Beer Joints, Bootleggers, Taxis and the Virginian Theater

 

Saturday Night in the "New York of the Hollows"

By Jerry Buchanan

If you looked at the census numbers for St. Charles in 1950, you’d see a modest count of 550 people. But if you stood on the sidewalk on a Saturday afternoon, those numbers lied. To us, St. Charles didn't feel like a small town; it felt like a mountain metropolis.

The Saturday Swell

Every Saturday, the sidewalks were so packed with miners and their families coming in from the camps—places like Bonny Blue, Kemmerer Gem, and Benedict—that you often had to step off the curb just to get around. The town was a transportation hub. We had a passenger bus running to Pennington Gap, but the real local "movers" were the taxis.

The taxi stand usually had three or four cabs idling, manned by drivers like Carl Buchanan and George Gibson. Walt Gilley (related to "Blackie" Gilley) also drove for Carl from time to time. I’ll never forget the day Walt walked into the Cavalier Cafe looking for a cold beer while he was still on the clock. Janie Buchanan (Carl’s wife) didn't argue. She just held out her hand and said, "Give me the keys." She didn't pour that beer until the taxi keys were safely in her hand. That was the "Janie Law," and it kept the fleet running right.

Cafes and Beer Joints

If you were looking for a place to light, you had plenty of choices. The Liberty Cafe, run by Warren Roberts, was a staple, as was the Cavalier. Before my time, folks talked about Jake’s Place, a legendary spot that lived on in the stories told by the older generation.

But the adults usually headed for the "beer joints" to wash off the dust of the week. My personal favorite was Black Gilley’s. I spent many a Saturday there feeling like a grown man—until the day someone whispered in Mrs. Gilley’s ear that I wasn't eighteen yet. She didn't hesitate; she marched over and snatched the glass right out of my hand!

The Stronger Stuff

While the beer joints were plenty, St. Charles had a thriving "underground" economy too. If you wanted something a bit stronger than what they were pouring at Black Gilley’s, you didn't go to a store; you headed to a bootlegger's house. There were several scattered around the area, and everyone knew exactly which door to knock on when the sun went down. It was an open secret, woven into the fabric of a town that worked hard and played just as hard. Here a couple of bootleggers were raided based on local tips and undercover buys. 

The Center of the World

The crown jewel of our weekend remained the Virginian Theater. It was more than just a place to see a movie; it was our window to the world. Looking at old photos of Main Street, you can see the line of cars and that big passenger bus parked by Shoun Drug. It was a time of high energy and hard-earned fun. The "fleet" brought them in, the cafes fed them, and the bootleggers kept the stories flowing until it was time to head back to the camps.

The Ghost of Saturday Afternoon

Today, those same streets are quiet. The beer joints are gone, the theater is a memory, and the bootleggers have passed into legend. But when I walk through town now, I don't see the empty spaces. I see the "Ghost of Saturday Afternoon"—the crowds, the laughter, the idling taxis, and the sharp scent of coal smoke and excitement.