Ok, as promised, today, the experiences that go with the list. It all started a few years back. I had just moved to a new city from a super small town. Day after day I drove by this house, and never thought much about it- hell, I never noticed it really- until one night I went out with a friend, he chose the bar since I was still new to the area and didn't know much about where to go or what to do. We pulled in the parking lot (one of those classy, parking in rear joints), went to the door and he hit a buzzer. "What are you doing?" I asked, a bit confused. "They have to buzz you in." He said. No way! This couldn't be true! But, sure as shit, the door unlocked and we were let in...
Inside it was dark, and dingy, and small, really, really, small. There were two other patrons in the entire place, one sitting at the bar, dragging on a cigarette and making small chat with the bartender, and the other playing a one man game at the pool table. I gathered from the conversation my friend had with the bartender that the place used to be a residence and at some point was converted into a bar. That's right, it was a converted house. This explained why it was so small, and is also the reason it became known to me and my friends as the house bar. The house bar has a real name of course, but what name could beat "House Bar"? There really isn't much else to tell about the place, other than the drinks were strong and cheap, and the bartender was friendly and there was rarely more than 4 or five people in there at one time. How the place stays open is a mystery to me, while I still pass it often, I have not stopped in in years.
Something about the House Bar peaked my interest in the 'off the beaten path' watering holes. I like going to places (be it a bar or a restaurant) that are small and quirky, especially the kind that have not yet found their way onto the 'favorites' list of the masses. The next dive encounter wasn't for a couple of years, but it was, in different ways, just as fulfilling as the House Bar experience. As I said in my previous post, many of these places have their own reputation, based on the neighborhood in which they are situated, so this particular place, nestled deep in the east side of town, was known to be a red neck hang out. The word box is in the name, and how fitting the name is, this place is SMALL, I mean teeny tiny, and it's just one box shaped room. If I remember correctly, there were maybe 4 or 5 tables in the whole joint, and maybe 10 seats around the bar. Walking in, I immediately got the feeling like I had just walked into a crowded house party... it's wall to wall people, and there is a sign listing what's on the menu for supper. No, it's not a restaurant, supper is prepared by the bartender, generally in a crock pot, and offered up to the patrons-for free- on any given night, weird right? Upon saddling up to the bar, ordering a drink, watching the bartender free pour what may be the strongest rum-with-a-splash-of-coke I have ever had, and then paying her the bargain price of $2.50, I now understand. They have to feed their customers, if any of them are expected to walk out on their own accord...
The walls are covered in pictures, literally wallpapered. Upon closer inspection, I can see that many of the photos have the same man posing with different, topless women. A sweet, middle aged man, with a permed mullet and very few teeth notices me sorting through the visual cacophony on the walls and informs me that the man in the photographs is the esteemed owner of the establishment and that the women are all past or present patrons. Mr. Mullet and I strike up a conversation, he's a construction worker, a veteran, and has some serious opinions about 'Nam. I skirt the war talk, even though it is not yet 7 o'clock on a Wednesday evening, he is already very much intoxicated and I don't feel as though I have much to add to the 'Nam conversation. I cash out, worried that Mr. Mullet might have driven to the bar and would hence be driving himself home. "Don't worry about him sweetheart." The bartender says, as if she reached in my brain and plucked out my thoughts. "He lives next door, comes in every night after work, and leaves after happy hour. Come on back and see us again sometime." She says with such a thick hillbilly twang it's impossible not to like her. I accept the invitation and assure her I'll be back as I walk out the door.
And, I did go back; several times in fact. The little Box was my favorite hole in the wall for a while. Cheap drinks, friendly people and ALWAYS interesting people watching and conversation... and, I can say that some of the redneck, white trash stereotypes were true. There are many east side-isms going on at the place. Most of the people who go there are working class Americans who work hard and play hard- the average age in that place is probably somewhere between 45-55 and the juke box is jam packed with country and classic rock. Mullet is for sure the hairstyle of choice, and sweat pants and acid wash jeans seem to be the preferred fashion. Nope, not your typical hipster joint indeed, but a good time nonetheless.
Eventually, the novelty wore off I suppose, and I set my sites on discovering a new hole in the wall to experience, and then another and then another. I usually set my mental sites on a place and stew about it a while. I wonder if what people say about the place is true, what's it look like inside, who holds the bar stools down night after night? The next place I infiltrated was a bit of a cheat, it's a hole in the wall from the standpoint that it's a small town bar... most of the people who go there are from said small town, and it's patrons indeed fall into their own particular stereotype. Many people from around town wouldn't be caught dead in there, and yet, others go every weekend or even every night. I wanted to check this place out more because I had grown up with the idea that this was not a place I needed to go... WHY NOT? I asked, and the answers were always vague and unsatisfying... and well, when I am told I should not go somewhere my curiosity about the place becomes almost insatiable. For weeks, months really, I pined to see the inside of the place. I begged people to go with me... I bribed them even! But to no avail. Until one night...The night the Solids were born. There are tales to tell about this night and those that followed and the making of my small town list, but alas, these are stories for another day and another post....
