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It was raining. Not your rock and roll thunderstorm, just a cool, steady downpour, something to knock the leaves off the trees on a quiet October night. The year was 1983 and I was sitting at the bar of a strip club on Clark off West 44th next to the firehouse. I was working for the RTA back then and had been sent over to the west side to see if the weather would break so we could perform some needed track work. Standard operating procedure was to wait one hour, then call the boss for his instructions. In those prehistoric, pre-cell phone days this involved using the nearest land line. Mine just happened to be in a place where girls did acrobatics they’d never learned in gym class. After the third call my boss said, “Forget it. Go home.” I liked that idea because three beers was my limit and I was already on number seven.

See the full article from “Cleveland Scene Weekly”