Positively, It’s State Street!
by Chuck Pora
(From Chuck Pora's book "Positively State Street"; available in Erie at Werner Books, 3514 Liberty Street, or thru Chuck's website at https://cpora4567.wixsite.com/chuck-pora )
It’s September, 1967, and I’m a senior at Gannon University. It’s 7 p.m., and I’m sitting in my room pulling my hair out over a term paper for my Philosophy of Man class. It’s on Immanuel Kant, and the evolution of idealism and positivism into an existentialistic world by means of immanent forces. Heavy stuff, but my head is light.
“Bor-ing,” I think, as Bob Dylan’s “Positively 4th Street” plays on WJET. Wondering how in the world Kant will someday help me get a job, I crank up the radio, but cringe when Dylan belts out, “I know you’d rather see me paralyzed.”
Suddenly a horn honks outside my house. I toss Kant onto the bed and peer outside. And what I see is positively, existentialistically an immanent force. It’s my buddy John in his blue and white souped-up 1959 Plymouth Sport Fury with dual exhausts, glass pack, two-barrel carb and giant numbers “318” on the side rear window. He’s revving the engine, his radio is blaring, and he’s anxious.
Racing from my room, I dodge my screaming mother, run out the door and gleefully hop into John’s car to partake in one of Erie’s most popular pastimes in the ’60s – “Bugging State.”
As “Brown Eyed Girl,” by Van Morrison, plays on WJET, John takes his usual route to Erie’s coolest street. Crossing Peach Street, he navigates down the hill on West 26th Street, turns left at Jim and Lee’s, and then squeezes onto State with a steady stream of young people eager for action.
It appears to be a good night. State Street swarms with all sorts of wheels – ’rods, muscle cars, deuces, ’Vettes, GTOs, Jags, T-birds, Malibus, Mustangs, Thunderbolts, Camaros, Cutlesses, Chevelles, ’Cudas, you name it. And happily, we see lots of cars filled with hot chicks who told their old man they were “going to the library,” like in the Beach Boys' song.
"Daddy's car!" John shouts as a girl in a red Cadillac Eldorado that she could never afford whizzes by.
Heading north, we see a car full of girls near Harris Ford. We honk, but they ignore us. “Go back to church!” John shouts.
At the light at Daily’s Chevrolet, we sit next to a ’66 Plymouth Satellite with a 426 Hemi. It revs its engine, so John does too. When the light changes, John burns rubber, but the Satellite shuts him down at Sealtest Dairy. Seems that John needs another 100 in his 318.
At the light at the Tally-Ho Tavern, six kids in a car ahead of us jump out, run twice around their car, do pushups, jump back in, and continue on.
"It's a Chinese fire drill," I say. "Man, were they ever fast!"
"Yeah, that might be a world's record," John says, appearing quite impressed. "I bet they don't do it as fast in China."
Across from Koehler's Brewery a car full of girls wearing carrots on their noses, pointy witch hats and waving brooms out the windows sing "Ding dong the wicked witch is NOT dead." They are furiously honking their horn, and John honks back.
“All the creatures are out tonight,” he says, while we both crack up.
At 14th Street, a car honks. It’s the church girls. One in the back seat squishes her butt against the window and shoots us a pressed-ham moon. “Go on a diet!” I shout.
Near Security People’s, the Beatles’ “All You Need is Love” comes on WJET. John cranks up the volume and opens the window to send a message to all available girls that we’re available. “All You Need is Love” blares from every car within hearing.
At the light at 5th Street, by the Busy Bee Cafe, the church girls jump out of their car and smear milk and cookies on John’s windshield. They take off, and we can’t catch them because John can’t see.
After cleaning the windshield, we continue onto the dock, where we see that somebody has removed the "l" on the word "public" on the big sign on the facing of the second level so that it reads "pubic dock."
"Very appropriate," John says, and we both laugh so hard that we are in tears.
As we cruise onto the landing, we see that several couples are watching the submarine races. Not lucky enough to be watching them ourselves, we loop around and head back south.
At 12th Street our stomachs are growling, so we set out for McDonald’s on upper Peach Street. There might even be some action there, we think. Nothing like burgers and chicks. Great combination.
As we head past 18th Street we see a black hearse with kids hanging out the windows, and Chopin’s “Death March” blaring from its speakers. I see my cousin dangling from a window. “Hey Dave!” I shout. He ignores me.
Just past 24th Street we are surrounded by a pack of bikers with ponytails, beards, and black leather jackets with skulls and crossbones on the back. Ironically, “The Leader of the Pack” comes on WJET. They sneer at us. We wisely slow down and let them pass.
At 26th Street, a group of hippies are holding protest signs. “Peace, brother,” John shouts, and flashes the peace sign with his fingers. “Peace to you too, brother,” one of them shouts as we drive past.
Finding burgers but no chicks at McDonalds, we head downhill to West 26th Street, turn right, then left, and start all over again.
At the Rathskeller, we see a couple of hot chicks standing in front of the door. Real babes. As they turn to enter, we honk, and they motion for us to follow them, then go inside. John and I are both 20 and don’t have fake I.D.s, so we can’t. We both curse our bad luck, and head on.
Continuing onto the dock, we see that attendance at the submarine races has picked up. We notice a red XKE with its windows fogged up. We see shadows moving about, then hear a horn toot.
“Him getting some, we getting none,” John says in his best depressed Tonto voice. But he quickly cheers up when Roy Orbison’s “Oh, Pretty Woman,” his all-time favorite song, comes on WJET. He cranks up the volume, and several horns honk.
Returning back up State, there’s no action. “No luck tonight, I’m afraid,” John says, as “To Sir With Love” plays while we pass the Winter Company. “I hate that song,” he snarls, and turns the radio to WLEU. When he gets “He’s Got the Whole World in His Hands,” by Laurie London, he groans, and turns “To Sir With Love” back on.
“Let’s get out of here,” John mumbles. “It’s just not our night. Maybe tomorrow.” I agree, and we start for home.
But at 15th Street, just past the bridge, a light blue Malibu honks, and a girl motions to pull over. Which of course John does. We get out, and they get out. It’s Patty, a girl he met on State a few weeks ago, and her friend Kitty. Nice-looking chicks, and very sweet. Acting cool, we try to impress them. It works, as we get their phone numbers.
On Friday, John takes out Patty and I take out Kitty, a student at Edinboro State College. John and Patty immediately connect, while Kitty and I take it slower.
I continue dating Kitty, who is very nice, but it doesn’t work out. Kitty, meanwhile, fixes up my buddy Gary with a girl from Pittsburgh, who is also named Pattie, but with an “ie”.
Pattie and Gary don’t connect, but I have eyes for Pattie, and ask her out. We connect. And for John and Patty and Pattie and me, the rest is history – all thanks to “Bugging State”!