Dive Bars are exhilarating beacons of culture. Walking into one is like walking into a major crossroad of the community. Some people are just passing through. Some are hanging around looking for the right partner. And still others are stalking prey.
All of these people have their own stories to tell. Each dive bar is littered with haggard, worn cogs in the social system escaping the cold autumn air outside, seeking refuge from the law man that sits in his car, looking for speeders and fun-loving hooligans that may upset the perfectly stacked system. They're people with and without hearts, both humans and robots, meeting up to mingle and see what sort of co-conspiring energy can be manifested.
Outside one such establishment on the Woodstock square, I ran across a public re-enactment of Romeo and Juliet. It was geared toward a more "urban" audience judging by the clothing style, and that may have been the reason why there were so few audience members beyond the typical smokers exiled to puff in the night's chilly embrace.
The Montague family greatly outnumbered the Capulets in this production. There were three Montagues and only Juliet. It seemed to be an X-rated version aimed at a more sexually charged TV audience, and by looking at the intensity of the argument between Romeo and his lady fair, I felt I was nearing the climax. The first blow job had been given, as with some more sexual encounters, and now Romeo had been ousted as a puss hound.
Romeo's eyes gave it away. They were cold and distant, hidden underneath a black hoodie. They cared not for the complexities of the human mind or the human condition. They only craved flesh. I imagine there was a terrible, burning hunger within them. A cannibalizing fire. Romeo just wanted to devour his Juliet - nothing more. He wanted to scour her until his hunger was satiated, in which case, his attention most likely turned to X-Box.
His friends stood a few feet behind him and giggled. They were the live studio audience on stage as Juliet, with her "crazy" eyes (a blend of sadness, anger, and past traumatic victimizations combined with smeared mascara), called Romeo out as a "dick head". She spew forth the troubles with their faux passion, reiterating dramatic cues she heard from primetime dramas - fighting TV-mindedness with TV-mindedness.
However, I've seen these television programs before. I can recognize what part of the story these actors were in. They were at the part of the story where Juliet bitched out Romeo for being in it for the nookie. Romeo would call her a crazy bitch and dump her. Then, they would depart, in which case Juliet would feel lonely and send him a text message. Romeo would see it and think about it as his loins burned. He would apologize, and they would meet up to reignite the fire that once burned between them, except this time, as they had been separated, the passion was doubly stronger (the climax!).
I didn't stay around to watch this drama end. I needed a drink, and I headed inside the cavern.
Dive bars are never new. Even if they've newly opened, each one has a look to them that screams, "this place has seen better days!" They have that cheap wood paneling one would see at the local greasy spoon diner. Slashed stools are sometimes bolted to the fake linoleum flooring. The tappers are typically domestic, spouting only the affordable beers pushed by tasteless corporate giants. Pabst Blue Ribbon. Miller Lite. Coors Lite. Bud Lite. Oldstyle. The bar maid is always a woman of average beauty. On a normal day, she's a 6, but her charm makes her a 9 on a plastered early morning. She's usually well guarded by the man who runs the karaoke machine - a middle-aged buff, bald man with a Harley Davidson-inspired beard. In the world of 'Road House', this man would have been a legend, but since that world is not ours, he is here, making sure the 6 isn't man-handled by any of the rabble rousers sitting around her.
On this particular night I found myself within mixed company. Across from me there was a lumberjack. he was a fat man in a red flannel shirt with dark hair. Hammered out of his mind, he was trying to make time with a red-headed beauty or her female bodyguard (the type of guard wing men are hired to dive into). It didn't matter which. The Brawny man was just looking for love. It had been a long week in the woods with nary a woman in sight.
A few seats down from him was Michael Caine, fresh off his butler duties for the night. He was sitting right next to Neville Longbottom of Harry Potter acclaim.
A bar fight almost broke out at one point. An overweight Clancy Brown tried to start a fight with two Harley Davidson fan club members, and found himself outnumbered in manpower and weight power. His gut just wasn't big enough to sling around.
I closed my eyes as a woman started screaming at her boyfriend. He apparently was making eyes at another, and she had taken notice. As her raspy smoker voice boomed over two girls singing Stealer's Wheels, I let my mind flutter free, reaching out to touch the soul of the dive bar. I wanted to embrace the neurotic nature of the cavern many called home. I wanted to absorb myself into the underbelly of American culture.
There was a black man sitting a few seats down from me. He was alone, playing a regular gameboy game on his gameboy color and drinking Pabst Blue Ribbon. Every now and then his named would be called up to sing karaoke. He mumbled out lyrics to the saddest love songs ever concocted. Then he quickly stumbled back to his seat and picked up his gameboy.
I couldn't tell whether he was sincere or if this was some elaborate ruse to entice the ladies in this establishment, to show them that he was sensitive and "different". If it was a scam, he had failed. No one spoke to him all night beyond a couple men commenting on his tunes. If it was sincerity, that begs the question, "Why did you come here?"
