A night at Hussong’s – with Lee Marvin and Keenan Wynn

When I visited Hussong’s for the first time in 1959 I was 17 and still living at home. I’d had a job at Fireside Market on Montana Avenue in Santa Monica since my first year at SAMOHI. So I was not only able to buy a car and a surfboard, I made enough money to buy a fake ID.

Which is funny, because I was always the guy everyone else asked to buy the booze and no one ever asked for proof of my age even at 16. Maybe it was because I’d shot up to six foot three before I hit 15. Or maybe it was because the clerks just couldn’t be bothered. In any event, the first and only time I was asked for my driver’s license was when I was 28 and buying some wine in a supermarket.

My first solo trip across the border wasn’t planned. I was headed down to check out Windansea and Sunset Cliffs on my own. But since it was flat, I decided to try my luck and and cross the border into Mexico with my fake ID. I was waved through with barely a glance.

Tijuana was far sleazier than I’d remembered as a kid and someone had warned me to stay away from Hussong’s in Ensenada. So I headed straight there since it was a weekend and I had to go back for work and classes on Monday.

My stomach was churning when I walked into Hussong’s. I’m not that comfortable in crowds of strangers and the place was pretty crowded, mostly with what looked like locals. I went up to the bar, ordered a beer and looked around the room over my glass while I was drinking. There was some Mexican music playing and although the place was noisy, the mood seemed mellow.

There were sexy young women waiting on tables and I wondered if what I heard about the Baja bargirls was true. Then everything in the room but the music went quiet while all the attention focused on a small, wiry, angry looking guy standing at far end of the bar. He’d grabbed one of the girls by the arm. She tried to pull away and he slapped her.

At that point, a couple of spaces down from me another guy in a wide brimmed hat stepped away from the bar and I noticed he had a gun in a holster on his hip. Just like a cowboy movie.

I understood a little conversational Spanish, but it seemed to have totally left my mind. I’m guessing that the guy near me ordered the other guy to release the girl and chill out. At least that’s how if seemed.

Anyway, the other guy did let go of the girl and appeared to go back to his drinking. Then he suddenly pushed himself from the bar, pulled out a knife, yelled something and headed towards my end of the bar.

While I stood there transfixed, the guy with the long barrel revolver calmly took it out of his holster and casually shot the guy with the knife in the chest. Then – and this memory will never leave me – as the guy lay on the floor on his back, twitching and bleeding, the shooter calmly turned back to his drink.

So did everyone else at the bar but me. It was like shooting someone happened every night.

Before this night I’d never seen anyone shot and I’d never seen anyone die in front of me. It happened so quickly and was nothing like the cowboy shows I’d seen as a kid. The man stopped twitching and was still.

Almost as if they’d been waiting in the wings, a couple of guys came out of a door past the end of the bar and dragged the knife-guy out. Then one of them came in and scattered some sawdust over the blood. He paused for a moment or two to joke with a few of the other patrons and swept it back out the same door. Wham, bam, thank you Ma’am. Now you see him. Now you don’t.

Beer forgotten, I still couldn’t move and my mouth must have been hanging open. I felt a hand on my shoulder.

“Son, you need a drink,” growled a low voice . “Come on over and join our table.”

Shuffling like a Zombie, I allowed myself to be steered to a small table by the wall across the bar. A drink was poured from a bottle of Tequila and I was told to drink it down. Then I was told to follow it with a chaser. That was my first encounter with ‘Tequila y sangrita’ and the affect was galvanizing. It was as if molten lava had been distilled and bottled … and a chill went through me before the heat hit and I started sweating.

At last I was able to focus on the other two guys at the table. Hey, wow … I know who they are … they’re, they’re, they’re those guys I’ve seen before at that Dutch-Indonesian restaurant down by the pier in Santa Monica.

“Have another drink,” offered the tall one. “I’m Lee and the ugly asshole is Keenan.” We shook hands.

They didn’t say much, but explained that the guy with the gun was a Mexican policeman of some sort. They also asked me questions about myself, probably to make me feel more comfortable. The drinks helped heaps.

When I asked about the chaser they told me that sangrita means “Blood of the Warrior” and I felt a bit more brave – although I found out later that sangrita really means “little blood.”

After a few more drinks they started talking about the old days, trying to outdo each other. I wish I could remember the stories they swapped. I know I was laughing. Probably a bit too loudly. But the stories and drinks helped me forget what I’d witnessed … not to mention where I was and who I was with.

Next morning my bladder woke me early. I was in the back seat of my car under a blanket I didn’t recognize. My sleeping bag was still in its cover under my head like a pillow. “My board?” was my first thought. “Where’s my board?”

Turns out my board was under the car. Who put it there and who put the rough wool blanket over me remains a mystery. But, in honor of Lee Marvin and Keenan Wynn, I make a point of throwing back a few Tequilas with sangrita in their memories every chance I get.

A night at Hussong’s © Robert R. Feigel 2022 – All Rights Reserved