The Story Behind Sam Brown

(This epic tale took place in the year of our Lord, 1992.) 'Twas a pleasant Friday evening in the Virginia Highlands Area with a slight breeze rustling the remaining leaves ever-so clinging to their life line to the rapidly diminishing source of nutrition. It was in this 'yuppie' collegiate setting that a group of thirsty, hungry and tired compatriots had decided to climax their week of frustration at the quaint restaurants and bars of this unique neighborhood.  As was their (almost) weekly custom, this merry band of men and women convened for an evening of relaxation and fellowship with one another to help forget (if not eliminate) their work experiences since their last foray. As was customary with this gathering at that time, a BAR had to be decided upon for their meeting place. (Back then, almost the entire entourage were very familiar with the locations of most bars within the Atlanta area!!!!!). A very appropriate establishment was selected---“The Irish Pub”. (Several of the constituents of this ethnically variant group were INDEED Irish (or at least feigned to be). And, besides, the Stout served there was ideal for eliminating the few million brain cells that had been ‘corrupted’ by their work environment over the past few days! )

So is the initial setting of a future event that would change the lives of many for years to come.

The lights were dim, the air putrid with stale cigars and nasty, foul, disgusting (Mac –or Sam- don’t smoke) cigarette smoke. However, the sole entertainer in the dive was just that, entertaining. His rendition of “Danny Boy” on his drawling ‘50’s circa harmonica was the perfect medication for the Stout after-taste. Somehow, it seemed like a very eventful evening was in store. Challenges by several colleagues involved coins and alcohol. The contest went like this…..one of the members (more than likely the one that had lost the fewest brain cells already) reached into his wallet pretending to pull out a dollar bill for a little challenge of liars’ poker. But, instead, what magically appeared from the wallet with an extremely loud “WHACK” on the knotty pine table, was a dull brass circular object immediately recognized by a few of the others gathered there as non-negotiable oversized ‘coin’ that had been presented to its present owner a few months back. This ‘coin’ was one of seven identical items discovered by Mac during his restoration efforts (along with his beautiful wife Socorro’s invaluable assistance) of Mel’s old ’79 Z. Any unmet challenge (i.e., immediately (within 10 seconds) pulling out his/her OWN coin and ‘WHACKING’ IT on the table as well) by any of the other six owners present when ‘coined’, required the purchase of an alcoholic beverage for the challenger. Needless to say, when Bill WHACKED his, Mac did as well, but MEL did not have his precious coin in order to retaliate. So, as the RULES went, when more than two were present, any LOSERS would purchase a liberating beverage for ALL of those who successfully WHACKED.

As the alcoholics continued to amuse themselves with lies and more lies, the other ‘players’ of the upcoming theatrical event started to arrive. A sing-a-long with our “Danny Boy one-musician band” began to brighten the eyes (yet hurt the ears) of the ever-growing troupe of retired-for-the-week FORSCOM players. After about an hour, and several visits to the ‘wash room’, all of the members of the elite group had arrived. Paul, Mary, Socorro, Marty, Bill, Mel, Mac, Mike and several others were present, with a total count of approximately fourteen. At this point, a decision had to be made. Was the palate of most, yearning for the two-day-old popcorn that was free at the Pub (from a refurbished carnival popcorn maker) which was heavily salted and buttered for the sole purpose of creating a drive for more ‘wet ones’, OR were the stomach growls more for the ‘meat and potatoes’ type of nourishment. The latter won out, and the decision was made to relocate down the used-to-be cobblestone sidewalk to a more ‘respectable dive’ for a sit-down, get-waited-on type, meal. The establishment? Two blocks away stood (and is still standing) the quaint bar/restaurant known as the Atkins Park Restaurant. THAT was the next target for the throng of ‘thrill seekers’.

As bills were paid and tips to ‘Danny Boy’ were offered, the members of this elite group began their trek down the leaf-strewn sidewalk, occasionally excusing oneself for inadvertently brushing up against the gray-headed parking meters neatly aligned along their intended path. Mac lead the way, with most ‘players’ going two-by-two, but occasionally a single individual would weave along just ogling the college co-eds that Fall evening. As they neared Atkins Park (the restaurant, not a recreational area), Mac opened and held one of the outside double doors that lead into the alcove into the establishment. Mel held one of the inside doors for this now long single-file of hungry partial inebriates. Mike lead the way into the restaurant, and when he reached the hostess’ podium, the line still extended to the outside door which Mac was leaning against (not sure which was holding which up). Being a pleasant Autumn evening in Atlanta, most eateries contained several customers and were generally ‘packed’. Atkins Park was no different. The bar area to the left of the trail of newly arrived patrons was standing-room-only, most of whom were sipping suds waiting on “Johnson, Table of Five”, or something similar that would create a small nucleus of movement from the bar area into the dining area of the restaurant. Those conscious enough to grasp the situation realized that a “Party of Fifteen” would be MUCH more inebriated by the time THEY were to be able to leave this newly discovered waterhole and move into the dining room. However, Mike seemed to have had a better idea. While Mac was still holding the door (everyone else was inside, but because of the length of the line, he had to remain AT the door), Mike motioned, using the line to relay, for Mac to work his way past the line and come forward to where he was standing. Well, Mac did just that, and when he arrived at the hostess’ podium, Mike introduced him to the hostess as “Sam Brown”. Well, this seemed to ‘fit right in’ with the plans for the evening, as far as the hostess was concerned. “Follow me”, she said in a southern-blonde-coed kinda way, as she moved down the one step into the dining room area. As she started placing menus along this long set of tables, Mac was noticing that the place was INDEED very much crowded, with the ONLY empty seats located at the 16-place setting table where blondie was placing the menu cards. It took only a minute or two for each of the “Sam Brown Party” members to find a suitable seat and begin perusing the menu.

At this point, one might wonder how this came about: that a “Sam Brown Party” table was ‘available’ for such a large organization on such a crowded evening at such a prestigious establishment. Well, it seems that someone had actually made a reservation for sixteen in the name of Sam Brown. AND, the most important part about it, was that the REAL Sam Brown Party failed to show up that evening. Of course, at the time Mike motioned for Mac (the NEW SAM BROWN) to come forward to the see the hostess, it was not known that the real Sammy and his party of many were going to arrive or not. Those at the table kept a wary eye out for any large groups of ‘large burly men’, hoping that ‘the Son of Sam’ would not arrive. Which, very fortunately, he did not.

But, that is not the end of the story. As the evening moved on, the alcohol flow diminished and the food intake increased. The meals were excellent, as well was the camaraderie of the new Sam Brown Party. Appetizers were served first, followed by the steaks, chicken and the fish main courses. Then, came time for dessert. No one seemed particularly interested in ‘sweetening’ the evening more than it had already been done; most were pleasantly pleased with the quality and quantity of food intake up to that point. However, as talk flowed like the remaining ounces of white and blush wines, suddenly the main waiter for the table stepped forward with an oversized decorated cupcake, topped with a lit candle. It seems, that not only did the real Sam have at least 15 friends, but he also had a BIRTHDAY that day. The waiter placed the cake in front of Sam and started to sing “Happy Birthday to you……” and was immediately joined by those at the Sam Brown table. Then, in unison, before they had even gotten to the second stanza, the ENTIRE throng throughout the entire packed restaurant within Atkins Park chimed in and continued to the end of the ditty, honoring Mr. Sam Brown on his birthday.

However, AGAIN, that is not the end of the story. At that point in time (’92), Sam Brown was in the military (the New Sam, not the Old), and worked at US Forces Command headquarters. He was required to wear a uniform to work, and a part of most military uniforms is a name patch or name tag. Well, Sam decided to continue with the ‘game’ of his new name, so went to the clothing sales store at Fort McPherson. When he asked if they had an ‘extra’ name tag (sometimes people order them and fail to pick them up) with the name “BROWN” (only last names appear on uniforms), he got lucky. Sam replaced his original name tag with this new one and wore it the following week. His co-workers did not notice the new name tag until the third day, late in the afternoon. Sam KNEW at that point that he had successfully migrated to a new alias. To this day, Sam uses this pseudonym for all restaurant reservations, business ventures, games and contests, and several other areas in his life.

So, that’s it. When you see Mac and someone calls out “Sam”, and Mac answers, now you know why.

P.S. His middle name is Oscar, and signs his name on semi-official documents as Samuel O. Brown.