McSorley’s Pub by Kyle Cashulin

Photo by Peter Rivera

Twenty-five wishbones hung above a bar. You have to look closely to verify that they are, indeed wishbones. 90 years of dust hangs on the old bones like dead bayou moss. The turkey bones were hung on the ancient brass gas lamp by enlisted men departing for Europe in 1916.

Behind the bar you will find not an inch of unoccupied wall space. Thousands of curios spanning 200 years collect dust and rust and water damage. A wanted poster for the “Murderer John Wilkes Booth” sits beside a photograph of Abraham Lincoln himself. Abe was a patron. As were the men in the frames next to his: Theodore Roosevelt and John F. Kennedy. The last photograph taken of Babe Ruth hangs partially obscured by an original sketch by John McSorley himself. A pair of unassuming old handcuffs sits on a cabinet. No one would guess they once meekly attempted to restrain the great Harry Houdini.

The light is very dim, but there is great warmth in the bar. You spin around slowly taking in the information that hits you like a sandstorm. Freshly strewn sawdust grinds under your heel as you turn to face the large pot-bellied stove. The stove is black, but the coal is red. You summon the ghosts of great men who stared into the same stove and warmed themselves. And I say great men because women weren’t admitted to the bar until the 1970’s.

You walk to the back room, away from the stifling coal heat and embrace the cool air on your skin. There is an hour wait for a table, but that just gives you more time to take in the bar. A cabinet reads “CPR kit.” Maybe it’s a bible. Finally, you take a seat at one of four enormous wood-slab tables. Alcohol flowed in this back room during prohibition. This alcohol has always come in only two varieties: light house ale and dark house ale. A wild-haired Irishman in a blue shirt takes your order and returns holding 24 cups of ale in two hands. He slams the lot down on your table with a wonderful crash and clink. You help divvy up the ale by sliding light or dark cups down to your neighbors.

A fat man with a “Yankees” cap stands on a chair and starts chanting at his friend. The Irishman runs over and screams “GET OFF THE FECKIN’ CHAIR! I’M WARNIN’ YEH!” But the fat man doesn’t listen, and is dragged to the ground by the smaller but much stronger waiter. The man is then dragged to the door screaming uselessly and literally thrown out onto East 7th St. His hapless friend follows him out throwing dirty looks and half-hearted insults at the staff. The waiter walks back muttering “I warned him” under his breath. The man should have observed the scorched-wood plaque and bar motto “Be Good or Be Gone.” The waiter walks over to a shocked looking college couple and politely says “A seat just opened up. Follow me.”