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The Pusher

One Last Slice for the Road.

By Guest Pusher Seamus Gallivan

Ever since I was a young lad, I dreamed of having my own paper route. The first paperboy I remember coming to my Kenmore door was Joe Thomas, who wound up being drafted as a pitcher by the Boston Red Sox. I wanted to play ball, too, and I realized then that slingin’ papers was my ticket to the show.

It took years of training, but I finally got myself on track to the big leagues when the BEAST brought me on as one of its ace pushers back in October. Course, being 25 years old and living with my parents, I look less like Joe Thomas and more like Chris Elliot from the classic TV show “Get A Life,” but my dream will not be deferred. In the realm of paper pushin’, the BEAST is the big time - you need a car, some thick skin, and a willingness to rub elbows with some of the saltiest, scummiest, and downright hilarious screwballs that make up Buffalo’s midday barfly population. Your patience will be tested.

It’s been a great run for me, but my pushin’ number’s up, and for my final trek through South Buffalo as a BEAST slinger, I decided to go after dusk, when the joints really start to jump. As always, I started at Charlie O’Brien’s, a place I really looked forward to stopping into ‘til recently. See, they had me chase ‘em for an ad and never came through, and one of the bartenders, a friendly dude named Tom, sent some writing in for the paper which must not’ve been that good, cuz it still hasn‘t seen print. It ain’t my call, but you know I’m the one who’s gotta have answers when he’s holding his arms out in dismay. Those are the breaks, Tom - you just gotta step it up.

Now Artone’s Pizza is my kind of place. They go nuts when I walk in, like it’s a shack-sanctioned BEAST break, and tell me how much they love the rag. They hook us up with some mean grub - try the steak hoagy - and they advertise. So there’s the winning formula for all you schmucks who want to be in the paper. The Artone’s experience is the pusher’s dream.

Moving further down Seneca St., I found my Uncle Jim at Hopper’s Rush Inn - no surprise, really, as he’s on their Wall of Fame. This place is a riot - women are impolitely discouraged (though a couple braved the elements on this night), as are men who get “perms,” and anyone, frankly, who isn’t a South Buffalo Caucasian. I was greeted upon entry with, “here comes that North Buffalo bean-eatin’ liberal Buffalo News writer!” They really know how to make a man feel welcome. Arm firmly twisted, I parked it for a pop, and we discussed the finer things in life - Timon baseball, potential locations for the Gallivan family picnic, and the time that a black guy came into the bar tryin’ to sell steaks. With plenty more stops to go, I drank fast - the BEAST loyals can get restless.

The Ridge Rd. stretch was a trip, between some slurhound at Sage’s giving me an unwarranted dissertation on Howard Stern’s tumult, a mumblin’ fogey at Cagney’s wanting us to give him ad space to declare that he needs money, and the weirdest scene at C2’s on Electric - picture an empty room aside from three middle-aged guys, each ten feet apart at the bar with their faces in their pints, while the jukebox blasts Jagged Edge’s horrid clubthumper “Bump, Bump, Bump.” I slapped the rag down and got the hell away from that scene quick.

I moved on to the second route on my BEASTly doubleheader, which starts at Palladino’s Pizza in the Sheridan-Harlem plaza. Having gone to school down the road at the giant sheltered playground known as the Park School, I was well aware that this place uses about the best pepperoni known to man. But only recently, when the friendly ownership invited the BEAST in for dinner on the house, did I learn that they also have a killer Buffalo chicken pizza.

I grabbed a slice when I dropped at Pizza Plus on Sheridan, and considering that fact that the boss knew I was with the BEAST and didn’t either give it to me for free or inquire about advertising, I must say that their pizza blows goats. Speaking of blowing goats, let’s have a little talk about Malone’s on Delaware Ave. For over eight months, I dropped a stack of papers there, always with a friendly hello to the staff, often asking, “this still where you guys want ‘em?” They’d give a half-assed nod, and I’d move along. Having never picked up any extras, I recently asked if they wanted me to leave more, and was told that management would always throw them out as soon as I left. The nerve! Don’t like the paper? Fine, I get that. Scared to offend anyone? Sure, some businesses are wusses, and it works for them. Just let us know, and stop wasting both our time. Believe it or not, we put a ton of work into this rag, and to take that work directly from the press to the trash without regard is the height of audacity - especially when the act is explained completely unapologetically. So fuck you, Malone’s, and fuck your rinky-dink wings and sandpaper burgers, too. You’re a Kenmore staple that I’ve been patronizing since I sat in a high-chair, but I’ll be damned if you ever get another penny from me - I used to love that fish fry, but come to think of it, I remember hearing back in the day that it wasn’t haddock, and that you recycle leftover fries onto new plates, and that’s just wrong.

On to friendlier confines. Pizza Palace at Delaware and Princeton has been a favorite drop, especially since the recent discovery of their awesome white pizza (which was free for the BEAST.) Kenmore Music at Delaware and East Girard will always go down as a monumental stop - sure, they don’t even put the papers on display, but there stands the muse, Pamela Ryder, who could sell a Stratocaster to an Amish man.

Despite a late run from Pacino’s, the MVP of these routes goes unanimously to the Roasted Pepper at Delaware and Euclid. My family had just discovered this place when we moved out of Kenmore - best take out in Western New York, and by a long shot. Shane’s the brains, and Carmelo’s the cook - they’re a mean tag-team duo. The 2815’ll take anyone’s steak hoagy - even Artone’s. Stop in and check ‘em out - tell ‘em Seamus sent you, and they’ll tell you how cool I am.

Pushin’ the BEAST has been a blast - it may not propel me to a professional baseball contract like it did for Joe Thomas, but I’ll always remember the way the drunks stumbled off their barstools to greet me, yelling “you kuys are da fffuckin’ best!” with sloppy three-toothed grins. Hopefully, I’ll forget their stench.

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