Tales of Donovan's may soon end
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Susana Markson Guest Column
So there's been a lot of talk about the closing of Donovan's Reef this summer. Of course, there's a lot of talk about that every summer, the difference being that this time it's true. There have been op-ed pieces and letters to the editor There have been local articles, and I'll be darned if the story didn't make it into The New York Times.

I have worked at Donovan's Reef for the last 11 summers and I thought it was time that someone wrote something with a bit of a different perspective. Because the truth is, if someone buys it and keeps it as is, or buys it and puts up condos, things are gonna change for everyone, but mostly for those of us who have worked there. Let me try to explain:

There are three essential things needed to work at a bar - stamina, a strong back, and a thick skin. They are all important, but the last thing most of all. While true that some customers can be difficult, they are nothing compared to a bartender if you get in the way or aren't fast enough on a busy Saturday night. I've never worked at another bar, so I don't know, but at Donovan's we like to yell. A lot. Not for anything big, mind you. The real serious stuff gets taken care of in private. I'm talking about the everyday stuff, "Why isn't this or that done yet?!" "Who is supposed to be working?!" It may seem a bit harsh, but the good stuff outweighs the bad. So let's concentrate on that.

Let's start out with the much-missed Ed Bowler, who passed away last October. Mr. Bowler was one of the bar's owners and, for the most part, the public face of Donovan's for many years. He was tall with white hair, and if he was mad at you, boy did you know it. I didn't speak to him much my first year there; to tell the truth, he scared me. It was only when I moved from cooking to tending bar that we got a chance to hang out. Now, this was a good man. Very old school and pretty tough - one of the greatest joys in my life became making him laugh. He would come sit at the bar and order a can of "high test" (Bud) and we would talk about high school (I was kicked out of one, he was kicked out of two), exercise and vitamins, (he took both, I did neither), and life in general. I remember that there was a fight on the beach once and one of the guys suckerpunched him in the jaw. When I asked later if he was OK, he said, "Susie, that guy wasn't strong enough to blow on hot soup." It's been almost a year since he's been gone, but it's really been two since he was there for the day-to-day stuff. And it hasn't been the same without him. And we all miss him every day.

And who is this "we"? Well, haven't you all been to Donovan's at least once? Don't you know Scalzo, the fast bartender with the shortest temper? I remember after I went through a particularly bad breakup, he took me in the back room, sat me down and told me … well, I don't really remember because I was crying pretty hard, but I remember that it helped. He also bought the whole staff American flag shorts for the Fourth of July one year. And Alan, the only one who knows how to work the satellite to get every football game on the weekends. Big, bald, intimidating, and we call him "Scudsy" because that was the name of the stuffed rabbit he had as a kid. Lori Beth, who is there every weekday, every season, and knows absolutely everyone's name. There are the kids that come home from college every summer and check IDs. There are the lifeguards who have their private jokes, and the morning crew every day at 8 a.m. cleaning up for another day and making sure the palm trees are watered before it gets too hot.

People love coming to Donovan's for the beach and the beer and the atmosphere but, my friends, there is a different place after you go home. Finally a chance for the staff to sit and count tips, and have a beer. Cleanup is relaxed, there's no rush. Sitting in the back room, we can hear the sound of hundreds of cans being swept up, garbages pulled, shouts of laughter. Those of us who have been around awhile might reminisce about kids that used to work there and where they are now. More and more there is talk of wives and fiancées and new babies. Maybe on a really hot night we'll take a drink out to the beach before we head home. It's so quiet without the crowd, no one talks loud, just quiet murmurs about the night that was. And then home.

There isn't enough room for me to write all of my Donovan's stories. I would love to tell you about the time Chris cut his finger and when I put peroxide on it he started to cry a little, or when Dougie cut his and almost fainted. Or how about when Bruce Springsteen stopped by and played four songs with Brian Kirk? Or I could tell you about Sept. 11, 2001, and how we waited and waited for news that everyone we knew was OK. And how all of our staff made it out but not all of our customers. There are a million stories out there, a million, and they all have one thing in common: a little blue building on a little sandy beach that's right down the Jersey Shore. And whether we're back next summer or gone forever, as long as those stories are told and retold, we'll never lose the magic of the place we are privileged to work at.

Susana Markson

Sea Bright