A D-LUX St. Patrick's Day

God graced Rahway, NJ with beautiful weather March 17th 1980. To honor Him and St. Patrick, my friend Jim Dietz and I chose, with all due solemnity, to observe the holy day somewhere other than Rahway High School. St Patrick drove us from the school just as he had cast the snakes from the Emerald Isle.

Somewhere else turned out to be the Moceickes residence.

This had been the scene, several years earlier, where my brother had received third degree burns on his leg during a barbecue. The boys had been horsing around with white gasoline near the grill when the unfortunate accident took place. Any lingering resentment I may have felt on my brother’s part were also cast out by St. Patrick.

St. Paddy was ably assisted by a case and a half of Budweiser Tall Boys.

All the events of my life are inextricably bound up with music. On this morning as we cracked open our first beers the song Message To You, Rudi by The Specials came on the transistor radio in the kitchen. Even the refrigerator magnets celebrating the inhabitants’s Lithuanian heritage couldn’t detract from the transcendent joy that song evoked in me.

I was certain this would be a memorable day.

A few minutes later we adjourned to the attic where we could put the Parade on a television. It was then that the idea of playing quarters came up. For those who may not be familiar with this drinking game, a glass is placed in the center of a table and the participants attempt to bounce a quarter off the table top into the glass. If you succeed, you get to pick who will have to chug a glass of beer. Bouncing the quarter off the table requires the shooter to chug the glass of beer.

I had never played before and this seemed the perfect time to start.

Now, even in the short time I had been drinking at that point in my life, I had earned a reputation as a world class chugger of beer. But this morning I consumed beer far more quickly than I ever had before. In less than 2 hours I drank at least a gallon and a half of Budweiser. I became violently ill and passed out. Upon awakening I found that the beer had been replenished.

Praise God and his faithful servant St. Patrick!

After a few more beers it seemed a good time to go home. Now, the Moceickes’ lived on Maple Terrace. Maple Terrace connects Elm and Central Avenues. As its name implies, Central Avenue runs through the heart of town and at its terminus is Rahway High School. It is a main route for most of the kids walking home from school.

The completion of my celebration and of the school day occurred simultaneously.

It was with pity and scorn that I gazed upon my fellow students. School was for suckers. I began staggering down Central Ave toward St. Mary’s. I turned right onto Esterbrook Ave and cut through my parish’s parking lot. This 3 block jaunt wore me out.

I needed a place to rest.

At that time the next part of my journey was along a narrow driveway bound on one side by the City Hall and on the other by a 3 foot high retaining wall. The narrow strip of ground between that retaining wall and the fence bordering that house’s backyard had grass as green as Ireland. I lay down and quickly passed out. Now it was also shift change for our fine community’s civil servants.

That driveway was the only way in or out of the parking lot for Rahway’s Police Station.

Not far behind me, I would later find out, were some concerned classmates of mine. A group of the sisters I went to school with had formed their own little club called D-Lux. They even had t-shirts printed up. These girls thought I might run afoul of the police so they stopped to consider what they should do. The Station’s parking lot was gravel and so they tried to rouse me by pelting me with stones. When numerous direct hits produced nothing but welts, their humanitarian efforts were interrupted by one of Rahway’s finest.

God and St Patrick provided a swift and secure conveyance back to my home.

I guess the spirit and memory of my late Father helped too. I know it sounds cliche but my Irish Catholic Dad was a civil servant, one of Rahway’s Bravest for over 20 years. No consequences, just load Moe’s son in the back of the car and drop him home.

After all, if someone who drank as hard as him could find recovery, could die sober, perhaps their was hope for the son.