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Roberson and Hampton get down to serious drinking at
Molly McGuire's (photos ahoVe). .. . At Tijuana Fats, totally
oblivious to waitress (right). . . At Crook's, pledging to stick
it OUt to the end (far right). Staff photos by Sharon Clarke
. A
n
k... ia . , v
r .?
I) chug fheir way through hoer-drfnking capital oy the world
y Bill Roberson
1 Gary Hampton
n on Tuesday, J uly 22, 1980,
n, a graduate student in
Gary Hampton, a third-year
rmbarked on a 14-hour beer
hcompassed 24 bars. Their
jc onduct a survey of Chapel
' hnlpv 'Thp fnrmal nrvv
shed later.)
ing narrative is a bar-by-bar
trek. In all but a few cases,,
urs of the bars had been
vance and provided the pair
r.
1) a.m. Arrive at Bill's; he's
A portent of things to come.
-Arrive at (Jnion to run off
r itinerary (we love crowd
ill departs the building to
yhile I fire up my car, the
I whose thirst for' gas is
y by ours for brew.
I Bill goes to the Hobbit to
nds and clear our arrival
in the evening.
a.m. Burger King. We.
our only hope is to eat
ielp absorption. And we are
long it will be before we
y that serves palatable food
Jdget.
V-Arrive at Quickee Take-k-of
f toast. Friends are there
so record the event. At the
p we drink. Here, the only
than the room temperature
er, obviously fresh off the
It does not go down well.
No time sauandered at
lirive to the Yacht Club, are
trrrf-i l Vi r ton ftv iiruDC lie
drink. Gary lusts. Does not
I stress the tightness of our
potential disappointment
ietors. ;? 1 "'
Gary is obstinate at first, then
reluctantly surrenders, but not before
pledging to return before the evening is
over.
1 p.m. Arrive at The Pub. A dark bar,
small , congenial. We talk with proprietor
who serves us cold Bud in frosted mugs.
Play Charlie Rich and The Rolling
Stones on juke box: no bigots, we.
Gary: 1:30 p.m. Four Corners. We
slide up to the bar while the patrons eye
us casually and a murmur breaks out in
awed, hushed tones. Obviously, word of
our mission has preceded us.
We're on foot now, and at the mercy of
Chapel Hill's public : drunkenness
ordinance. The atmosphere is great, but
we are driven on by the need to fulfill our
duty and the thought of another
BREWSKIE
Bill: 1:54 p.m. Inconspicuous descent
into Harrison's. I slide down three stairsT
Am berated by Gary, who slides down
remainder. Entire Harrison's staff looks
on.
We approach bar amid
misunderstanding of our purpose,
questions as to its legitimacy, No one's
fault, situation readily is rectified. I am
buzzing. Pace is picking up noticeably.
Gary: 2:19 p.m. Carolina Coffee
Shop. Here we meet the sweet sounds of
classical music, and a skeptical manager
who tells us, "You'll never make it." My
reply, "Urffl" We hurry on.
2:36 p.m. PapagayoV By now Bill
has a goofish look on his face. He turns
and says, T think we're in trouble." I bite
harder on my cigar and nod. Fortunately
some friends meet us for moral support.
Physical support might be more
appropriate.
Bill: 2:59 p.m. First checkpoint,
Molly McGuire's. Sharon, a Tar Heel
photographer, is there to document the
occasion. So are several fraiends. I keep
calling people the wrong names, but do
not feel embarrassed.
Beer is cold, fortunately, They are not
going down easily. We think, the
bartenders are snickering at us, but the
ringing in our ears makes it difficult to be
certain.
3:23 p.m. At Troll's. It is quiet, cool
and dark, which is what we need. I want
to stretch out in a booth. Gary will not let
me. He is lusting after the bartender
again. Gary wants to stay here and split a
pitcher.
Gary: 3:45 p.m. We lurch across the
parking lot to Back Streets formerly
Youngblood's. Thank God it's a short
walk. Only my belief that Bill will
collapse into a coma at any moment
drives me on. Already he looks like the
poster child for a gravediggers'
convention.
Bill: 4:07 p.m. The pace is intense.
We approach the halfway mark: A quick
beer at Linda's. I want to stay and drink
with Kim, the bartender we are the only
. ones he;e but Gary kicks me and pushes
me thiough the door.
Gary: 4:27 p.m. Spanky's. It is fresh
and cool. We saunter up the steps to the
bar. Bill thanks the manager for the air
conditioning. I say a silent prayer for
someone to build an elevator so I can
avoid the steps down. No elevator is built,
but Bill and I manage to navigate down
and out; lucky us.
4:45 pjn. Village Green. We fall into
the hands of enemy agents at this point.
Quietly we are guided into the new
downstairs section. The others are dressed
in cut-offs and no shirt or open shirt. Bill
and I wear formal attire.
There is nothing but the smell of fresh
paint, two floor fans stolen from the set of
Casablanca and heat. I know we are in
trouble now. I feel my knees buckle and
look at BilVHis eyes look like the center1
of a doughnut, glazed and vacant; almost
beyond pain, damn near beyond life.
Quickly we exit via the back gate. This
is the crucial point. W e stop as if we have
just passed through the gates of hell. We
look at each other; I almost throw up on
his shoes. We decide to go on, to finish the
survey, but to drink only when we safely
can hold it.
Bill: 5:25 p.m. Inside Kirkpatrick's.
We order two Cokes. I think the bartender
is laughing at me, but I cannot be sure.
He does magic tricks for us, diverting us
from the profound misery of our
condition. Pranav, an old friend, joins us
and we all three leave together.
5:50 p.m. I am feeling better, certain
that I can go the distance solo, if need be.
5:51 p.m. I am being carried down
Rosemary Street. Gary on one side,
Pranav on the other.
6:00 p.m. We are at Colonel
Chutney's. Gary and Pranav pour me
into a booth. Food is put before me. I do
not know what it is, but I eat. Sharon, the
photographer, arrives with some ojther
friends. She takes more pictures. I think
she is trying to embarrass us.
Gary: 7:10 p.m. Tijuana Fats. Bill has
to be carried like a stricken knight to our
destination. However, at this point he
rallies, and orders a beer as I do. From
now on my own path is set: heedless to the
impending and total renal failure that
faces me, I am determined to go out
quaffing.
BUI: 7:56 p.m. Playing pool at the
t Cavern with Gary and Rick, another
friend who has come along for the laughs.
I have yet to find amusement. If I had to
pick a place to die, this would be it. Gary,
who has never played pool in his life,
soundly thrashes me. The alcohol has
begun to take a noticeable effect.
Gary: 8:30 p.m. Hobbit Hoagie
Factory; Bill 'works here on the side as'
opposed to on his face, so I must make
some pretense to being civilized.
Actually, I yearn to attack the counter
workers and raid the food bin.
At this point Bill has no sensory
perception and has to seek an aid for his
propulsion and navigation systems '
between watering holes. All his nerves are
drowned and I fear autism is upon him.
Bill: 9:05 p.m. At the Pyewacket
ahead of schedule. Outside, raining like
hell. We decide to sit; and psyche
ourselves for the welcoming ceremony at
Crook's. All is well until the unexpected
arrival of a certain person: Gary's ex
fiancee. Gary almost throws up in his
glass. Leaves without me.
He is taking an awful risk. I am not
sure he can remain standing with the
added pressure of rain on his shoulders
and head.
9:53 p.m. At Crook's Corner we are
reunited. Wet and sweating beer. The
staff at Crook's is very kind to us and does
not take offense. The welcoming
committee is seated, waiting. I am
persuaded to order a barbecue sandwich.
It will not go down without jeopardizing
the delicate balance in my stomach.
I reach to grab Gary's notes and knock a
beer onto Sharon's camera. She is too
kind to cram the soggy thing down my
throat
10:37 p.m. Walking through
Carrboro. This is a new perspective
surreal. It is not raining, but I am still not
drying out Amazed that I can still make
' puns in this semi-comatose state.
Gary: 10:45 p.m. Bullwinkle's. Bill
and I shoot a few games of pool and savor
some more beer. Since we are still in our
formal attire . we draw a few quick
eyebrow liftings. As an offering of
' friendship, Bill and I break in toa rousing
cnorusot l ne I was not a Nazi Polka,
and win the crowd.
Bill: 11:33 p.m. Cross the street to
Sidetrack. Beach music here. They tell me
I am shagging. I do not remember ever
having learned. Cigar keeps falling from
my mouth. My partner, Karen, carries me
to a seat, where I collapse.
Need to find my stamina. Looking on
floor for it. Not here. These boards are
very comfortable.
11:58 p.m. In the stretch. The
entourage has assembled and is waiting at
the Station. We enter. Merciful Heavens!
We are in the middle of a square dance.
Dance my way to the bar. Try to interview
bartender. He cannot understand what I
am saying. An overflow of saliva is
distorting my speech.
He, gives me two beers and I try to find
Gary. We drink, then grab our partners.
Dance for 45 minutes. Am going to lose it
all if we do not sit down soon. I learn that
bluegrass music has no beginning nor
end. Gary rescues me. We leave.
1 am. Triumph! At The Red Baron,
a much overlooked bar. Mike, the
bartender, welcomes the whole
entourage. Pitchers are placed before us. I
am wearing a string of beads but do not
recall how I obtained them. Someone, out
of adulation, grabs my beads, pulls from
behind. If he does not stop soon, it will be
a day's work wasted.
Bill: 1:45 p.m. Gary leans against me
fondly, puts his arm around my
shoulders, shows me his watch, and
gurgles, '-Time for one more at the Yacht
Club".
Gary: Conclusion Bill swears he is on
the wagon until Christmas, I hope to
make it to my birthday in September. In
any event, look for the write-up in Time,
Newsweek and four major journals on
internal medicine