windows.It sometimes has ananti-Christ rubbermonkey that muchresembles Bill Clintonin the window that thecampy folks in NewYork would kill for.

l The Royal sits hardby the railroad thatslices right throughtown and the trainsstill run several timesa day. When theengineer hits the airhorn it will rattle yourteeth right out intoyour beer. How muchthis train affects yourlife is a goodbarometer of yourstatus here. It is theabsolute line of socialdemarcation. Hasbeen since the CivilWar. On one side ofthe tracks everybodyhas insurance, a car.On the other side youfind people with amouth full of rottenteeth and “sportingnothing but a rubberheel” as they saydown here.

l A Confederate flaghand towel for sale ina shop window. Folksin Winchester justcannot figure out whyYankees, queers andliberals make such abig deal about theConfederate flag.After all, they arewhite people too,right? And besides,we all know the CivilWar had nothing to dowith slavery. Studyyour history! It’s allright there in the Bibleabout the “children ofHam.”

l At last, the RoyalLunch Tavern, whichbears an, uh, remarkableresemblance to Burt’sTavern in my essays. It isthe last realneighborhood tavern inWinchester, an after-work joint in such a realsense that it does noteven open much onweekends. Keeps thecollege pukes and theyuppie riff raff out.

l Me and Larry, ownerof the Royal. Larry isthe one hometown boyI sent my writing toduring all the years Iwas out West,because I knew mostof the rest ofWinchester wouldnever get it. He is oneof the most soulfulpeople on earth andhas managed bars andclubs all his life.Which is why theRoyal is perfection astaverns go.

l This is Larry’s wifeAnne. Between beerswe all lust after Anne.She’d smack meupside the head forsaying that

l Over the course of aday or an eveningspent at the Royal itpays to take anavigational reading.Do I need a cab? Is thedoor swirling aroundtoo fast to divethrough?

l Lack of space neverkept anyone fromdancing at the Royal.Some say it’s becausethere is so much Irishblood here.

l I’d be the first toadmit that Isometimes have alittle too much fun atthe Royal. Well, OK.Always.

l My photographerSean wanted to see areal roadhouse, aroadside honky tonk.So I took him to theTroubador, a few milesup the road just acrossthe West Virginia stateline. On the way wepassed one of theroadsidefundamentalistshrines – “cultgroves” I call ‘em –that dot the area. I’vealways taken them forgranted, kinda likeroadside beer cans ordead deer, but Seanmade me realize justhow friggin strangethey are.

l And here we are at theTroubador up on amountain by theShenandoah Valley. The“Troob” is one of the lasttonk joints in our area.Suburbanization hasdriven them out. But theTroubadour still has aremote feel in that it isup on top of a mountaina couple of miles acrossthe nearby Virginia/WestVirginia State Line.

l A booth at theTroubadour. It speaksfor itself. If you can’tfind hillbilly love here,honey, you areprobably a Yankee.

l Black-and-whitechecked floor, cutoutsof country singers. TheTroob’s dance floor.The owner, Joltin’ JimMcCoy used to playwith Ernest Tubb andother early icons ofcountry music. Thecutouts of Patsy, Hankand Ernest on thestage are symbolicstand-ins for thosegreat artists, sort ofpersonal ghosts forJim.

l The morning after.Unfortunately, thereain’t no morning afterpill for this kind of beercarnage. There is asaying here: “If he’s toodrunk to sing, make himdrive.” But like this fella,sometimes you are toodrunk to even ridealong.

l Leaving the Troubadour with the BlueRidge hills all around. Damn, it sure isdrunk out this evening.