I met #76 some night in 1981, at the Library, not the Lancaster County Public Library, but the night club by that name in the Brunswick Hotel, not the real Brunswick but the one built a decade before. She was with a couple of girl friends and she stood out wearing a white outfit which contrasted nicely with her deep chocolate complexion. Further, at 6 foot she stood out in any crowd. I took her home that night, politely dropped her off, and followed up with flowers the next day. She had a little piece of my heart and more than a piece of my lust. Before long we were an item. Turned out height ran in her family as her brother was an 11-time all-star in the ABA/NBA. He had dueled Bill Walton for the NCAA basketball championship and now, at 7’ 2”, was a Chicago Bull. #76 and I had three separate spells. In the middle one she actually lived at the 340 Club for maybe a month.
In mid-1982, I had heard about a stunningly beautiful woman who worked personnel at a local manufacturing plant. Subsequently, and totally by chance, I bumped into a high school classmate of mine who happened to work at that plant. So I pumped her for information and found (the personnel woman who turned out to be) #87 to be single and seemingly acceptable. So, I designed a job application for me to apply for a job (more accurately, for a date) and submitted via my friend to her. In a few days she gave me a call and we dated on and off until she ran off with some rich Atlanta businessperson a few years later.
On November 9, 1982, #76 and I attended a charity event at Baltimore’s Convention Center. The event was put on by Sugar Ray Leonard and many boxing dignitaries were in attendance including Muhammad Ali, Howard Cosell, and Marvin Hagler. I was quite thrilled when Muhammad Ali called my date, #76, by name and we went over and made small talk with the greatest. Sugar Ray retired, for the first time, that night which left Marvin Hagler dumbfounded, poorer and still looking for respect. I want home that night feeling very respected.
Later that week, on Friday the 12th, I took #76, who was living with me at the 340, to watch the Alexis Arguello-Aaron Pryor fight on HBO at a buddy’s house. It turned out she was for the Hawk while I was for the classy Nicaraguan. It was a classic fight and the group of us were heavily engaged in the bout. It ended badly for the classy fighter as Aaron Pryor pummeled him before referee Stanley Christodoulou mercifully stopped it in the 14th round Well, something happened during the fight – likely at the end – to cause me to use the B-word referencing #76. Well, hell hath no fury. Let me give you same advice – don’t ever call a Black woman a bitch. Let me clarify further; don’t ever call a 6-foot tall Black woman a biotch.
Several nights later as we lay in bed on the 3rd floor of the 340 Club in the middle of a not too pleasant discussion as push came to shove she pretty much said “let’s get it on”. Unfortunately she was sounding more like Muhammad Ali than Marvin Gaye. Thankfully, at 3 am, the phone rang and I took the liberty of excusing myself to go answer it. As luck would have it, it was #87 in the throes of deep lust. Now, I had a choice – go upstairs and continue heading down the road towards a melee or make up an excuse and head up the road to #87’s home.
I’m neither a fighter nor a dummy so before I knew it I was on the road heading to Marietta to do what young men do. Rumble young man rumble. Upon my return #76 and I lived together for only a short while longer and our relationship came to an end (for the 2nd time). All things considered it coulda been worse. Unbeknownst to me it was just a little worse.
I just knew that she cheated on me (as if it is possible to “cheat” on someone who unabashedly left you in the middle of the night for a romp with another). Every day for the next week or so I’d call Phil at his job as bartender/confessor at Zangari’s South and he & I would speculate as to who she did it with. Was it Scotty Sports Sunday? Was it Jose? Was it Brian of Sleepy Hollow? I knew it was someone I just didn’t know who.
Finally it came to me and when confronted he immediately confirmed it and it was no big deal. Here is what happened. When I chose to go visit #87 that night, #76 made her own choice. I lived on the top floor, in the 340 Club penthouse, at the top of the stairway to heaven (or so I liked to think). Just under me on two lay poor unsuspecting Phil. Remember what I said about hell hath no fury. Well, out the door I went to visit my chocolate au lait paramour. I’m not sure how long she lay there but #76 was a full blooded female and she was not about to take that lying down (no pun intended). She got up out of my bed as I had done and escaped into the arms of another man. Down the stairs she went and into Phil’s room. Phil sometimes describes it as “rape”. I know it happened rape or otherwise because Phil told me she had the biggest tongue he ever encountered after she almost choked him with a kiss. That description of her anatomy was entirely accurate.
So ended another chapter in 340 lore.
You are looking at structures directly across from the 328 Club. On the left is Gary's Pro Shop, 331 West King Street. If you need golf bags, clubs, balls or even instruction; that would be the place to go. Bowling stuff also. I suspect pool cues and the like. Gary loved us. He never said much but he loved us nonetheless. to the right of 331 is a duplex 329-327. I never really knew much about 327. An old gentlemanly guy named Alfred lived there. Quiet. Kept to himself, a butler type. However, as nondescript as 329 looked, and it was nodescripter then than now, behind that door lie the Bat Cave. Of course, it was the lair of a pair known as Batman (real name unknown, could of been Bruce Wayne but I really don't know. We called him Butch when he was not scampering across roof tops making West King Street safe for democracy) and Robin (Wes Blessing, contrary to what you thought you knew in those old DC comix). I think Wes was a Vietnam vet. Both of them had left over half of their brain cells at previous addresses so they fit right in. They rocked. They were fixtures on their porch. Drinking and trying to score some contraband. On a good night they came to the 340 and graced us with their presence.
