Sir,

You have probably forgotten this completely as it occurred nearly thirty (!) years ago. I was drinking at Harry’s Bar, my local watering hole, a place that was rather nice if threadbare. You yourself described it as “Not half bad” rather loudly when you walked in with your girlfriend. While startled by your entrance, nothing seemed particularly amiss & I returned to my grasshopper (I’m a fool for crème de menthe, it’s like drinking an after dinner mint.) No more than five minutes elapsed before there was some sort of brouhaha over at the RockOla. The instigator, again, was you. This time you were complaining about the music selection on the jukebox.

Now there’s something that you may not know about the eponymous Harry, while he is an honest publican, he’s also a very soft touch. So when his nephew Ronald got a job selling jukeboxes, Harry was compelled to buy one, a RockOla 469, if only to help Ron (a renowned ne’er do well) earn a commission check. This jukebox was stocked with primarily popular disco songs, de rigueur for the time of it’s purchase in 1977. Harry’s was never in the best neighborhood and the jukebox represented a significant investment for what was essentially a gin joint. It was a white elephant and everyone knew it. Harry never changed the music selection and we regulars rarely played it. But how could you have known? Still your reaction was more than a little harsh. You said you were leaving, again, loudly. I’m sure solely for the benefit of your girlfriend. An aside, she seemed awfully young despite her efforts to play the femme fatale - she couldn’t have been more than 17 (but who am I to judge?) Despite this, you stayed, ordered another drink and danced to the very same music you professed to loathe.

Now I will admit after your second outburst, I was curious as to the nature of the troublemaker in our midst. So I gave you a once over, and I was shocked. I hadn’t seen a duck’s-tail pompadour in years! Sakes alive. You looked like a member of Sha-Na-Na! That combined with your underage girlfriend rendered you, a bit of a spectacle. Even you have to admit it.

Here, Mr. Setzer, is where our direct interaction began, first with an extremely petty ad hominem attack on my wardrobe. I will be the first to admit my suit was out of fashion. I am not a rich man, and in fact live on a disability pension from a back injury I suffered some years ago. So no, to respond to your critique of my garments, my suit was not “from 1974”, but rather a few years older than that. I am not ashamed of my penury and I try to maintain my wardrobe to the best of my abilities. I will not comment on whether or not I am a “Real Square Cat” as I believe that is beneath my dignity.

Your cutting remarks on my clothing were quickly followed up with a curt “what’re you looking at”. I think my previous observations have adequately explained that question of yours away. To be frank, I might go so far as to say it was your intention to be noticed. It was difficult to do anything BUT watch you and your child-bride try to dance the bop to selection A27 on the RockOla 469 - “Disco Party” by The Trammps.

Of course it was only a matter of time before an imagined slight prompted another outburst, this time threatening me with physical violence if I deigned to cast my gaze upon you for a third time. I’m not a violent person and would have been happy to finish my cocktail and return to my apartment.

Now this is the part that is painful and unforgivable. You may not like me, or Harry, or the unfortunate set of circumstances that coalesced to build a perfect crèche in which you nurtured your rage, but when you began to “rip this place apart” it was too much. Your drunken anti-social behavior cost Harry hundreds if not thousands of dollars in damages. He never recovered and passed away a few months later. Harry’s has been shuttered ever since. It’s a haven for junkies and prostitutes now. You may have escaped the Law but I assure you Mr. Setzer someday you will have your comeuppance.

Yours,

Albert W. Murray