Reflections on a few modest proposals
by Jack Neely
After I wrote a column about the effort in Tasmania to remember exiled Irish revolutionary John Mitchel, who lived there 150 years ago, one reader pointed out that there's a historic sign in Townsend noting that he lived there in the 1850s. There is, of course, no such marker along First Creek on the northeast corner of downtown Knoxville, where the incendiary editor lived for a longer period. The reader also asked what I meant by "unfortunately" when I wrote that a police officer "unfortunately" intervened in a prospective duel between Mitchel and Knoxville editor John Fleming in 1857. Was I saying that either Tennessee or Ireland would be better off without either or both of them? Well, no, I just meant it was unfortunate that we'll never know what would have happened: It might have made for a good story.
I can't guess how Fleming's murder of Mitchel might have reshaped Irish history. But Fleming did turn out to be a useful citizen. Plus, if Mitchel had killed Fleming, UT might have no alma mater to sing at football games. Or, at least, it might sound different. Fleming's daughter, Mary Fleming Meek, wrote the song, and she wasn't yet born at the time of her dad's unhappy encounter with the wild Irishman.
* After my summary of Knoxville's drinking career, a prominent elderly gentleman of the community reminded me that during Knoxville's extended bout of prohibition, there was another source of liquor besides the bootleggers and speakeasies I mentioned. There were, in the '30s and '40s, certain downtown houses—whole neighborhoods of them, from the sound of it—which were known to be occupied by purveyors of whiskey by the shot. You'd walk up, knock on the door, go inside, give the man a quarter, and take a jigger, maybe two. And then be on your way. My source remembers one in particular, which was located at the corner of State and Cumberland.
It's a sad, stark corner now, but it was a notable intersection in Knoxville drinking history. More than a century before it was a neighborhood of whiskey houses, it was the site of Anthoney's Greasy Tavern. A favorite of the state's early legislators, it claimed to be the first capitol of Tennessee.
* The city and county seem to be in a quandary about what to do with the under-building parking decks beneath the City County Building, the ones that close depending on what color alert we're enjoying at the moment. Consider the following postulates:
1. After Sept. 11 and, perhaps more to the point, the Oklahoma City bombing, public parking in a concealed place directly underneath the courts and the seats of city and county government may never again seem like a bright idea.
2. As I've griped before, concealed in-destination parking keeps hundreds of employees and visitors to the City County Building's manifold attractions away from downtown sidewalks and away from streetfront commerce; you could make the case that interior office-building parking, which began afflicting downtown about 30 years ago, may have done more to hurt streetfront retail than West Town Mall did. And substituting an elevator ride for a morning stroll may also have rendered some of our officeholders chubbier.
3. The blind exit from the current parking garage—and the on-ramp-style entrance—constitutes a significant hazard to pedestrians trying to make their way from downtown to the main pedestrian bridge to Volunteer Landing. Walking my bike down that sidewalk after work, I've nearly been hit there more than once by a tired driver who's not expecting to see a pedestrian appear from behind the wall. It seems a tough problem to fix.
So, considering the above, maybe it's time to just get rid of the City-County Building's subterranean parking once and for all. And lest the space go begging, why not kill four birds with one stone. Not only do we need to defend against terrorism, get more people on downtown sidewalks, and provide a safer route to Volunteer Landing, but we're told that we also need a big new jail. Why not install the allegedly necessary huge, expanded penal facility down there?
This was actually my dad's idea. But surely someone's thought of it already.
* I heard that Papa John's is closed. Not the pizza chain, of course. I mean the original Papa John's, the one on Wall Avenue near Market Square, which had the name first. It was a little luncheonette with a U-shaped counter, a former Blue Circle, as the sign outside still indicates, its marquee displaying the never-changing remnant of a forgotten announcement: CME /OYES. The building's in bad shape, and the restaurant would have to close for substantial renovation, anyway. The landlords told the Papa John's folks that they were welcome to return, but the rent would be higher. So they closed last Friday.
There's been a beanery of some sort in that space since the 1930s, so it seemed appropriate that I should write a eulogy. I used to go to Papa John's a lot, during Whittle Communications days, mainly because it was the one place downtown that was most unlike Whittle Communications. The front was shabby looking, as evidenced by the broken Blue Circle sign. When I went there, there usually weren't more than half a dozen customers, folks much older than me mostly, and mostly eating alone. Papa John's was a satisfying refuge on a rainy day. After a morning of putting together bright, glossy magazines about glamorous celebrities for charming young suburbanites, I needed a strong dose of reality like you need a cup of coffee. I could be pretty confident I would find no colleagues at Papa John's.
Also, Papa John's was the only place I knew of that served a Polish sausage. They had a serviceable meat loaf, and may be the last restaurant downtown to serve a $1.25 hot dog, chili or cheese included. I could usually get out of there for under three bucks.
Somehow I fell out of the habit. It was partly because my need for the Whittle antidote ended with the end of Whittle. By the '90s I had friends who were opening interesting restaurants and needed me. Plus, as several downtown restaurants went all or partly smoke-free, the smokers tended to pile on the old smoker-friendly ones which got only smokier, and harder for us asthmatics to deal with.
Anyway, when I heard the melancholy news, I hadn't been to Papa John's in a decade, and felt bad about that. So last week I dropped in for a hot dog with chili and slaw and some potato salad and a Coke, thinking I'd write a plea to save the place. One thing downtown needs, I think, is a $1.25 hot dog.
As I ate, I overheard conversations. One 50ish woman was explaining that she'd been looking into creative writing until she learned there was no money in it. Later, the proprietor, a friendly fellow I recognized from years ago, was talking to the only other customer, a hefty working man smoking a cigarette at a stool near me, about having to close down.
The man behind the counter seemed unmournful. He was ready to give it up, he said. He didn't much like what was happening downtown and was skeptical of the whole renovation business and of downtown residences; no one's going to want to live downtown for more than a year or two, he said. Nothing that's been done downtown lately, he said, has helped anything much.
Parking, the hefty guy said. That's why no one ever wants to come downtown.
What downtown needed, the proprietor added, was more modern office buildings. He didn't think any of the buildings on Market Square were worth the trouble. What his building really needed, he said, was a stick of dynamite. It's what they all needed, he said. They were built when masons didn't know how to mix mortar. The customer he was talking to agreed, and they swapped some observations about the 20th century's advances in mortar technology.
I almost jumped in. I know people who have lived downtown for years and still like it. I've seen several improvements which have resulted in many more people coming downtown, especially in the evenings and on weekends, than did 20 or 25 years ago. Concerning parking, I feel obliged to defer to people who say it's a problem; it's not for me, and never has been. And as for the mortar—there are restaurants in brick buildings in Paris that are 700 years old. Are we ready to concede that French masonry is that far superior to American?
But I was a little embarrassed that I hadn't stopped in in so long, and I didn't want to come across as the wise guy. I paid my bill, thanked the guy, and left. I don't think downtown needs any dynamite. But it could use a $1.25 hot dog.
June 19, 2003 * Vol. 13, No. 25
© 2003 Metro Pulse
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