There’s a
stretch of road on the wrong side of town (P.S.
I live there) littered with dive bars that advertise meatloaf and Allman
Brothers cover bands, their parking lots usually full of motorcycles and
pick-ups. I’d wanted to bar crawl my way
through them forever, and I finally found someone as dumb as I am to accompany
me.
Bar # 1
welcomed us with a group of grizzled old men chain-smoking and drinking
Budweiser from cans and black coffee. It
was 3 o’clock in the afternoon on a weekday. From the overflow of butts in their ashtray,
they’d been there a while. I’m not
knocking this life of leisure, I’m sure most of them were retired. But it’s a good bet at least one of them was
on “disability” from “wrenchin’ his back at the job-site”. The bartender was lovely though. She smiled at us a lot and complimented my
hair. She herself was still holding on
to a home perm with the poof and claw bangs that probably got her a lot of
attention at one time. She served up my
draft in a plastic cup with a fresh red manicure.
We’d picked
this place as the first stop for its likelihood of having food that did not
contain fecal matter. I had visions of a
buttery, thick Kraft singles style grilled cheese with those fat crinkly fries like
the kind you got at the pool as a kid. I
was sadly mistaken. Because the lady who
I assume was the cook—the disposable plastic apron gave it away—sat at the end
of the bar with her cigarettes and soda making small talk and watching her
stories. I sized her up and decided I
could wait.
So there we
all sat, admiring the tall boys lined up neatly and upside down (?) in the
cooler, my friend and I marveling that Ice House and Coors with the gold label
are still a thing.
The next stop was a little less new to me. I’d actually been there before. It’s the kind of place where people still slow dance on Saturday nights. Indoor/outdoor carpeting, a bathroom that looks like sepsis and has condom vending. Same fog of cigarette smoke, same beer selection as the first, but it was the twin brothers and cousins of the first group of men we met taking up the seats at the bar. We were just settling in when I saw a familiar face. A redneck gay I’d once rescued from an actual flea infested crack house at 5 a.m. He used to serenade me with Prince songs in coke fueled fits of impending stardom. I can’t tell you how much time I spent hanging out in his bathroom. Someone even proposed to me in there once. I declined.
With him in charge and knowing we were in good hands, we ate fried pickles and cheese, did a few shots, got to know Debbie—who possibly worked there? She didn’t have a tooth in her head and wore a sweatshirt with a duck painted on it. She danced like she had zero fucks to give. (I like her style.) I looked at all the good ol’ boys and wondered how many of them had had a go at her in their day. I was in the process of confirming that the answer was all of them when a sign caught my eye: “Sexual harassment will not be tolerated but it will be critiqued and graded”
Nicely buzzed, it was on to bar # 3. A tiny little house on a gravel lot that always reminded me of the kind of place in a movie where a car full of pretty teenagers from out of town stop in bad weather just before they get slaughtered.—Oddly enough, when I later shared this experience with my Dad he told me he had a gig here as a teenager and someone was beaten to death in the parking lot.—Anyway, the boys in this bar were decidedly younger and all house painters from the looks of things. Lots of white pants and paint splattered work boots and bad tattoos they were pretty proud of. There was no commercial cooler here, just an old Frigidaire with a sticker that read “Smile, it’s the second best thing you can do with your lips”. So we had to ask about the beer selection. The bartender was immediately suspicious of us. We’d obviously never been here before, and were clearly there to steal the attentions of all the good timin’ heart throbs she usually had all to herself. We tried to make small talk and even gave her a compliment but with that she probably pegged us for full on bulldaggers and tried her best to ignore us from then on.
The music was loud here. All the boys had to yell their hellos. One of them wanted to dance and ordered us a round of Jager bombs (because we’d time travelled back to 2006) but the bartender was having none of it and called him over to her. He came back with a sheepish “sorry ladies”.
The next stop was a little less new to me. I’d actually been there before. It’s the kind of place where people still slow dance on Saturday nights. Indoor/outdoor carpeting, a bathroom that looks like sepsis and has condom vending. Same fog of cigarette smoke, same beer selection as the first, but it was the twin brothers and cousins of the first group of men we met taking up the seats at the bar. We were just settling in when I saw a familiar face. A redneck gay I’d once rescued from an actual flea infested crack house at 5 a.m. He used to serenade me with Prince songs in coke fueled fits of impending stardom. I can’t tell you how much time I spent hanging out in his bathroom. Someone even proposed to me in there once. I declined.
With him in charge and knowing we were in good hands, we ate fried pickles and cheese, did a few shots, got to know Debbie—who possibly worked there? She didn’t have a tooth in her head and wore a sweatshirt with a duck painted on it. She danced like she had zero fucks to give. (I like her style.) I looked at all the good ol’ boys and wondered how many of them had had a go at her in their day. I was in the process of confirming that the answer was all of them when a sign caught my eye: “Sexual harassment will not be tolerated but it will be critiqued and graded”
Nicely buzzed, it was on to bar # 3. A tiny little house on a gravel lot that always reminded me of the kind of place in a movie where a car full of pretty teenagers from out of town stop in bad weather just before they get slaughtered.—Oddly enough, when I later shared this experience with my Dad he told me he had a gig here as a teenager and someone was beaten to death in the parking lot.—Anyway, the boys in this bar were decidedly younger and all house painters from the looks of things. Lots of white pants and paint splattered work boots and bad tattoos they were pretty proud of. There was no commercial cooler here, just an old Frigidaire with a sticker that read “Smile, it’s the second best thing you can do with your lips”. So we had to ask about the beer selection. The bartender was immediately suspicious of us. We’d obviously never been here before, and were clearly there to steal the attentions of all the good timin’ heart throbs she usually had all to herself. We tried to make small talk and even gave her a compliment but with that she probably pegged us for full on bulldaggers and tried her best to ignore us from then on.
The music was loud here. All the boys had to yell their hellos. One of them wanted to dance and ordered us a round of Jager bombs (because we’d time travelled back to 2006) but the bartender was having none of it and called him over to her. He came back with a sheepish “sorry ladies”.
I’ve never
feared for my vaginal safety before, but a bit of an uneasiness set in with me
here. There was something sinister at
this sausage party. Like the not so calm
before the storm. Why had we been
surrounded by men all day? Where were
the women? (They were probably all at
Olive Garden on fancy dates with guys in car clubs.) So we finished our bucket and left forever—but
not before discovering there was no lock on the ladies’ room door. But there was a brick to use as a
doorstop. Or maybe a weapon?
The fourth and final bar led us to a shopping center, abandoned aside from a flea market that sells only socks and iPhone cases, and a Family Dollar. Other than a table of blue hairs who all turned to look when we walked in the crowd here was more like what happens in real life. A mix of young and not so young, boys and girls, people were eating real food on plates, the music was good, there was pool and darts and bar stuff. Granted everyone looked like they were about 10 years behind, but this was a place where I felt like I could find some trouble and get properly drunk. And that I did. And probably made some friends.
At some point I turned and saw a gigantic, full wall sized confederate flag that I’d missed on the way in. I’m not sure why that was my que to leave, but I decided it was time to go (before I ended up in a room at a Best Western smoking Camels and drinking Pepsi from a 2 liter bottle with someone wearing only a Mossy Oak t-shirt asking me if I needed a cuddle buddy—wait, what?) and I was home safe and sound by 10:30. P.M. With nothing really to tell.
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