Harry Alston

Back in high school in the early 1950s, in a town called Chesapeake City, we teenage boys used to watch Harry Alston perform at our Friday night dances. The school sponsored the activity after the basketball games that were held in the early evening. Harry was a local man who had recently been discharged from the service. I’d like to tell you about him, as well as some other things that happened back then.

Those evenings of music in the gym would give the older teenaged students, as well as young adults of the town, a chance to socialize. On most Friday nights, Harry Alston and Maggie, his wife to be, would dance to the great pop music emanating from the jukebox. Well, believe me, Harry and Maggie used to steal the show. Maggie would be attractively dressed in bright colors. She was resplendent with her fluffy, coiffured hair and her lips painted fire-engine red. And her partner, Harry? Why, he was the best dressed dancer on the floor. Princely thin, he was dazzling in white shirt, dark-blue tie, and stylish, powder-blue suit. And his black shoes were so finely polished that you gave them only a quick glance for fear of hurting your eyes.

But their attire was secondary compared to the way they danced. They glided gracefully around the floor. Sometimes they danced cheek-to-cheek, and sometimes Harry would sort of fling her out and they would dance apart, hand-in-hand. And all the time Harry would display a serene smile, his long, thin, sun-tanned face would radiate with delight, as if his enjoyment of the music filled him with immeasurable pleasure. 

But, now, let me tell you about how Harry Alston entertained us in quite a different way. I used to hang out with a group in the early 1950s when I was a know-it-all teenager. There would be maybe seven or eight boys standing around in front of Luther Postell’s soda shop and newsstand. We all called it Postell’s Corner, where store patrons had to filter through the cluster of boys in order to enter and exit the store. I never heard Mr. Postell complain about the nuisance; but it must have given him pause.

 In those times, in provincial Chesapeake City, there was little else for boys in our age group to do. Of course, we would do and say the standard, dumb teenage things: one of the boys would get in another boy’s face and say, “God, you’re ugly.” Then he would raise his fist as if to strike him, and if he flinched, the first boy would say, “Ahh, you flinched.” Then he would sock the flincher on the arm with enough impact to raise a lump. This was an activity that occurred fairly often whenever a group of us goofy teenage boys got together back then.

I, of course, was a participant in this idiocy, being a recipient as well as a perpetrator. Each boy contributed his special talent to the fragmented banter.  A lot of unsavory language prevailed. Certain boys were experts in scatological cursing; others had it in for the various deities. And some just listened and watched because there was nothing better to do. The chat would be varied, for sure. Girls and their relative attractiveness would be covered. The comments would deal with which girls were shy, which ones were friendly, and which ones would tell you to get lost if you talked to them. And there was usually a Romeo in the group who would brag about how popular he was with the ladies.

Another topic of conversation was professional sports. We had followed the teams on radio and later on black and white television. Since Baltimore did not have the Orioles until 1954, many of us were fans of the New York Yankees, whose Joe DiMaggio, Yogi Berra, and Mickey Mantle were heroes. In pro basketball, the Boston Celtics were powerful. We all admired Bob Cousy, Tommy Heinsohn, and big Bill Russell. And in pro football, we praised the feats of the great Johnny Unitas and Gino Marchhetti. And all of us boys who adorned Postell’s Corner at the time, discussed the abilities of the top professional boxers: Joe Lewis, the brown bomber (heavyweight), classy Sugar Ray Robinson (middleweight), and the most elusive heavyweight, Jersey Joe Walcott.

          Often the corner talk would be about souped-up cars and their owners. Oh, we looked up to the older boys who installed enormous horsepower engines in their Chevys and Fords. Local boy, Shorty Stafford, just home from the service, augmented his 1952 Chevy engine so he could race it. We talked with envy about how we wished we could tear down Route 40 at a hundred miles an hour. Yet the last time we talked (quietly) about Shorty, was just after he was killed by crashing his Chevy into a stone wall next to a Glasgow church. At this writing the damaged wall, with its dislodged, contrite fieldstones, can still be seen.

          One time, while we were all standing around on the corner, being simple as usual, a man in a shiny new Ford drove past us up George Street. As he passed he glanced over at us assembled boys. He continued on until he was about thirty feet beyond us. Then he slammed on his brakes and backed up furiously until he was just next to us. He then flung open his car door to the hinges’ limits and stared at us. At that point I recognized him as Harry Alston, the superb dancer at our Friday night events. I was amazed at the transformation of his appearance. Now, Instead of that confident expression of pleasure and serenity on his face, there glared at us a distorted one of utter anguish and contempt.

He then swaggered a few steps towards us (at this someone whispered, “Uh oh; it’s Harry again.”). Then, in a raucous voice, Harry would shout, “I can whip all of you. I can take all of you at once, or take you one at a time. And, if I beat you, I’ll thank you. And if you beat me I’ll still thank you.” We boys were all quiet standing there and kind of glancing furtively at each other. “Didn’t you all hear me,” he yelled. And, as he swayed back and forth swinging his arms, his car, with its door still swung open to its limit, started drifting backwards ever so slowly down George Street (the emergency brake must have been only partially engaged). And Harry, paying not the slightest attention to his moving car, shouted again, “All of you! I’ll trounce all of you! And if I beat you I’ll thank you, and if you beat me, I’ll still thank you.”

All this time his car was creeping down towards the canal barrier where the lift bridge used to be. After a few more taunts, he would finally notice it moving and get in and jerk up the brake, with the door still gaping open. Stumbling out, he lurched back to confront us. “What’s the matter with you heroes?” he roared. “I’ll whip each one of you at a time. And if I beat you I’ll thank you, and if you beat me I’ll still thank you.” Temple, one of the new boys in town, called sheepishly, “But I don’t know you, Bud.” To this an older boy half whispered, “You stoop. What’s wrong with you? Shut up!” Soon after that Harry called us heroes again. Then he went through his harangue once more before he slumped into his car, slammed the door and, with the emergency brake squealing, drove slowly up George Street.