Dive Bar

DIVE BAR

“Damnit, damnit, damnit!” I’d screamed, banging my fists on the steering wheel in frustration.

Every light on my dashboard had just started flashing red and it scared the bejesus out of me. I didn’t know what the problem was, but I knew it wasn’t good. The truck’s dash should not look like a Christmas tree on crack.

I pulled into the parking lot of a sketchy looking bar, cursing. The red dash lights were still strobing even after I stopped. I had no clue what to do, so I turned the truck off. I figured maybe it would reset itself—like my computer—turn it off, wait, turn it back on, and everything would be good in the world, and I could continue my journey home, right?

Yeah, no. I turned off the ignition and waited about thirty seconds, hopefully long enough for the motor to stop its temper tantrum and reset. But when I cranked the ignition back on … nothing. Crickets. There wasn’t even that clicking and whining sound it makes if the battery’s dead. Just nothing. My fifteen year old Tacoma was dead. The only sounds were the ticking of my quickly cooling engine, and my voice willing the truck to start.

“Come on, come on, come on. Turn on!”

I tried again. And again. And again. Each time, nothing. My truck was dead and I was royally screwed. I was stranded in the middle of absolutely nowhere. And I was starting to feel the cold.

“Coldest winter in fifty years,” the old guy at the gas station had declared two hours ago when I’d stopped for fuel for both me and the truck. I’d nodded and agreed that it was really cold—minus forty degrees cold. But, I thought to myself that I was in my warm truck, so it didn’t seem to matter that much as long as I didn’t go out into the cold. Ha! Karma certainly kicked my ass, because I was now feeling every one of those minus forty degrees in the cab of my very dead truck.

I quickly—and that’s relative—called roadside assistance. They put me on hold for twenty-five minutes. The temperature in the truck plummeted, the windows iced up on the inside. By the time the associate told me it would take between two and three hours for the nearest tow truck to reach my destination, I couldn’t feel my fingers. So, out of desperation, I’d walked towards the dimly lit bar.

From the outside I could tell it was the kind of place where people came to drown their sorrows, not meet friends. There’d be no live music on the weekends, or Trivia Tuesdays. And any food served would be prepackaged and microwaveable. This definitely wasn’t Cheers.

I took a deep breath, and looked up at the red neon sign—BAR. The “A” was burnt out, so it really only said B R. Appropriate, considering how cold it was.

Years ago I’d promised myself that there would be no more dive bar. Ever. Full stop. Yet here I was going into a bar. On purpose. Knowingly. Karma was certainly working overtime today—go into the bar, or probably freeze to death waiting in my truck. I pulled open the scarred wooden door, and stepped inside.

The warmth hit me immediately. It felt amazing. My face and fingers tingled as they started to thaw. I stomped my feet and rubbed my hands together, coaxing the blood to circulate back into my frozen digits.

“Come on in! Have a seat!” yelled the man behind the bar.

As I walked in, my feet made that sch-licking sound you only hear on really, really, really dirty bar floors. I swallowed hard, and headed towards the bartender. Desperate times called for desperate measures.

As I squelched my way in, I looked around the bar. It smelled like stale cigarettes, spilled beer, and regret. And it looked like it smelled—dark and dingy, neon beer signs in the window and over the bar, nicotine stained ceiling. Five Naugahyde covered booths patched with duct tape ran along the edge of the room, five more scarred wooden tables sat in the middle, with the obligatory television mounted in the corner, a sports channel playing on mute. There were six stools at the bar, the farthest stool occupied by a man of indeterminate age, baseball cap pulled low, hunched over a beer. The bar man was wiping glasses, watching me. The only other patrons were a couple huddled together in the back booth by the pool table.

I smiled at the barkeep. ”Hi there. I’m broken down outside, and roadside assistance said it will be between two and three hours before they can get to me. Is it okay if I wait in here?” Another smile.

”Sure.” He went back to washing glasses. “As long as you buy something.”

My heart did a little flip in my chest. “Uhm, do you have any tea?”

He snorted. “Nope. Not even Long Island Tea.” He squinted. “I can make a pot of coffee, if you want. You wanna coffee?”

I hadn’t had a coffee in about a decade. “Sure. I’d love one. Black, please.”

He turned away and started towards the far end of the bar, closest to what I suspected was the kitchen.

”Ray!” yelled the man, who was still hunched over his beer. “Grab me another, wouldya.”

Ray nodded grabbed a beer out of the cooler, twisted the cap off, launched the cap into the bar sink with a plink, and actually slid the beer down the bar-top to the man. He grabbed it without a word.

I slid onto the stool closest to the front door, undid my coat and looked around again. The bar wasn’t as bad as I had first thought. It was more old and outdated than really divey. It was a Tuesday night, and it was brass monkey cold out, so that could be why there weren’t so many people. I watched the television through the huge mirror behind the bar. The screen was backwards, but I wasn’t really interested in the five pin bowling championship that was being broadcast. I just needed something to look at.

Ray slid the coffee in front of me. “Thank you,” I said. “How much do I owe you?”

He shook his head, and turned back to polishing his glasses.

We sat in silence, the only sounds the country music playing quietly in the background, and the occasional laugh from the couple in the booth. Ray called over.

”Jimmy, you need another round?”

Jimmy conferred with his partner, and turned back to Ray. “Yeah. Same again.”

I watched Ray grab two more beers, repeat the cap flip into the sink, and walk over to the table and deposit the beers on their table.

We stayed like that. Ray gave the baseball cap guy another beer—twist, flip, clink, slide, grab. And I continued to watch backwards five pin bowling. I have to admit I was impressed with how serious they took their sport—bowling shirts with sponsor names across the back and above the heart, Nike swoosh bowling shoes, serious wrist supports, and everyone had their own balls. The balls were very artistic, with swirls and splashes of colour that created a kaleidoscope of colour when they were rolled down the alley.

I was still watching the final frames of the game. I’d turned my stool around and was really paying attention. I rooting for the guy with the neon green and blue bowling ball—it was the prettiest. Ray had just filled up my coffee without me asking, and retuned to the newspaper he’d been reading.

Then it happened. I hadn’t heard anything before the door pushed open, and people started pouring in. Not just a few, but about forty or fifty people. All at once. Ray looked at the crowd, took a deep breath, and said, “Come on in. Have a seat.” But he looked nervous.

The people streamed through the door. The regulars bailed when the place really started to fill up. Tables and booths filled up, people took off their coats and hats. A few claimed the chairs at the bar.

I turned to the man beside me. “What’s going on?”

”There’s an accident. Road’s closed. It’s probably going to be a couple of hours before it’s open again. Bus driver stopped here. It’s the only place we could find.”

I looked at the customers. “Bus tour?” I asked.

”Yeah. I’m the tour guide-slash-interpreter. This group’s from Germany. We’re heading to the big bonspiel in Thunder Bay.”

I looked at Ray. He was on the phone. “Now.” … “About fifty people” … Why not?” … “God Damnit!” He clicked off his cell and stuffed it in his pocket.

”Hey,” I said leaning over the bar. “I’m a server. Want some help?”

He started to shake his head, looked around the bar. “You sure?”

“I’m sure.”

I grabbed my coat and walked behind the bar. Ray gave me the layout of the bar area, prices. I would serve the tables and the booths. Ray would take care of the bar and make the drinks. Cash only, or a card. No tabs.

I grabbed a pad, a tray, and headed out. Beer—bir— was the big seller, and the bar turned into a defacto beer garden, or as I learned “biergärten.” Tables were pushed together, German songs were sung, masskrugstenmmen (stein holding) contests happened, and every new beer placed on a table was met with the toast Prost!

The group was hungry—they’d missed dinner. Ray looked a little worried. But we did have bags of chips, frozen pizza, frozen hot dogs, and jerky.

“It’s a bar, not a God-damned restaurant,” said Ray as he ran into the kitchen. There was disappointment in the fare, but not so much that they didn’t eat.

Then the dancing started—Schuhplattler (Bavarian knee slapping), Ländler (a folk dance), and Zwiefacher, and weird tempo changing dance that was really weird. We hooked up someone’s German folk music Spotify playlist to the speaker, and everybody joined in.

I worked my ass off, and had a blast. I learned some German, danced with a couple of people, and laughed a lot.

After about three hours the police stopped by to say that the road had reopened. The tour guide told the group it was time to cash out and get back on the bus. They disappeared as fast as they had arrived, leaving us with hugs and high fives.

After everyone had left, Ray and I sat down.

”Thank you,” he said. “I couldn’t have done it without you.” He looked at me. “Can I buy you a drink?”

I shook my head. “No. I’m fine.”

”I don’t suppose you’re looking for a job?” he asked.

I shook my head again. ”No. I’ve got a job I love waiting for me when I get home.”

As if he’d been summoned by my words about getting home, the tow truck driver arrived, full of apologies. We walked out and he tried to start the truck. Still dead. Same silence, except it was now frozen. He winched up the truck, and got ready to pull out. I ran back into the bar to say goodbye to Ray. He tried to hand me some money.

I shook my head no. ”I made out like a bandit in tips. I’m good.”

We shook hands. I ran out, hopping into the cab of the tow truck. I turned around and watched the B R disappear behind me.

I hadn’t wanted to go into the bar, but I had. My world hadn’t imploded, and the worst case scenario never happened. Instead I was able to prove to myself that my past mistakes don’t define me, but they did make me stronger.