Back in June of 1999 I moved back to Dallas. I found a wee little apartment that was barely 500 square feet and had a dumpster parked in front of it but I didn’t care. It was my first place to call my own. Sure, I had an apartment in college, but I wasn’t paying for the whole thing. It wasn’t mine. THIS little piece of shit? Was mine. It has one bedroom and one bath, a wee little kitchen and stackable washer and dryer and a small porch that was big enough for a chair, but not for you to sit in and have you knees together, well facing forward anyway.
Mine.
I loved that little apartment. I smoked in it. I watched television until my eyes were blurry and I went out until all hours of the night and didn’t have to answer to anyone for anything. I had a job, I had friends and I had my little apartment.
What I didn’t have was a bar.
In my previous town I had a bar. The bar was where we held counsel, we debated politics (not really… but it sounds better than to say we debated whether or not so and so was truly a prostitute), we talked about the weather, our jobs, our spouses and if anyone wanted another round. The owner knew each one of us. The bouncers or door guys knew each one of us. The DJ or whoever had the cash for the jukebox knew each one of us.
Because we were alcoholics. (I kid, sort of.)
In Dallas I searched high and low for that “NORM!” bar that when I walked in, the bartender would have my drink ready by the time I got to him or her and I wouldn’t have to hand over a credit card, I would just have a tab and then cash out and leave a fabulous tip at the end of the evening when it was time for me to go back to my little apartment.
Stacey and I used to meet almost every Wednesday evening for Happy Hour (before she had a child and her husband was on a bowling league… shut up, I am not a home wrecker). We tried several bars but ended up normally going to Carson’s until it got kinda sleazy (and loud) and then over one street to Cape Buffalo, where it was also loud, but less sleazy.
Over the years our Happy Hours have been whittled down to once a month, if we are lucky. And we still go to Cape Buffalo. It is the only bar in the ArOkLaTex (quad state area) where one (and I mean me) can still smoke INSIDE a bar.
I had the pleasure of joining an old friend for Happy Hour back on December 19th at a local bar. Mister went with me and we joined Brent and his friends after my hair appointment. I’ve known Brent since I was in the 6th grade and haven’t seen him since… well, since I graduated high school in 1990 or before.
Meeting him at this little bar down the street was kind of nerve wracking to me as he looks the same as he did 18 years ago, just a little salt and pepper added into his hair. And I? Well, we all know that I don’t look the same I did last year, much less almost twenty years ago.
But? I was excited about the bar.
Brent talked about this bar (we reconnected through FaceBook… also, shut up.) like it was his second home. There are friends, and friendly people that you haven’t met yet that go to the bar regularly. The list of beer choices is huge and the best part? It is less than two miles from my house.
Mister and I walked in after I got repeated texts from Brent telling me to quit dicking around and hurry it up already. They had been there since four o’clock. He and his friends were out on the patio where all the cool kids went to smoke. We pulled up a couple of stools and settled in for a few hours of talking, drinking, eating, laughing, meeting and greeting and all the good things that go with a fabulous neighborhood bar.
It was so enjoyable that I have been trying to get Stacey over there for a Happy Hour. No, we can’t smoke inside, but it’s not all that hot or cold outside and we have coats. I think it will be a nice place and maybe someday I’ll get the “NORM!” reaction from a bar that I’ve been looking for.
Maybe it will be this one, maybe not. But I’m looking forward to finding out.
Apropos of nothing… I was just talking with Melinda about elephants and this little video excerpt is from a National Geographic movie aired on PBS called The Urban Elephant. Go ahead. I dare you not to cry.