The Friendly City: No Vacancy

a poem by Charley Bruns,

featuring lyrics by David Castaño of Eastbourne

Don’t try to impress me 

by saying George Washington slept there.

We had seven presidents stay here

on vacation away from Washington.

Their names were Grant, Hayes, Harrison, 

Garfield, Arthur, McKinley and Wilson.

These presidents put Long Branch on the map,

and the crowds from New York did come.

Soon so did others in their carriages,

four-legged and iron horses to soak up the sun,

enjoy the summer breezes, walk the bluffs and just have fun.

Did I mention the Atlantic Ocean?

Not too many cities 

can call an ocean their backyard.

Among the visitors were the wealthy 

industrialists and bankers and the Bohemians.

They gambled, they drank, they ate,

and eventually most found their way home late.

But many never returned.

Others who came in their wake did decide to stay,

and formed a year-round community 

that included a main street called Broadway,

complete with stores and theaters.

Long Branch got so big and diverse

with Jewish folk, African-Americans and Catholics,

even the Ku Klux Klan came to march downtown.

Fortunately, the door hit their asses on the way out.

The Mafia treated the city like a playground and more,

playing in the Surf Lounge and paying for

the construction of the Harbour Towers high-rise.

One little pussy of a mobster bragged

on the pages of Life magazine,

“What we got in Long Branch is everything.

Police we got. Councilmen we got, too.

We’re gonna make millions.”

Pussy Russo was eventually found dead

with three bullets in his head 

in a Long Branch spa while on furlough from prison,

because his bosses feared he would talk too much

in order to stay and enjoy the friendly city.

We had a native son and LBHS grad

who was named poet laureate

of the entire U.S. of A.

You can read his poem “Long Branch, New Jersey,”

on a plaque in Pinsky Park on Broadway.

The pier beckoned more visitors with its

amusement rides, arcades, bars.

There were hot dogs and other kinds of matter to put down,

which many people from across the state in fact did

as other shore towns south lured pleasure seekers

with their siren song of more, newer, better attractions.

The city eventually became symbolized by the Haunted Mansion,

with fake ghouls and real rats on its aging pier.

It continued creating memories for more locals

but fewer visitors before finally feeding the appetite

of a hungry fire that left behind charred splinters.

“My city is burning down down down,

and you’re not around.

You’re paying attention to some other town,

you missed us burn to the ground.”*

From the ashes rose the entirely new Pier Village,

with its fine restaurants, cafes, boutiques,

to attract people from all around,

but not the nostalgia of many locals, once again proving:

“You can please some of the people all of the time, 

you can please all of the people some of the time, 

but you can’t please all the people all of the time.”

Did Abraham Lincoln say that

while Mary Ann Todd was staying in Long Branch?

In any case, enough local citizens welcomed the change

and re-elected Mayor Schneider six times.

Today we have Brazilians and Mexicans 

and lots of other Latinos

calling the city home, with their restaurants 

and various businesses on Broadway,

which still has a performing arts theater

and now even a microbrewery.

“We’ve been made by these broken streets,

and now we make all these broken beats.

But we just dig it and we just dig it,

but a keep on moving on.

That’s why we’re fighting, that’s why we’re fighting,

for where we belong.”*

We still have Jewish folk a-courting 

on the boardwalk Thursdays and Sundays,

and Italians and African-Americans like always.

The city even has a Sicilian-born poet laureate, 

whose voice rises above the tongues of people 

from all around the world on our boardwalk

and promenade every Fourth of July.

The ghosts of writers and artists past

smile at names like di Pasquale, Castaño and Delima now.

What can they say, except

“Wow, how cool is this Long Branch?”

“Come with the stylee if you want 

to come find Long Branch rhythm.

You gotta love the way the sky looks,

when everyone lets it bring them down.

And though the sun ain’t coming out,

I see light around my home town.”**

The Ink Well and Brighton Bar,

home of original music,

stand alongside the Celtic Cottage

and some new Brazilian businesses,

as a synagogue is built in West End,  

which isn’t actually in the west end.

Did I mention the Atlantic Ocean?

Not too many cities 

can call an ocean their backyard.

Long Branch is indeed a friendly city, 

with no vacancy for those 

who want to bring it back down

from where it rose.

“So when these ashes turn to gold,

and when these pages start to unfold,

I have seen the best of my city, 

because I’ve seen the worst of my city.”*

—

*Copyright 2016 by David Castaño, “Burning City” as recorded and performed by Eastbourne

**Copyright 2016 by David Castaño, “LB Stylee” as recorded and performed by Eastbourne

Poem copyright 2019 by Charles A. Bruns

The Brighton Bar, the Movie Screening

You know what to expect

but never sure what you’ll get

when you walk inside the Brighton Bar.

And thus it was with the Brighton Bar movie screening.

“If you have a black ticket, you can come inside,”

said the lady from the historical association.

“Tickets? I didn’t know we needed tickets,”

responded the dozens waiting outside the screening room.

“If you want to see the second screening, take a green ticket,”

explained the lady from the historical association.

“Go to the Brighton Bar and have a drink while you wait.”

And around the corner walked some of the huddled masses.

But, the Brighton Bar was closed — its staff and patrons

had gone around the corner to see the documentary movie.

So back out in the cold walked the huddled masses 

to wait for the second screening of the movie.

“Shhhhh,” beckoned the lady from the historical association

as the huddled masses buzzed in anticipation outside the screening room.

But they didn’t need to stay quiet for long,

for a technical difficulty had delayed the first showing.

After an hour, the patrons from the first screening emerged

smiling, chatting, seemingly relieved at the experience.

And in marched the green ticket holders, smiling, chatting,

in anticipation of being entertained by the Brighton Bar movie.

The co-host from the library welcomed the patrons 

and invited them to enjoy soda and popcorn.

Then the lights dimmed, and the movie came alive

to the cheers of the second screening crowd.

The moviegoers roared as familiar faces appeared on the screen.

They cheered as footage from years gone by rekindled memories.

They booed when the video reminded them of unwelcome changes

and applauded when it all ended.

They filed out with smiles across their aging faces.

Some repaired to nearby watering holes,

others simply drove home.

But one walked around the corner to the Brighton Bar.

“Hi, I just saw the documentary and realized

I never bought one of your t-shirts,” he said,

pointing to the display of items for sale behind the bar.

“Do you have a men’s size medium?”

A moment passed as the bartender spoke to the owner.

“Actually, we’re out of them and don’t know 

when we’ll be getting some more,” he told the man.

“What do you want to drink?”

The man waved him off and walked out to head home.

You know what to expect

but never sure what you’ll get

when you walk inside the Brighton Bar.

Copyright 2018, Charles A. Bruns