Charly is a 1968 sci-fi movie based on the 1966 novel of the same name by Daniel Keyes (which itself was based on the author’s 1958 short story “Flowers for Algernon.”) Charly Gordon is an intellectually disabled man, and Algernon is a laboratory mouse. Scientists have performed a surgical procedure on Algernon that has turned him into a genius mouse, exemplified by his ability to run through a maze in record time. Charly is next. He’s given the operation, becomes a genius, then discovers the mouse lost its super smarts and died, which will be Charly’s fate as well.

By the late 70s I was living in the Chelsea section of New York City and busy mis-spending my relative youth in the West Village bar scene. For urban twenty-somethings it’s not uncommon to adopt a watering-hole and immerse yourself in its society, the hub of which is a core group of evolved barflies, but barflies none-the-less, the “in crowd” everyone wants to be in with. Think high school. Bars welcome these power pods because they’re good for business, giving a saloon character and making it a place people seek out. When I look back it’s astonishing to think of the hold that daily Happy Hour destination had on us, how charismatic personalities can throw such energy into a room you’re convinced that something is about to happen even though nothing ever happens. The Billy Joel song that goes, “It’s nine o’clock on a Saturday, the regular crowd shuffles in,” comes to mind. But I don’t regret it. For one thing I eventually got out, I did not wind up “making love to a tonic and gin” forever and, misspent as it may have been it wasn’t expensive—a bottle of beer was 75 cents, generic booze was a dollar fifty and the expensive stuff was all of three bucks. But more than that, it was an education. A neighborhood bar can be a world of its own, populated with imaginative characters. Stories abound. Here’s one of them.

There was a power pod with an interesting pedigree based in a saloon on Greenwich Avenue. Men were around, but this group was strictly a sisterhood. Think girl scouts with a drinking problem. Don’t get me wrong, all of them functioned okay, but alcohol occupied a major role in their lives. They were also considered “the Old Guard,” a description they gave themselves. Less charitably, they never stopped making love to their tonic and gin. Still, they were accomplished in various ways. There were eight in total: Lee, an author who made it onto the New York Times bestseller list, two bar owners, Lillian, who had a place on Third Street, and Paula, who had the one on Greenwich, Doris, a corrections officer, Nancy, a stand-up comedienne whose college roommate actually gained national fame as such, Elaine, the most literate barmaid in NYC (and at the helm of the bar on Greenwich), and two Vasser graduates whose names I don’t remember.

One afternoon on Elaine’s day off they all gathered at her Charles Street apartment. The conversation turned to movies and, although a decade old by then, the subject was Charly; the focus was Algernon and the wonderful scenes of the mouse speeding through the maze. Someone raised the question: Of all the people we know in the Village, inside this room and out, which one is the “Smartest Mousie?” They made it a project. Everyone was to write their choice on a slip of paper and put it in a bowl. And, as each one did, they all said the same thing: No one else will pick this person, and I don’t really know why I am either.  The first name is read. Betty (a regular, but not one of the eight). The second name is read. Betty. The third, Betty, then the fourth, the fifth, and through to the eighth, all Betty. Unanimous. Betty was the “Smartest Mousie.” And everyone had been sure she was the only one who thought so, and not one of them could explain why.

The stuff of legends! The story was told and re-told, how with the reading of each slip of paper the anticipation grew, how again and again it was the same name! Days later chosen members of the Old Guard laid this laurel wreath at the feet of Betty, and waited for . . . a humble bow from the waist? Gratitude for this great honor bestowed on her by what was broadly recognized as the illuminati of the West Village? Instead, Betty shrugged and said: “Big deal. Half of you are drunks and the other half are on their way.”

Betty was ungracious. But to be fair the Old Guard had an on-again, off-again appreciation of her, and when it was off, it could be mean. They were all a decade older than she was and expected, no, demanded deference. So, on Monday it was an arm around her shoulder, on Tuesday, “that seat is taken.” Not all of them though. Elaine the barmaid and Doris the corrections officer didn’t play that game. (Note to reader: When gaining favor go with the bartender and the one who is armed.) Safe to say, great umbrage was taken.

A week later Betty is sitting at Elaine’s bar and the foremost member of the Old Guard, Nancy, with the connection to show biz, walks in and takes the stool next to her. Betty, who’s been feeling bad all week, had bruised feelings when she made her “You’re all drunks” comment and wishes she hadn’t. Nancy says: “About what you said when we voted you Smartest Mousie—” Betty interrupts her with “I apologize, I was very ungracious—” Nancy cuts in, “No, it’s okay. Everybody was really mad at first, but fact is you’re right about the drinking. Nobody is mad anymore. We just want one favor.” What? “We don’t know why we chose you. So please, you tell us. What does it take to be the smartest mousie in the maze?”

What is a maze? It’s something designed to get you lost and confused. Betty blew out her cigarette smoke, took a swig of beer and turned to Nancy, who was sometimes nice and sometimes cruel, and said: “Don’t go in the maze.”