Bet, Bet Straight
Up-With The Old North Adamsville Neighborhood Corner Boys In Mind
By Film Critic Emeritus
Sam Lowell
[This little piece of
fluff, this little boyhood remembrance had originally been written as my swan
song as a film reviewer, as the film editor here. And to an extent that is /was
true when I penned the stuff. That before the big internal struggle that roiled
this publication for several months and which finally led to the purge and
exile of Allan Jackson, long-time site manager and my oldest friend from high
school days. “Purge” and “exile” no exaggeration although I don’t have time for
the details here except that when the deal went down I voted with the rebel
younger writers to give my old friend the boot under the idea that as with my
own retirement it was time to “pass the torch.” I still think I was right and
that although Allan and I have reconciled things probably better today under the
new leadership. The part that is wrong though is that my swansong was
premature. As part of the dust up the younger writers (and here I was neutral)
insisted that new site manager Greg Green have an Editorial Board that he would
run things by unlike the one-man rule of Allan Jackson. I was tagged for the
chairmanship of the Board and so since I am still around I have decided on
occasion as here that a few pithy words might come from my pen. S.L]
As everybody familiar
with this space knows (or with the on-line version of the American Film Gazette )I have retired from the day to day grind of
writing film reviews and have handed over that chore, at least temporary, to my
in the not too distance future retiring old friend, colleague and competitor
Sandy Salmon. I noted when I posted my retirement notice that I, like old time
military men, would just fade away. I also noted that I would as the occasion
warranted write a little something, a little commentary if the subject
interested me. That is my purpose today.
Recently Sandy Salmon
reviewed a 1947 film, a murder mystery of sorts that had a long prior pedigree,
Seven Keys To Baldpate, which had
been based on a play by the same name back in the early 20th century
which in turn was based on a crime novel by the great crime writer Earl Derr
Biggers (whose popular Charlie Chan series is perhaps much better known). Sandy
did a good job of reviewing this film which hinged on the idea of a guy, a
crime writer, making a bet with his publisher for five thousand cash that he
could write a crackerjack mystery novel in twenty-four hours. As he attempted
to do such out in the boondocks at an allegedly closed down inn with the only
key to the place all hell broke loose, a couple of off-hand murders and such,
by people who had collectively mysteriously come up with the six other keys of
the title. One of those six people was a ringer, was the good-looking blonde
with well-turned legs secretary to the guy who the crime writer made the bet
with. No, not a sex lure like would be included in such a plotline now, at
least not publicly, not in 1947 but to distract him anyway she could to make
him miss his deadline. What the hell that ain’t fair, no way, especially when
after the smoke cleared and the crime writer solved the whole mystery of why
the other five people were there she flopped herself on his lap when he went to
write that story to win the bet and dared him to ignore her. Needless to say
the other guy won the bet
Sandy mentioned at the
start of his review that some guys will bet on anything, any proposition to
pass the time. That got me to thinking after I had read the review about what
the deal was in the old days in my growing up hometown of North Adamsville about forty
miles west of Boston when me and my high school corner boys who hung around
Sal’s Pizza Parlor would to while away the lonesome, girl-less, no dough, no
serious dough to not be girl-less bet on all kinds of propositions for a couple
of bucks, maximum five probably. Certainly not five thousand which as Sandy
mentioned is nothing but walking around money now but then was a number which
we could not get around, couldn’t believe existed, not in our neighborhood
where rubbing nickels together was a tough enough battle.
Now a lot of the bets
with guys like Sammy Young, Billy Riley, Jack Callahan the great school
football player before Chrissie McNamara did her own flop down on his lap and
dared him to move her which he had had absolutely no inclination to do, Sid
Green, Pat Murphy and Ian Smith were on the outcome of various sports events.
You know back in those days whether the hapless Red Sox would finish last in
the American League (or how long a losing streak the team would go on once they
started their inevitable losing), how many points would the golden age Celtics
score (or allow). We also did our fair share of betting on football games, no
so much the games themselves as each play, pass or run, stuff like that, which
sounds exotic but except for one time when I got on a bad streak and lose
twenty-two bucks which took me about six weeks of caddying for the Mayfair
swells to pay was usually the difference of two or three dollars.
Other bets were a bit racier.
Like whether Sally, who was going out with Pat, would let him “touch” her, and
you know what I mean and don’t ask how we verified such bets but just know that
we did do so. Or whether such and such a girl, a hot girl usually, would take
the bait and give one of us a date. Hell, sometimes when the girls came into
Sal’s to have some pizza, Cokes and to play the great jukebox that he had over
in the corner we would bet on what song a girl would play. There was a certain
art to that proposition for instance if a girl had just broken up with her
boyfriend there would likely be some slow sad song chosen. You get what I mean.
Sometimes it would be whether the notoriously late local bus would arrive on
time or not. So anything was up for betting purposes.
That ringer secretary in
the film though got me thinking about the strangest bet I ever made back then,
maybe ever. One Friday night, another one of those girl-less ones, Jack
Callahan, this is before fetching Chrissie McNamara snagged him, bet me on how
high Sal would toss the pizza dough when he was kneading and stretching it to
make his great pizza pies. Jack’s idea for calling the bet, mine too for taking
it, was that one of us but not both could have enough kale for a date with
Laura Lawrence on Saturday night. We were both interested in her and she liked
us both well enough although Jack as the football hero probably had the edge
aside from the money factor. So the bet was on. Oh, I forgot to tell you that
if one of the corner boys made a proposition the other guy (or guys depending
on the nature of the bet) had to take the bet, or lose and pay up anyway. So
naturally I said “bet.”
The time of the bet was
probably about seven o’clock so we had to wait a bit for Sal to start making more
pizzas for the crowd that would be coming in around eight or so for their slice
and soda before heading to some date or to the local lovers’ lane. Sal did
eventually get going, maybe a half an hour later. The idea for who would win
any individual bet on the toss was whether Sal flipped the dough above or below
the Coke sign directly behind him. I got to call the first bet. Low. I won and
the race was on taking my shots at high or low. I did pretty well for a while,
was up maybe seven or eight dollars which would be enough to take Laura out,
maybe a movie and something to eat. I figured I was in. Then my luck began to
change, change dramatically and before long I was down about ten bucks before
Sal stopped tossing the goddam stuff.
Jack smiled a knowing
smile, knowing that he was going to escort Laura around and maybe get to
“touch” her and you know what I mean by that and I don’t have to spell it out.
Here’s where everything about that film review by Sandy comes into play. Sal
was the ringer. Remember Jack was a football hero and Sal loved football, loved
Jack’s prowess on the field and Jack had told him the situation earlier in the
day before I showed up there. They had planned to let me win early to draw me
in and had set up a silent signal about which position I had taken. How about
that. Don’t you think now that I am thinking about it and getting burned up all
over again that the next time I go over to Jack and Chrissie’s house in Hingham
that I should ask for that ten bucks back-with interest. Yeah, Sandy had it
right some guys will bet on anything.
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