Jenifer’s Shelter Island Journal: 86’d

With the horrors of the last few weeks, the slaughter in Israel, the massacre in Maine still luridly fresh in my mind, competing for attention with the sweet images of an Island Halloween on Smith Street from just a few days ago, not to mention that incipient swell of happy anticipation for my favorite holiday, Thanksgiving, just on the horizon, I’m definitely on topic-overload. 

I’ve been here before; I know what to do, kind of, which is narrow my focus, stay in my local lane, and adhere to my beat. O.K.

Regarding the upcoming holiday, though, I can’t seem to find a current comprehensive listing of Island restaurants offering Thanksgiving dinner, but for those interested in participating  in the annual “Turkey Plunge,” it will take place on Saturday morning, the 25th at Crescent Beach. 

My research has revealed that this masochistic post-T-Day ritual actually provides a lucrative fundraiser for public libraries across the region and is apparently “enjoyed” all over Long Island and even up into New England, at least as far as Nantucket. 

Shelter Islanders so inclined can go online to shelterislandpubliclibrary.org/turkey-plunge-form to register. The fee is $25 now or $30 the day of this very popular event. Considering that in spite of its deceptive moniker, the “plunge” does not involve throwing turkeys into the frigid November waters, but rather oneself, it leads this columnist to wonder why it’s not the participants who are being paid. Intriguing question, perhaps, but it does not a column make, so I’ll turn my frayed attention to the title of this piece and my reason for it.

For better or worse, this is my 86th column for the Shelter Island Reporter — and it also happens to be a term that is likely familiar to the many of us on this island who have had restaurant experience. To be 86’d means either that a menu item is unavailable or not suitable for serving or — applied to a customer — that s/he is intoxicated or otherwise behaving badly enough not to be served any more alcohol.

 To me, with the advent of COVID three years ago, it was as if our whole nation, the whole world, was collectively 86’d for behaving badly, for accepting an increasingly toxic status quo. In part, I saw it as a global time out, a time to retreat, to reflect and to sober up.

Wishful thinking? Given the horrible events mentioned earlier? Probably. When I researched the original derivation of the term, I ended up with many more questions than answers, but it’s clear that the provenance of the term might easily include “global time out.” 

In a portion of his fascinating August 2019 column, Ask George, in St. Louis Magazine, George Mahe writes: “The term [may have] originated in the soup kitchens of the Great Depression, where the standard pot held 85 cups of soup, so the 86th person was out of luck. Many say the term has military roots. The term originated during the Korean war, a reference to the F-86 fighter jet; when an F-86 shot down an enemy plane, it was 86’d. The United States also has a Uniform Code of Military Justice that has an Article 86: Absence Without Leave, a.k.a AWOL. The term was derived from military shorthand. Rotary phones had T on the 8 key and O on the 6 key, so to throw out (TO) something was to 86 it.

“Or it may have originally been a bartender’s term. Alcohol in the Old West was 100 proof. When a patron would get too drunk, the barkeep would serve him a less potent, 86 proof liquor, thereby 86’ing him. The term may have come from Old Eighty-Six, a popular shaving powder in the old days. A pinch of that in a rowdy cowboy’s drink apparently would have him heading for the door.

“Perhaps its origin lies in New York. Many stories back this up. There was a speakeasy bar at 86 Bedford Street in Greenwich Village called Chumley’s, with no address on the door and several hidden exits. When the heat showed up, guests were known to 86 it, or remove themselves from the premises immediately.

“In the days before a safety fence was installed on the observation deck of the Empire State Building, people would commit suicide by jumping from it. The deck was on the 86th floor.

“One of the elevated trains in New York terminated at 86th Street … the conductor would toss any drunks who had passed out on board. The conductors began calling them 86’s ….”

Mahe goes on, and it’s worth the read — in this column, it has certainly saved all of us from the wages of my further musings on existential angst. In fact, it’s only fitting that I end this where I began it — 86’d.