The New Year’s Eve Communion in the Atlas Cafe Alley
© by D. Grant DeMan
I don’t care if it rains or freezes;
I am safe in the arms of Jesus.
I am Jesus’ little man;
yes, by Jesus-Christ I am!
Tune often sung by my late friend Stubby -
Wilson Conrad Stubblefield of Chambers Street.
In mid-century Victoria if you strolled a dark lane beside the Atlas Coffee Shop chances are you might hear a beckoning soft voice from a shadowy alcove: “Hey buddy, wanna sippa steam?” There you may tarry impelled to share a moment with a trench-coated little man and his inevitable quart of Bon Santé. Thus it was that generous Jimmy Carlin acquired the handle of “Sippasteam” or merely “Sip.”
The Atlas, snuggled neatly against the Atlas Movie House, became a nexus for a composite of Victoria characters who carried on life in areas so diverse as to defy description. Vanty, my best friend of the place, and I loved the juicy twenty-cent hamburgers and a chance to flirt with waitresses, and Musicale operators from across Yates. Yep, you ordered favorite songs six for a quarter from a chrome two-way counter-top mike in those days. Vanty was a smiley mechanic and vintage Cook Street garage owner who prospered through a multitude of dubious schemes some of which heartily engaged me also.
Leaving the cafe early on New Year’s Eve we encountered Sippasteam throwing boards on a roaring fire next door. “They’re gonna build an new used-car office here.” He told us. “I got a saw-buck for taking this old shack out. Wanna sippasteam?”
We stopped and sucked briefly at his Forty-five Per soon to be joined by George Ludlow, the Atlas’ owner, and Cossack, who cried out while fanning smoke from his bearded face with a furry hat: “What a magnificent fire. Let’s round up some Reds for a pig-roast to celebrate the new year!” George’s moustache twitched. He smiled, probably musing on the thousands of Red Army soldiers Cossack claimed to have slain with his sword from the back of his stallion. “...and the mighty Don ran crimson with the vile blood of those murderers!” He was fond of proclaiming periodically.
As chance had it, along came Stoney and Stubby, returning from a movie. We had often enjoyed a wine and cheese party together, since Stoney held the debatably enviable job of night janitor at a winery, often smuggling bottles out in his lunch bucket. Stubby, a wryly humorous pontificating veteran, and I loved to tour Chinatown regularly. “A party?” He inquired. “A mourning requiem for the departure of the first half of this blood-soaked century, and a welcoming bravo! saluting fifty impending years of slaughter? I’ll drink to that.” By this time George had retrieved some cups from the cafe. Sip’s fire flamed in full glory.
Vanty and I left briefly in his ‘31 Buick Big Eight, and he waited while I scooped a couple of dozen surplus wrinkled frankfurters and a few loaves of stale bread from our store, my folks being out touring neighborhood homes of good cheer. We returned to a throng of welcoming celebrants.
There were the Facsimiles, a pair of identical blonde twin binary stars who had “tried Hollywood” or so they claimed. Taddy and Bobby tapped out their usual routine on the pavement, singing: “Buttons and Bows...Buttons and Bows...” Cowboy Johnny Guitar unsnapped his instrument, while harmonicas appeared from several pockets along with a sweet potato and Jews harp. We sticked up the hot dogs, broke the bread and soon a regular New Year’s Hootenanny was under way: “Irene, good night; Iree.e.e.e.n good ni.a.a.a.yt....” sang the used-car chorus, Madrigal Maggie and her ladies of the evening harmonizing.
The Auld Lang Syne hour was neigh when Cossack, staring in contemplative reverie at glowing embers, said, “We must have a little talk with God. Take up the bread.” His flashing eyes imparted a sincerity few could ignore. We seized a loaf. “In my once-mighty Russia we communed with bread and wine. None of those little wafers. Soak it up, and tell God you want His compassion for your miserable sins. Smell the incense of pine in the fire which cleanses the soul. Down on your knees before God’s glory. Give thanks that He has thus far saved your worthless lives, and for the few wretched years that lie ahead.”
A respectful pall spread over the crowd. Obediently we complied, kneeling on the broken asphalt of that alley beneath stars, dipped crusts in cups of wine and partook in silence. Broken bones and blood. “What a friend we have in Jesus...” Sang Johnny and his guitar, harmonicas, sweet potatoes, and harps joining in that concerted midnight gospel chorale. “Hallelujah, I’m a bum...hallelujah, bum again...” and so on to the enervation of morning light. “So long it’s been good to know ya...I gotta be drifting along.”
Most all those yesteryear friends now sing in a heavenly choir. But once in awhile on New Year’s Eve I swear I hear a whisper from the shadows over my shoulder: “Hey buddy. Wanna sippa steam?” and yearn to croon Goodnight Irene just one more time in that good company of the Atlas Cafe.
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