For most, the word “oasis” brings to mind cool water and palm trees surrounded by one of nature’s harshest climates, a refuge from a blisteringly hot and dangerous desert. In Cambridge “oasis” had a decidedly opposite reality in the mid 70s, beautiful lakes and countryside surrounding a festering sore that stands unique in my memory, big city sleaze in small town America. If the Cambridge area ever had a “Red Light District” in my time this was it, the red often human blood dripping down a fender from some unfortunate leaning on a car after losing a fight.
My father once called the Oasis “a den of iniquity,” the den on Route 22 just over Colfax Mountain from our house. To be fair, the Oasis was a respectable family establishment when I first crossed its portal in 1965 with Mom and Dad. I think we had some sort of meal there, what I don’t remember. At some point the ownership changed and what I do remember was what became of the Oasis years later and the typical environment during its last days that were shortened by a police raid, the only one I’m aware of at a public place in all my years in the Cambridge area.
At the time of the raid I was an ace reporter for the Washington County Post and most disappointed to have missed all the excitement. This was no accident. I was barred from the establishment upon attempting my third annual 4th of July prank.
For two consecutive July fours when I was still in college, I placed an M80 firecracker in a corner behind a bunch of extra folding chairs that I hoped kept people from being too close to the M80 when it went off. I used what we called a “cigarette fuse” that I stuck on the firecracker that provided about a five minute delay. After placing the firecracker, I walked outside and waited for the big kaboom that left anyone inside partially deaf for at least an hour and the bar owner, who I liked about as much as cancer, enraged, especially on the second anniversary. I figured a trifecta would enshrine me in firecracker legend and really drive the guy nuts.
For the younger generation I must explain the M80 or “ashcan” and close cousin the cherry bomb were categorized as Class A fireworks that are no longer legal even in states that sell most kinds of fireworks. When federal law wisely banned all Class A pyrotechnics, except for professional use, a buddy of mine bought a trunk load from a Florida fireworks dealer who could no longer legally sell them. Those little grenades caused both of us a bunch of trouble, but fortunately we still have our hands and eyes, unlike many other poor unfortunates who were even stupider than we were.
Speaking of stupid, when I entered the O on year three Mr. Oasis met me at the door, grabbed me by the throat, and proceeded to slam a hollow head against a very solid doorframe, not particularly unusual conditions at the time, for either the Oasis or me. Popularity has a price, and for some strange reason it seemed a few people just didn’t much appreciate my humor, even refined as it was, and getting punched, kicked or otherwise beaten was, in later years, standard Oasis fare.
I don’t want to get into how my Oasis prank became known to the owner, but my days were over at the “O” as we usually called it, and not long after, so was the establishment. I guess without good customers like me it just couldn’t survive.
The fact that the Oasis operated at all in the super conservative Town of Jackson requires explanation. The O’s existence was a sorry part of rapid change all over our country that shook society to its core and is still hotly debated and contested. Free speech and expression banged up against old line WASP ethos and didn’t have a lot of Roman Catholic fans either. I’m somewhat surprised the O wasn’t torched by some crusader, but this wasn’t necessary. Like my M80s, the Oasis had its own built in fuse that was bound to explode, sooner or later.
On a most recent visit home, one of my friends told an Oasis story I hadn’t heard about two people we both knew who will remain unnamed. My friend was on his way to work early in the morning, and while driving past the O he saw two cars parked outside and knew the vehicles’ owners. He decided to stop and investigate.
He was surprised to find the Oasis door unlocked and went inside. One person wearing nothing but a pair of boots stood behind the bar. His customer was passed out on the bar, peacefully enjoying the sleep brought about by who knows how many drinks. I did not ask for further elaboration because even this bare bones version says enough and paints just the right Oasis picture.
If one studies the area’s history, early times in Washington County could be pretty raw too. There were no shortages of drunks and places for them to congregate, but I’ve never read anything about public nudity, which became the O’s primary attraction in its decadent later years. The O became a strip joint and this attracted a most mixed clientele, also part of the changing times, but some most likely always a local fixture, young, hard-working farmers out for a night on the town.
The O did brisk business three nights a week. Weekends were usually busy but the place really jumped right after the Tuesday cattle auction not far from the O. I’d bet my motorcycle collection many a cow had a rough milking the following day. Calling in sick on a dairy farm just isn’t an option, and I nursed more than one hangover myself staring with blurred vision at a typewriter while wishing I had more self control.
Part of the O’s success had nothing to do with its show time ambiance and much to do with location, right in the middle of what I’d call today Cambridge’s main tourist attraction, a bustling lake scene that drew people from all over the region. Two very popular public pavilions, one at Hedges Lake and the other at Lauderdale Lake were still operating, but long gone now, the lakes largely surrounded today by private camps. But in the 60s and 70s many rental cottages and public places drew large numbers of people, many with a particular interest in New York law.
I think Cambridge-area life would have been much different when I grew up if not for New York’s 18-year-old drinking age that also drew thirsty party animals from nearby Vermont and Massachusetts, both with 21 as the legal drinking age. The lowered bar was also attractive to the under 18 set who could pass for 18 or had one of many fake IDs I was once known for manufacturing while a high school student. To put it another way, in Cambridge at the time you were either under 12 or had ready access to booze. For a concrete example, I can remember sitting in the O while only 16 and counting the people I knew who were not of legal drinking age. In the packed bar we outnumbered legal drinkers.
At this time, though, the prime attraction wasn’t a strip show, but the real thing, girls, girls, girls who went to the O to dance to a live band and meet boys, boys, boys. For me, and I think most of my friends, wine, women and song were equal attractants, the later strip shows not so much. Welkin frequently played at the O and they were great, the best local band of the time and still at it as far as I know. Had the O stuck to this formula, I think it would have endured a lot longer, but would still be a dinosaur today.
The New York roadhouse scene in the 60s and 70s is now only memory, made even fainter I’m sure by lots and lots of beer. There were two other bars on Route 22 between the O and Cambridge then, both gone now. Hoosick Falls had more bars than Bourbon Street, most of which are also long gone.
“Drunk driving” had a completely different definition and mostly meant if you could walk straight without staggering too much you were just fine, a standard even local police usually allowed. The worst most police officers of the time did was issue citations for open containers of alcohol and many times an order to go home or else. Few were hauled off to jail, and usually only after an accident or in cases of extreme intoxication. I have mixed feelings about this today. On one hand, I’m awfully glad, as are many of my friends, that we grew up in a time of great tolerance. I’m also painfully aware of others who are no longer with us due to accidents mostly caused by being blitzed behind the wheel or handlebars, both most familiar positions in my reckless youth. I was most blessed this all didn’t end in great tragedy for me because for many, it did and still does.
But serving a lake full of booze to underage drinkers didn’t kill the O, a two night show did that. Again, being persona non grata at the time, I’m using second hand information, but it’s from multiple sources so I’m fairly confident of its accuracy.
As I understand it, the strippers were hired through a booking agency “in the city” or Albany as it’s commonly called. A last minute cancellation by “an exotic dancer” and the inability to find an alternate put the owner in a bind. A suggestion by a bar patron closed the show for good.
“I know a girl in Troy who will do anything for $50,” said the patron, and the rest, as they often say, is history.
Even if I had been an eyewitness, my sensibilities today would prevent a graphic public retelling, but I can use a saying a biker friend of mine often employed: “They were having more fun than the law allowed.” And in this case, the law heard all about it, just as about anyone on the Cambridge grapevine, always a sizeable crowd.
After numerous splendid reviews, Mr. Oasis decided to extend his new star’s contract for another night, and this was well attended by law enforcement who promptly closed down the O. I don’t believe it ever opened again.
Decadent or not, any time I’m home I often pass by the the Oasis site across from Dead Pond and can’t help but grin every time. Being an avid student and former teacher of history, I’ve read many historical markers commemorating human activities of all sorts, everything from Indian wars to stage routes. I’ve often wanted to erect a sign at the site of the old Oasis. Cambridge historians arise!
I have a design in mind, but I think it’s best I don’t describe it.