by Frank Scram
Buster's...
Buster's was, at one time, the next door neighbor to the train
station; the back door not more than twenty feet from the tracks.
A thirsty traveler could disembark, walk into the cool dark of the
tavern and enjoy a beer or a shot of Bushmills before reboarding
and heading north to Tallahassee, Jacksonville, & Atlanta. Four
decades later Buster's Tavern is now just Buster's. Buster
himself is gone, sold out, years ago, to a couple of guys from
Vegas. The tracks are gone too; pulled up to make way for a
bicycle path. The thirsty traveler has been replaced by the noisy
yuppie. Instead of Bushmills the new customers demand bottled
water and non-alcoholic beer. Shirts and slacks, have been
replaced by slackers wearing shorts and tank tops. And for
those venturing in from the parking lot avoiding the skate punks
who use the handicapped ramp on which to perform their stunts
has become something of a sport itself.
Nick said, "I don't like the bike path or these, these slack jaw
newage, physical fitness, whatchamacallits that came with it."
"Oh no, no," Jerry said waving a finger in Nick's direction. "It's
these kids, these punks with their skates and skate boards rolling
up and down the sidewalk, jumping curbs, denting cars and
getting mad if you say anything about it, that's driving me nuts."
Nick said, "They all deserve a good smack". "Put a dent in my
'87 caddy", Jerry said. "This morning walking in, I hear thwack
and turn to see my deep blue baby with a scratch in the door."
Jerry continued. Nick said, "They all deserve a good smack".
Jerry and Nick are a couple of Rat Pack originals. Pictures of
Jerry and Peter Lawford, Jerry and Sammy Davis, Nick and
Joey Bishop, and both Jerry and Nick with Frank Sinatra, hang
behind the bar. Nick was a bartender at the Tropicanna and
Jerry played piano in every gin mill in the city. Those were the
early years, before someone turned them onto Buster's, and the
pleasures of Florida living.
Nick poured me a drink and continued ranting "I don't exist anymore, I'm obsolete, a figment of your imagination. I've been replaced by rock and roll, scandal of the week and kids with five hundred dollar skates."
Jerry, sitting at the piano, announced, "Rock and roll never won a war. Glen Miller, he got us through Nick."
While looking at me, Nick pointed to Jerry, "The man speaks
the truth."
A couple kids walked in, took seats at the opposite end of the
bar. "We're here for Sinatra Night." One said. His hair was
combed back in, what looked like a failing attempt to conceal its
length. And his black shirt and white tie were right out of an old
gangster movie; not clothes the kid was comfortable in. I figured
him to be about 21. Jerry looked up from the piano. "Whatcha
got?" The wannabe start across the room. "Strangers in the
Night and my buddy does a wicked impression of My Way."
Jerry held up his hand like a traffic cop stopping a line of cars. "Go back to the bar, sit down, Nick will tell you the house rules." Nick threw a towel over his shoulder and waved the kid back. "You want a soda-pop kid?"
"I would." Said the friend. suddenly interested. The kid took his
seat and Nick poured him a club soda. He ignored the friend.
"The rules, lets see; number one, no cheap imitations. Like the
song says, I did it my way, that's what we expect from you.
Your way. Not Frank's way, not Wayne Newton's way, your
way. Number two, Don't show up dressed like a gangster, you
look ridiculous. Wear something your comfortable in, as long as
it's a shirt and tie. And polish your shoes. Number three, no
girlfriends unless you are a regular."
The Kid asked, "When will I be a regular?" Nick said, "Mind
your manners, have some respect for the regulars, make a few
friends. You'll know.
The friend said, "That's it?"
Nick looked at the kid. "No, one more thing, leave your friend home. Before the friend could respond he pointed to the tv. "Check it out, Jay and Ray."
Everyone turned toward the television set over the bar. A couple skate punks were being interviewed on the six o'clock news.
"Turn it up." The friend hollered.
Nick, surprised & then angry by what clearly sounded like an order asked, "What did you say?
To avoid a scene, I cut in and asked the friend, "You know those guys?"
The kid said, "Yeah we skate with them all the time."
I said, "So you know how to get in touch with them?"
"Oh yeah."
"How about makin' a call?" I tossed the kid a quarter. "Pay phone outside. Set something up. There's twenty in it for you."
The young man started for the exit, stopped and turned. "Who are you? Who should I say wants them?
I said. "William Robert Humbolt, Lifestyle editor for The New York Times."
Nick started laughing and I don't think he's stopped yet. The kid
or kids made the calls, eventually costing me five dollars plus
another twenty they used to buy beer and lottery tickets. Niether
one made it to Sinatra Night. Three hours later I met the two
wack jobs who had made the six o'clock, and then the eleven
o'clock, news. Here's what happened:
Interview
A Conversation with two skate pimps on their image, breaking
the law and making the eleven clock news. Jay and Ray are
cool and now they will tell you why. If you want to be like
Jay and Ray read this. Be warned though, in order to enjoy
this article the reader must know the following terms: pimped
out, click, chill, chillin, kick it, ill stuff, sick stuff, low rider topside
acids, torque soles, phat and alley-oop. I'll let the boys do their
own typing now while I step out for a few groceries. So, until I
return, I give you Jay and Ray, in their own words.
Unfortunately, their lack of spelling and writing skill is painfully
evident. I left it unedited in an effort to "Keep it Real".
Image and the law
Ray... I have know image, and if I had an image it would be that
I skate and kick it with my friends. I skate and do my thing. So
people may think I am being conceited when I tell them that I
kind grinded a nine stair rail, I am really not. I am just proud of
my sport and what I do. My click and I bust out some ill "stuff"
Keep it real.
Jay... What's up? My image? Chill. When I skate and pimp
things out I keep cool and don't have a high head about it. As far
as the law goes I think the cops need to go back to the station
and eat donuts. My click and I keep it real. Peace out.
813 - The Click
Ray... The 813 Click consists of five of the most stylish pimped
out skaters from around our area. We don't claim to be the best,
we just skate and do our thing, and usually do some sick "stuff".
Josh M. busts out some of the sickest low-rider top-side acids I
have ever seen, Jay does the illest torque souls. Ray just
pimps out the alley-oop style. For all of you T-dogs who see my
boy Dave R. out there and don't see him bust out the new "in
style" tricks watch what he is doing, cause in a few months
everyone else will be doing it too. Bob Minichi just got made
skills comin out his ears. Keep it Real
Eleven o'clock News
Ray... On Monday September 22 1997, I was laying down on
my couch and the phone rang, so I slowly walked to the phone
and picked it up. The voice of the stranger said, "This is channel
eight news, is this Ray?" I replied yeah and asked why they had
called. She told me that they wanted to do a story on aggressive
skating! She told me to round up a few friends, and asked me
where could I meet her? I called Jay and asked him where he
would like to meet News Channel 8, he said Citizens Bank and
Trust. I called the news back and told her to meet us there at 5
So we met her,did a pimped out interview. We will now recreate
that interview as best we can
I got back in time to hear the knuckle heads arguing over who
was the most pimped something or other. What ever happened
to simply challenging an opponent to an arm wrestling
competition to determine who the toughest was. A little adult
supervision was definatly in order. This is where I took over the
typing .
Ray... it was more a story than an interview.
Jay... I don't remember what we said.
Ray... I got it on tape and for 20 beans I will sell it to the highest bidder. ( I ignored this not too subtle plea for money and continued typing.)
Jay... Forget the interview. She thinks we stole her microphone, ya know the ones with the channel 8 sign on them.
Ray... I feel like I'm doing a Box interview. So how about that Roy-al?
Jay... That was a sit down royal
Ray... For people who can't do Roy-als
Jay... For people who have mastered the Roy-al! Totally
pimped out.
Here the conversation gets garbled, talk turns to rails and
acid, they stop, watch me type and laugh. I tried to keep
up with the conversation; got bits and pieces. Verbal
shrapnel really.
Ray... I have a skate page.
Jay... He runs it from the computer room at El Sid's
FS: Private school?
Ray... Yeah. My mom works there so I got to go to private school free last year.
Jay... College next year.
Ray... I'm getting sponsored by a pad co.
Jay... I'd cross out the name and put 813.
Ray... Three hundred dollar pads.
Jay... They don't even want to see you skate.
Ray... Send a picture.
Jay... I want, I mean my biggest goal as a skater is to make the cover of Tiger Beat Magazine.
Ray... I want to date Chelsey Clinton, but I'm only a 10th grader, but..(R. mumbles something and then slinks off to the bathroom.) ...Is their a toilet in there?
Jay... Turn on the light.
Ray... (Hollering from his seat on the throne.) WE HAVE TO TAKE A TEAM PICTURE!!!!!
Jay... I can't understand why we haven't been on any talk shows yet, like Ricki Lake. We should call up and suggest a subject, like why our parents hate what we do.
Ray... We could get makeovers. Here's us in our pimped out rags and now here's us in our $2000 Italian suit from the Men's Wearhouse
Jay... Only Sally does makeovers. My mom almost got to be on because my brother might be going to jail.
Ray... Jerry Springer is better. He's the one with the beans. I wanted to kill this Satan worshipper he had on.
Jay... Did they get makeovers?
Ray... They got a get out of hell free card.
Jay... If we could get makeovers and then sell the suits for like $1500.00 we could redesign the logo.
Ray... New skates
Jay... We'd have enough money to rent a car and go to Daytona next month.
Ray... Take the Click. Could you drive?
Jay... Oh yeah.
Ray... I was talking about Mr. Humbolt.
Jay... People would take us seriously.
FS... What with me driving?
Jay...Yeah it's not like we're showing up with our parents.
FS...I'm flattered.
Ray...We'd have the beans.
Jay...Shut up I hate that word.
Ray...Beans!
Jay...I'm gonna slap you
Ray...I got the beans. You got no beans
Without warning Jay landed a surprise left, caught Ray's
chin. Not enough to do any damage but the light came on and
anger was home. Soon fists were flying. I excused myself and
headed to the kitchen, fixed a tuna fish sandwich and caught the
last half of the CMA Awards.
By professional fight standards the scrap lasted, maybe one round. Jay came out first, told me Ray would be finding his own way home.
"Later dude." He said, on his way out. I noticed blood dripping from his right ear.
Ray wandered in as Jay was leaving. He made no attempt to
follow or try and save his ride. Instead he flopped down in a chair and said he thought Leeann Rhimes was totally phat. Like I need this kid on my hands for the rest of the evening.
I drove him home. Better I take him than have his mother on my
doorstep asking questions about his bloody nose.
Ending Up at Buster's
I stopped by Buster's on the way home. Sinatra night was in full swing. Jerry played a jazzed up rendition of Something Stupid for one of the regulars, Biff Whitman. Biff's operatic voice burst out of a rail thin body, up a long neck, past a protruding Adam's apple, into the microphone, through the speakers and filled the room. A smooth five octave range. He wore a tan, Brooks Brothers suit, a white silk shirt with a red tie and matching socks. He kept his hands in his pockets, stood with one shoulder a little lower than the other and, as always, was ready with a wink for the ladies. Biff was one cool cat. When he finished the other Singers gave him a standing-O.
Every generation has its heros. For Jerry and Nick and the half
dozen contestants sitting at the bar, Ole Blue Eyes had what they
were looking for. The Chairman of the Board would never put
up with skate punks using the handicapped ramp to perform
tricks on. Show some class. The cyclists and joggers may be
served but never respected. "No, we don't serve drinks with
umbrellas in them. Why? Because it aint raining!"
Eventually Jay and Ray will be in the same boat, two old
men recycling their best years. And what will they offer? Josh
Petty night? Pictures of themselves with famous skaters? How
will they explain their stunts to another generation of trick freaks?
Maybe like this:
Jay...When I was your age we didn't have skate parks.
Ray...We lived on the streets and in the alleys, busting out some of the illest moves around. Top-side acids, totally sick roy-als
Jay... Not to mention those terminally ill Torque soles, grinding a nine stair rail and getting busted for doing pornstars on the steps of city hall.
Kid... You guys are like, living history.
Ray... We had the beans.
Jay... We had it all pimped out.
Ray... We didn't make the money you...(Stops to adjust hearing aid.)
Jay... We were pure. The love of the game.
Ray... That's cause we got the beans.
Jay... We got it all pimped out. Totally phat.
Kid... Wait till my coach finds out who I was talking to. You guys are the money! See ya later.
Ray... Speaking of money, how much does Little Mr. No talent make?
Jay... According to Daily Bread he's one of the top ten earners at about five million a year.
Ray... kids' been corrupted.
Jay... Absolutely. A total sellout.
Ray... We still got the beans
Jay... keep it real.
Editors note. Mr Scram showed up at the TF offices one evening with the story you have just read and insisted we purchase it. The amount of money he wanted was outrageous and we had no alternative but to refuse. Unable to deal with this rejection, Mr. Scram became abusive, making threats and cursing. It was obvious he'd been drinking. After several hours of fighting we told Mr. Scram to leave the story and someone would read it. We had no intention of doing so but it was getting late and nobody was in the mood to deal with a silly drunk any longer. The next morning the story was mistakenly read by an intern who passed it along to a fact checker. The checker found that the interview had taken place and that Jay and Ray actually exist. However, further checking revealed that Buster's Tavern and its owners, Jerry and Nick, are fictional characters. As are the two young men who come in hoping to participate in Sinatra Night. We called several taverns, bars and lounges in the area and found no such night exists. But all agreed it was a nice idea. When confronted about these inconsistencies, Mr Scram said that Buster's and the characters he created were part of an unfinished novel and that the interview fit in perfectly with the theme of changing times. He said he has no problem mixing fact and fiction and suggested a warning label to let readers know what they were getting. From now on the letters tcf under the title of any article will let the reader know that truth is couched in fiction. We at Totally Focused believe Mr Scram is a dangerous man who goes under several aliases and can't be depended upon to tell the truth. This is his first article for TF.