The Night before Doomsday

Utah Historical Quarterly

Vol. 51, 1983, No. 2

The Night before Doomsday

By John Farnsworth Lund

IT WAS A SAD EVENING AT THE Martin apartment on First Avenue near Brigham Young's grave in Salt Lake. Mrs. Martin held a shredded handkerchief to puffed, red eyes. I didn't know until much later that her shiny hands with red palms, tissue-soft and cold, and the rosy cheeks, which looked as if they were rouged for a party, were the badges of an alcoholic. They were called "brandy blossoms." Nor did I understand the row upon row of bottled whisky, beer, and wine stacked in the kitchen cupboard. Mr. Martin spent most of his life in bed in a dark room off the kitchen.

The Martin's son, Claybourne, and I were fast friends and classmates at the Lafayette School on North Temple and State streets. This was the old school, which burned down, on the upper level of the grounds. Claybourne was a shy, thin, sensitive boy. Nearly everyone felt a little sorry for him, and even I felt the need to protect him. A few times I'd kept him out beyond the nine P.M. curfew whistle.

"Tomorrow's Doomsday," said Mrs. Martin. "The government's takin' away our liberties. What's to become of us? We laid in what supply we could, but a workin' man can't get far enough ahead to last him very long."

This explained the store of liquor I'd seen in the cupboard. "Yes Ma'am," I whispered, feeling that I must make some answer.

"Claybourne's got to stay in tonight," she said to me. "He can't go no place with you."

"Yes Ma'am." Since I thought the Martins a mysterious family with dark secrets and since I imagined I'd been taken into their confidence, I could not reveal these matters to anyone. Claybourne explained that tonight was the last time that liquor could be bought legally and that his parents were worried about being cut off from what amounted to their staff of life. It was very nearly the end of the world for them.

Their behavior was strange. They were known to be poor, but Mrs. Martin, who was very pretty, always had new clothes. It sounded like a picnic when she laughed. She wore high, clothtopped, buttoned shoes that reached the tops of her calves. These came in black, grey, and tan and boasted high heels. She wore a variety of blouses and jackets that she sometimes changed two or three times a day. They pinched in at her tiny waist and were always of a bright color. Her hats came in all colors and shapes, because a lady never appeared on Main Street without a hat. They made her hair look blacker and shinier than ever. She turned many a head including mine, but she spoke softly, her manner gentle and affectionate, and I loved her soft touch.

While the Martins awaited Doomsday, I counted the days until I'd be liberated to long pants. A guy's fourteenth birthday was supposed to be the magic time, but I must report that there was some fudging. However, the code was fairly well kept. A big reason for desiring the long ones was that a pretty girl of thirteen or fourteen avoided being linked with a kid in knee pants. With the casting off of knickers one also gave up tops, marbles, kick-the-can, and other juvenile activities. With approaching manhood came more serious matters. A fellow had to have a watch, for any man worth his keep sported at least a dollar Ingersoll and a fancy fob. And he must have better shoes. Some went so far as to stop wearing the high-top kid shoes, switching to the new, low oxfords. I began to see that this manhood business was serious and could run into money.

I'd hoped that Claybourne would go downtown with me because it was rumored there would be big doings. My older brothers, Cornelius (Curt) and Philo (Phike), were going to witness the celebration, but they did not include me in their plans. My younger brother, Alton, was too small. Any other time I would have tried to persuade my cousins Zack, Dick, or Herschel to join me, but tonight I had "loner" tendencies.

Our home stood at West Temple and North Temple on a dirt road that exploded with dust. The stream from City Creek Canyon ran uncovered down North Temple from Main Street to the Union Pacific Railroad yards. I walked south to South Temple where pavement began and saloons, betting houses, and cheap eating places dotted the streets.

West South Temple was a haven for Europeans who were brought in as cheap labor for the mines of Park City and Bingham Canyon. These people could not speak English and were preyed upon, abused, and even murdered, according to police reports. Armenians, Greeks, Turks, Serbs, and Italians made up this motley population. They were at the mercy of a few labor contractors who controlled nearly every job, exacting enormous cuts from wages of no more than ten or twelve cents an hour. Signs in mysterious foreign languages covered windows and doors. Rapid-fire talk and explosive laughter burst from the bars. Strong odors of liquor, spices, and sweat covered the neighborhood.

It was the triumphant day of the player piano, and these monstrous machines ground out mechanical versions of "When Irish Eyes Are Smiling," "End of a Perfect Day," "Everybody's Doing It," and the new sensation, "Alexander's Ragtime Band." Foreign saloons and gathering places for minorities threaded the streets west of Main to south of Pioneer Park. Second South and Fifth West was the heart of Greektown. I delivered newspapers to many places in this district and was always treated kindly.

The small hotels and rooming houses of Greektown were often surrounded by grass, flowers, and white picket fences, and eating and drinking was outdoors, weather permitting. Japanese lanterns and Christmas tree candles provided sufficient illumination. Small girls helped with the serving and bussing, since this was the custom in the old countries. These places served families from the old to the very young. There boomed music and loud laughter but I never saw drunkenness or lewd behavior.

When my paper route took me inside the saloons and coffeehouses, I made some observations. I almost never saw a woman, because there were unwritten customs regarding them. There was often some form of gambling such as faro, cards, or dice. Some places featured a free lunch which was strictly policed. I learned that people everywhere seek their own social levels. They always go where they are welcome and comfortable.

One question remained unanswered. Why can't man settle down to serious, purposeful drinking with both feet on the floor? Spittoons stood at the foot of the bar, six feet apart. A rail extended the length of the bar about eight inches off the floor. The rail must have been magnetic, for it drew up one foot from every man in the place. I'm quite sure it's impossible to drink without one foot on the floor and the other on the rail.

This night heavily rouged women stalked customers along the crowded sidewalks, and weak, mean men offered stolen goods and the services of their women at bargain rates.

I strolled past the Valley House, a Pony Express stop on the original trail, which stood at the southeast corner of the intersection of South Temple and West Temple. It was a three-story building of adobe, recently stuccoed and painted red. Sandwiches, soft drinks, and gifts could be bought there, and the quaintness of the place attracted tourists. I continued along West Temple past the large Joseph William Taylor Mortuary, a few warehouses, and walk-up hotels to Second South where I turned east.

A liquor auction offered bargains next to the Orpheum Theatre, which later became the Capitol. An overhead electric sign extended across the street proclaiming the Orpheum vaudeville house as the home of the world's best entertainment. W. C. Fields, Barbara Stanwyck, Frank Fay, William S. Hart, Fatty Arbuckle, and others equally famous displayed their acts at the Orpheum. When vaudeville died the theatre remained empty for a time but reopened under the Capitol name. An electrician told me the name Capitol, with the same number of letters as Orpheum, was chosen because the sign would not have to be rewired

Stocks of liquor were displayed all over town on tables set on the sidewalks. Peddlers tried to sell leftover supplies. A musician with a small piano mounted on wheels trudged the sidewalks, stopping when he found a friendly group. He stopped playing and moved on when the crowd stopped tossing coins.

The Salvation Army held forth in front of the Kenyon Hotel on the southeast corner of Second South and Main. Their little band of cornet, bass drum, and trombone accompanied the singing of the four or five Army soldiers and lassies. The crowd this night paid little attention to them, and I noticed that very few coins were tossed on the big drum.

Children and teenagers mixed in the crowds, and distraught women with children searched for husbands. A dozen families sat on curbs crying in their abandonment. Very few policemen were visible, apparently deciding that arrests for drunkenness and fighting were useless. There was little they could do but let the celebration run its course.

I wanted to see the inside of a bar. A couple of kids about my age entered a bar on East Second South and I followed them in, but I was so roughly shoved out that I failed to work up enough nerve to try again.

Huge beer wagons lumbered over the streets, drawn by four large horses. They stopped at the larger saloons and hotels. The beds of these wagons hung below the axles, only a foot off the street to expedite the handling of the big barrels. Some places lacked enough space for the barrels at their bars. These had trap doors on the front sidewalk with steel covers. The barrels were let into the basement by chutes or block and tackle. A few had freight elevators. Beer was drawn from the barrels through copper tubing up to the bar. The tubing was encased in ice.

Ministers and members of the Anti-Saloon League patrolled the streets and watched what they mistakenly termed the death struggle of Demon Rum. They held small soapbox meetings, and one speaker pointed out how mankind was cursed with the love of his worst enemy. Great rejoicing and congratulatory back-slapping kept spirits high in these groups.

In front of a house near Second East, where a small crowd had gathered, I caught sight of the Martins as they wound their way to the porch. I looked in horror, but in my fascination I could not turn away. Several men hugged and kissed pretty Mrs. Martin and passed her around before letting her go inside. I was glad Claybourne was not with me. Mr. Martin walked with severe dignity, stiff as a board. I tired suddenly of the whole scene and wanted to be home.

I went to First South and walked west past the outdoor markets that lined the street solidly from Main to West Temple. Several of these had locked their doors early to avoid looting and vandalism. Broken glass from thousands of shattered bottles covered the sidewalks and gutters. I was afraid I'd scuff my new Scout shoes. As I approached our house I heard a loud, forceful discussion at the front door between my father and Curt. It touched on such points as where Curt had been, how much he had drunk, and who the hell did he think he was? As I could add nothing to further the discussion, I slipped around to the back of the house where we boys kept a window unlocked and sprinted up to my bed. Apparently nobody had missed me. Through the night I heard Curt in the bathroom, his head hung over the toilet, bringing up grunts and low animal cries of distress from deep within him. It was the raucous, defiant end of an era.

Three days later I went to the Martin's apartment, but it was empty. I never saw them after that. Perhaps they had gone to a state where they could still buy liquor for a time.

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