Bob Largess holds out hope in the face of gentrification

By Charlene Arsenault

It can be scary, The Hotel Vernon — a massive hulk with a bow that juts into the flowing chaos of Kelley Square like a ship in the shallows between islands of traffic. "The Vernon" is a place to stare at with a cautious and judgmental eye, long known to some as a home for the drunken lost and the down-and-out, sitting at the mouth of Millbury Street.

For those who seek that elusive urban quality called, among other things, "character," it's home to the dollar draft and the famous Ship Room, or "Kelley Square Yacht Club," a small function area built ages ago to look like the hold of a wooden vessel, right down to the portholes and ship's wheel. Legend has it that you had to mention the Yacht Club to gain access to the speakeasy in the basement, a small bar that still sits downstairs, layered in dust — and maybe ghosts. Above, the hotel's main bar sports a mural painted by Joe Miron, Bossy McGady (son of the original Vernon owner), Walter Johnson, Alfred "Al Capp" Caplin of "Dogpatch" fame and most likely Al Banx (who hung out there and is said to have coined the term "Kelley Square Yacht Club") snakes the upper crust of the room, a commissioned piece depicting "The Rime of the Ancient Mariner."

This is an institution with an honored place in Worcester's drinking history, one whose fortunes have ebbed and flowed with those of the community it has served in so many ways and for so long. Recent decades were not kind to the Hotel Vernon. If it survives intact, it's more by virtue of benign neglect than deliberate care. Its new owner, Bob Largess, has taken on the mission of reinvigorating and reviving its character — the physical structure, its place in the scene, and, most of all, its legend.

Largess has his work cut out for him. The Hotel Vernon sits directly above the nerve center of the most aggressive gentrification in the city. It is surrounded by the signs of growth in the Canal District, as the area from Water and Harding streets to Green Island is now known. New businesses, bars and restaurants dot the landscape. Somehow, The Hotel Vernon stands firm in a sea of change. If it succumbs, if it suddenly becomes hip, if it transforms as the district does, does it lose its soul?

In a way, what Largess is doing with The Hotel Vernon is a metaphor for the city of Worcester itself, a gritty former mill town with a profound attraction/repulsion to it, struggling for pride and a sense of purpose. The gentrification (or Worcester's form of it) of the Canal District is something the business owners in the area, and the citizen group called The Blackstone Canal Task Force, have been promoting for years, and to some success (see sidebar, page 12). CitySquare can't seem to ever get off the ground. No one will even talk about the Arts District anymore. Main Street businesses are slowly closing. But many genuinely believe in the potential of the Canal District as a travel destination, the proposed replicated canal the centerpiece of it all. Not only is Largess helping to ignite the Canal District, he's bringing two worlds of people together inside his bar.

From left: Bartender Bob Dolan and customer; perky art on the Ladies’ Room door; Hotel Vernon aficionado Allie Bombz; and the sign that made Kelley Square famous.

What with his striking white beard and pony-tailed hair, Largess — who's embedded so many nautical terms in his vernacular that you'd think he had formerly been a sea captain — has the bearing of an old-time sailor, in port for some time and telling stories of glory days past. Wildly infectious, friendly, and brimming with historical nuggets, he'll tell you "Worcester doesn't have to apologize anymore" as he recounts the many legends of "The World Famous Hotel Vernon." Here's a man who holds tight to his beliefs: "Kelley Square's the ninth wonder of the world — we don't need to fix it," for one.

Look closer, and that face engulfed in hair is youthful, belying the antiquity of the snowy beard. The contrast of old and new is a lot like the bar — and hotel — he owns. The Hotel Vernon's innards are formed from dark tobacco-stained wood, old floors and tables. Its plumbing is as old as the bar itself. But aside from buckets of Lysol and updating pipes and such, "I think it would be a mistake to gut it and upgrade it," says Largess. "It's more about preserving it. We have to be up to code and be clean, and I'm very aware that the bathroom has to be fixed. It's just about money."

He's finding the balance between the old and new, between the scary and the curious, welcoming the positive effects of new activity in the neighborhood, while holding on hard to keep The Hotel Vernon a gritty, honest, working-class establishment.

Yet slowly, those regulars who call The Hotel Vernon home (and a number of them literally do, as they live in the rooms upstairs) are being forced to make room for fresh faces — the "slummers," who want to see what it's all about. As much as it may appear that the place is a rooming house, Largess actually holds an "innkeeper's license," and operates the hotel as a hotel, renting out the 34 rooms above the bar by the month, week or night. It's $125 for a week, $40 for a night. Right now, 28 rooms are occupied.

There's one named Tommy, who'd rather not have us tell more, who's been living — and drinking 90 cent drafts — there for 24 years. The first time he came to the Hotel Vernon was in 1947, when the McCadys, who built it in 1901, still owned it. Tommy bounced around from countless Worcester addresses and jobs. He's among the disgruntled, not necessarily overjoyed with those punky, youthful insurgents. "It's not the same in here," he says. "Of course, everything is loud today. In those days, in this place, you had all the politicians in the city coming in here, and even the doctors from St. Vincent Hospital would stop in here. It was a pretty quiet place. There aren't necessarily fights, but they just talk loud. When I grew up, you didn't have all this rock and roll business."

Faces at the hotel (from left): Sherry the bartender; Timmy Lynch (left) and his mimic, Jon True; resident Jim Holbrook; and the crowd goes wild at the recent Ukapalooza.

Yet, if there's a revival going on, it's thanks to people like Deb Barron, who's been attending the weekly Wednesday night open mics since they started months ago. "It's a cool room and I love the history," says Barron, a member of the board of directors at WCUW, the community radio station. "Honestly, my one memory of The Vernon Hotel, coming by here every day on my commute in the morning, is getting stopped in traffic in front of the building and seeing an old naked man standing outside the side door with a shaggy beard looking very disoriented. I've had people ask, ‘Have you been down there? How's the parking? Is it safe?'"

Barron gets the feeling that while regulars and employees of The Vernon are protective of their turf, they also want newcomers to feel welcome and safe. When a tattoo-smothered man approached Barron, acting creepy and showing her the latest report from his session at the State Hospital, the bartender quickly rushed to make sure everything was OK. "I think there's some vigilance here and maybe a little bit of resistance toward the new people who are coming in," says Barron. "But I think the people who work here are very protective of the place, but want to make it a go. I think it is sort of arrogant for people to go into someone's world and expect them to get out of there maybe because it's not comfortable."

Allie Bombz used to be terrified of The Hotel Vernon and its surroundings, but now he's living there in order to make a movie about the place. "The thing about The Vernon is that it is an anchor," says Bombz. "It's an anchor just by being this fossil of history we have. To be a beacon of change, the neighborhood will grow around it and it'll remain an anchor of what Worcester is all about, which is working class. The place is about charisma."

Here was the scene on a recent Friday night in April.

Holding court at the center of the bar is a heavily tattooed girl in a bustier, dressed all in black. She tenderly escorts in a 70-year-old guy from the street — another regular — to join her group and buy him a beer.

Diagonally behind her sits a public school math teacher and his girlfriend. He's in a light blue button-down Oxford and a Sox cap. Two guys, one a sometime-resident, both cut off by the bartender, walk/stumble back and forth. One sports an Orange County Chopper shirt and sweatpants.

A character looking suspiciously like a cross between Cheech and the knife-thrower in Desperado sits and tells stories with Oxford Shirt for a bit. He calls himself "Wild Bill."

A group of college girls laughs at a nearby table and 'Gansetts flow everywhere.

The Ship Room was set up for a Saturday wedding, and in the main room, the jukebox meandered from Croce to '90s-era Santana to Stevie Nicks. A regular customer perches on a stool halfway down the room and alternates between singing along with Stevie Nicks to screaming "TAKE NO PRISONERS." No one acknowledges him.

A local poet/college professor works the bar and a Bukowski-esque cast of characters wanders in and out.

Two weekends ago, a festival called Ukapalooza drew a crowd of new faces that packed The Ship to capacity, with plenty of hangers-on in the front bar, too. It wasn't he first time since Largess bought the joint a year and a half ago that he's packed it. More and more, visitors pop through the doors to just see what all the fuss is about. "So I heard Babe Ruth drank here," they'll say. The night of Ukapalooza, he led a trail of at least 20 through the bowels of the Vernon, revealing lesser-known nuggets of the speakeasy's history.

Paul Orrizzi was in The Hotel Vernon for the first time, waiting by the kitchen with a crowd of about 25 to tour with Largess. "We saw the advertisement in the paper for the uke fest and we had never been down here but had heard a lot of stories about the place," says Orrizzi. "I didn't really know about it, to tell you the truth. There's a lot of history to it. That's real stained glass in there. But, we're having a good time tonight."

Arthur Couture sat back in The Ship with a friend, waiting for the next ukulele performer: "Usually when you go by getting on to the highway, you don't want to stop" he says. "The venue is fine. It's just a matter of do we get back to the car? The musicians here are great. That's basically why I'm here. I'm not really afraid to walk in, but wondering if the car will still be there."

A few months ago, R&B band The Valves were shocked to find they could jam the room as well. Sax player Steve LeClaire said some of the guys in the band were leery of taking the gig just based on "past reputation." At rehearsals, they'd refer to it as "The Hotel Vermin," plugging in the customary Blues Brothers references about chicken wire and Cheez Whiz.

"I told them to take a chance," says LeClaire, "and that Bob had been doing a really good job of cleaning it up without destroying its charm, and that we'd rock the place."

Fans, regulars and the merely curious bumped elbows and seemed to co-exist peacefully at The Valves show. "After experiencing the intimate vibe there," says LeClaire, "a lot of people said they'd definitely be back. We heard a lot of comments like, ‘What a great place to see a band like The Valves. We can get right up close, it's not too loud, and this Ship Room thing is just so cool.'"

The Ship Room is cool, and Largess will eagerly share with you the history of the venue (and its surroundings), from its prohibition patrons (including The Babe) to the story of Cornelius Kelley, for whom Kelley Square is named (see sidebar, above), to theories about who "Madame Rhubarb" really was. It's not surprising he knows so much. He's been a fixture on the street for decades, as his family owns McGovern's Package Store.

When Kenneth "Red" Bergeron, The Vernon's second owner (he bought it in the '70s), knew it was time to sell, he also knew his baby would be safe with Largess. "I was lucky to be working at McGovern's when I heard it was for sale," says Largess. "The owner walked in and said he was going to sell it. I said, ‘I'd love a shot at it, Red.' Weeks went by before he came into my store and he asked for my hand. I congratulated him because I thought he won the lottery. He said, ‘No, you dope, I'm selling you The Vernon.' He said, ‘You get it. You understand. You work. Some people don't.'"

He'd worked at his family's package store for 29 years, taking over as the eldest son when his dad was killed in botched $30 robbery on a Tuesday night. His family (including his great grandparents) had also owned The Ivy Café. Being involved with the district for so long (he had been active in the initiative almost 20 years ago when it was reported that the Mass. Pike would put an interchange on 146 in Brosnihan Square), he's invested in the neighborhood.

"Largess is a great guy and The Hotel Vernon is a great building. If anybody can turn it around and make it an eclectic venue, it's [him]," says David Lemenager, owner of the restaurant 86 Winter, located at 65 Water St., along with Karon Shea Modeling and Dance, Brickyard Place and The Dzian Gallery, "and now Vincent [Hemmeter, who recently bought Stoney O'Brien's] is down there and he's got his own cool concept. They are really going to town around here. Keep it coming. It would be nice to see some housing now, where there are venues to counter-support it. He definitely has a passion for this neighborhood."

Worcester Magazine Publisher Allen Fletcher has lived in the district for the past five years, and now he works there, too, having moved the offices of this magazine to Water Street less than two weeks ago. He also serves as president of the Canal District Alliance, the more formal version of the Blackstone Canal Task Force. Looking east out his window at the unpretentious, homely, urban landscape — mill buildings, commercial buildings and three-deckers spill down from the hill — he says it's "just so Worcester you can't begin to describe it.

"I think a little gentrification is a good thing," adds Fletcher, "but I don't think gentrification in Worcester is like gentrification anywhere else. I think the people who care about it, and the people who care about Worcester really care about the Worcester-ness of it."

As LeClaire explains, Largess understands that no one actually "owns" the Hotel Vernon, and that he is "just captain for this particular leg of the voyage." Ask anyone pulling for the place, and the neighborhood, and it feels that there's a movement tumbling into the bar, and into the area, already. There's little reason it can't work. "Why can't you market the oldest bar in the city progressively?" asks LeClaire. "I think you can. I think that the Canal District needs a mix of individual places, just like The Vernon. The minute they put in a KFC, a McDonald's or a freakin' Wal-Mart down there, God forbid, that will be the death knell. It needs to be a collection of different ethnic one-of-a-kind places. That's what will make it work, and what is making it work." o