During a weekend conversation, I was asked to retell some memories of the infamous Willow Inn Hotel at the base of the Queensway area and Water Street, formerly located at what is now largely a parking lot. 

Seems like a tale worth telling.

My earliest memory of the Willow was as a 10-year-old boy watching police and firefighters running around the building after it had been attacked twice by bomb makers connected to the Sons of Freedom.

It seems after two bombings they moved on to find other victims.

I also recall as a youngster heading to the Willow to greet someone or depart somewhere myself on the Greyhound Bus 鈥� the Willow playing bus depot at the time.

In later years, my father would occasionally take me to the Willow Inn restaurant for a hamburger and hot chocolate.

Little did I know it was a precursor to other events in my world.

At 19 or 20 and already fed up with a year and a half in the newspaper business,  I decided I could make more money laying my life on the line.

My good buddy Ralph Krehbiel and I decided to take a mixology (bartenders) course right after we left high school.

Ralph wound up working in the classy Royal Anne Hotel lounge and I wound up slinging beer in the Willow Inn pub.

That scenario seemed so unfair because Ralph, even at age 20, was a well-built fellow with a second-degree black belt.

I was simply the same short, skinny fellow I am today whose only martial arts experience at that point was Ralph鈥檚 personal practice punching and kicking bag.

Undaunted, I entered my new career with a brave step and a bundle of energy.

Oh man, what an education in life.

In no time the Willow Inn became a huge part of my world.

Not only did I sling in the bar but wound up working in the lounge a great deal, which turned out to be even more dangerous sometimes than the pub.

As well. I wound up serving food and occasionally cooking in the restaurant (we used to produce all the food for the RCMP lockup cells).

I eventually wound up living in the hotel for about half a year.

At first, this wide-eyed lad was taken aback by my exposure to the seedy world of the Willow.

I came to know well the many patrons 鈥� real bikers, wanna-be bikers, natives, regular blue-collar boys, the lunchtime pop-in workers in suits and ties, and the strippers.

I was soon the toast of my friends as they somehow envied my working relationship with the dancing girls, but I quickly learned to view the young women in a different light after getting to know a few and understand their sordid world.

Many dancers over the next year became friends, people I came to feel protective of and somewhat sorry for.

After a brief time, I no longer really watched the girls, it felt too odd 鈥� like I was watching a sister or friend who I鈥檇 come to know as a person and not just a piece of meat.

I listened to their stories and heartbreaks and suddenly understood in a way that few men get to learn.

There were some odd ducks who were customers in those days like I鈥檓 sure there still is today.

I recall one client I called Talking Tony or TT. 

TT would come into the lounge every Wednesday at 4 p.m. and order two Scotch and water, one for him and one for his friend. His invisible friend.

TT would sip his drink and carry on a silent but very animated conversation with his invisible buddy, then raise his glass in a toast at the end, drain his glass, and leave.

He never touched the other drink and always left a dime tip.

I鈥檒l likewise never forget the day a drunken idiot and his table of buddies decide to try and make me a human pincushion.

The busted glass he attempted to put in my stomach wound up in my hand instead, and I nearly lost the use of my thumb.

It goes without saying he was cut off for life. I still have the scar as a reminder.

However, the best tale (literally and true) involved a helpful bellhop who offered to help one of the strippers with her heavy suitcases to her room.

The helpful fellow lugged a huge heavy suitcase all the way upstairs only to be told it was to be sent back down to the bar.

鈥淕ood God girl that is one heavy suitcase. What do you have in their bricks,鈥� he asked.

鈥淣o sir," she replied with a smirk. 鈥淚t鈥檚 my snake.鈥�

Sure enough, the girl had a giant Boa Constrictor in the luggage.

The next morning as I ventured down from my hotel room to open the kitchen at 5:30 a.m. the front desk said, 鈥淏y the way, Charlie you may want to keep an eye out and your ears open. Seems our dancer has lost her snake. She thinks it may be hiding in the kitchen because of the food scent. If you hear or see anything just call.鈥�

Call?

How about screaming!? That鈥檚 exactly what I did when I went to open the pan shelving and found a very large and comfy-looking snake.

Suddenly, returning to the newspaper business started to look attractive again.