Saturday Night Dive In

No Mojitos in this place...

 

Saturday Night Dive In


Asking for a Cosmopolitan might earn you a dirty look.

I love going to dives, which are bars with a questionable clientele. Think “Cheers” but with more actual working class people. The drinks are cheap, the conversations more colorful, and as soon as a mainstay makes his or her third trip to the bathroom, knowing looks are thrown around. Everybody doesn’t only know your name, but other things as well.

I remember the first time I wandered into a dive. I was bored on a Saturday night with no plans and I didn’t want to stay home. I’ve hung up my club shoes years ago and had started going to lounges, which are glorified bars with more tables, a couch or two and candlelit—all the more to charge almost twice the price for a drink. The drinks are usually better there, but paying about $10 for a Vodka and Cranberry isn’t worth the atmosphere. Plus, if you’re not with a group of friends, or on a date, it’s boring. So, I remembered a place that wasn’t too far from my sister’s house. The area wasn’t too terrible, I just minded my own business and sidestepped a couple arguing, and didn’t stare down a dark street where a shifty deal might be going down.

Soon as you open the door, the people at the bar turn to see who’s walking in. I was new, so attention was thrown my way. I could feel eyes burning my back as I made my way to the ladies’ room (my 1st trip, I was keeping track) to check my hair and make up. I couldn’t have been inside the loo for more than two minutes before someone was banging on the door. Groans and mumbles met my assurance that I would come out soon. “Come on, I ain’t got all damned night!” was yelled by someone before I rushed out, hands dripping wet as I wisely bypassed the hand dryer. The irate woman went in with about two others. I pretended not to notice and headed towards the crowded bar. A drunken old guy stopped me midway and told me that next time, I could use the men’s room. “I’ll keep a look out for you.” he offered, while peering down my blouse. I politely declined.
Like most dives, bars, pubs, etc…there’s usually two bartenders, each holding down their end of the bar. If you’re on one side of the bar, there’s no use in trying to get the attention of the other bartender on the other side, even on a busy night. Just think about the stock exchange with all those guys screaming at the same time. Just as you’re about to order your drink, maybe three other people might crowd near you with their money in the air, waving it like a red cape to a bull. My “Excuse me, can I get…” was no match for requests ranging from Coronas to Hennessy. “Hey Earl, let this lady get a drink!” screamed this guy sitting next to me, my hero. He moved his stool closer to mine and introduced himself. “My name is Henry, but everyone here calls me ‘Hammer’” he replied, with an outstretched hand. He seemed like a nice sort, wearing a smart sweater and slacks. “I got off of work, took a shower to wash my a*s, and came out.” Lovely. “So, what are you doing in here, you get lost?” he asked, laughing at his own wit. Before I could answer, the bartender tried to shoo ‘Hammer’ away. “Leave her alone, she’s too nice for you! Now, what would you like to drink?” Playing it safe, I chose a Rum and Coke “So, why do they call you ‘Hammer?’” I just had to ask when a few patrons nearby started cracking up. He just winked his eye, and ambled towards the door. A woman slid next to me and tapped me on the shoulder. She then motioned to old ‘Hammer’ and then shook her head. “Don’t let that one drink fool you.  You don’t want to know why he’s called ‘Hammer,’ trust me.” She cautioned before trailing behind him outside. Her eyes looked sad.  Something told me his nickname wasn’t a tribute to Hank Aaron.

 

I never did find out what Henry did to be known simply as ‘Hammer’ but that never stopped me from going back to that dive and others.