My friend Holly pulls in behind me and, as she emerges from her car, I immediately inquire if she thinks those gals were checking me out. She lets out a pffft and says, "Duh, they're hookers." I find this exciting and know, in my gut, that we must be in a prime dive region. The affirmation comes as we turn to enter the bar, only to be confronted by some junkie mumbling for spare change: "I'm from Texas and my car broke down." Ha! (This was the first of many such Texans we would run into tonight.)
We open the door and step inside and I'm transported to some weird time not unlike my college years in Wisconsin. There are three people in the place and it seems full! This place is small — really cozy small. The Do Drop is shaped like an "L" and when you walk in, it goes 30 feet straight back to the wall, with the largest selection of smokes and carry-out liquor I've ever seen in a bar, and dead-ends by the cheese-crisp cooker. When you look to the left, it goes another 25 feet past the lone pool table to the shitters. There is a sign at the bar that reads "$2.00 cheese crisps" and I imagine you can take a piss and still reach over to flip the melting crisps. I like small, cave-like places, so I immediately like this place.
Holly and I are taking it slow — it's a work night — so we order mini-pitchers for $3.25 and wait for our artistic/athletic friends, who arrive on their bikes and order the same. We say cheers to our outing and to this great place! Stevie and Joyce have been nagging me to get my pig ass up here for a long time. They're big fans of the Slope — the great restaurants, the cheap dives, and hookers and beggars. I can understand why they're excited; this is my type of town!
It's slow in here. The seasoned bartender, Carol, who had been standoffish and quick to take our orders, swells with warmth and even cuts a '70s groove to the music when Stevie leans over the bar. Carol, who obviously likes Stevie, plays an old bar trick hand joke. The joke is hard to describe, but if you lay your palm flat on the bar and tuck the middle finger under your palm, it's impossible to move the ring finger up off the bar . . . So she asks questions and you answer by lifting your index finger off the bar, which is done with ease. Next, she asks if you're good in bed and if so, move your ring finger off the bar . . . and it's impossible, so everyone lets out a big laugh. (Really, it's funny in person. Just laugh, or get your ass kicked with the sawed-off ax handle she hides behind the bar — true story.) Anyway, it feels like we've known her for years. Thank God Stevie showed up. I was beginning to think we were in for a long night.
So we're all laughing and trying to decide whose pitcher of beer tastes worse when Carol emerges from the back of the bar with a handful of dollars, as if she's going to a strip club, and she saddles up to the claw machine to win some toys. Holly elbows me, I elbow Joyce, and so forth as we all sit, jaws agape, witnessing a pro play this antiquated, quirky Gypsy game. It's like we're working for the Discovery Channel and have been waiting in the snowy fields of some distant land and have just caught sight of the elusive snow leopard for the first time ever! Will she win anything? What's her technique? Are those stretchy pants she's wearing . . ? On and on.
But first, I have to interject: I hate it when the bartender leaves the bar. To me, this is a huge faux pas, the equivalent of leaving the net in a soccer match, and, well, it's both tempting and terrifying. I'm nervous as I watch her and the emptiness in front of me, my attention bifurcated between the claw and all those unguarded bottles, taps and foodstuffs — an empty pulpit of strength. I start to sweat. At any rate, I manage to focus, and it turns out the other woman at the bar is the barkeep's sister and I've got money that says she could take me in a heartbeat if I made a move. So we watch and laugh as Carol pumps dollar after dollar and the metal claw slips over elusive fluffy ears. Carol bellows, "You little fucker!" and slides in another buck.
Holly, a huge fan of The Muppet Show, lets out a gasp and says, "She's got Gonzo!" Sure enough, we all look. And Gonzo, in all his purple-nose glory, is hooked by a few paltry threads dangling from his long, crooked schnoz, and he slowly glides over the other prisoners toward the trap door to freedom. Carol hoists Gonzo over her head and everyone erupts. I mean, this place is filled with sound — it's the highlight of our night. Carol settles back behind the bar and my anxiety fades and we settle in for some more drinks and bar games.
It's nestled in the corner, so I almost miss my favorite bar video game in the whole world: Buck Hunter. This is a simple game where you stand back three feet with a toy shotgun and pump the chamber (I just love saying that) and then shoot an elk as it runs across the screen. Simple, but fun and violent. Even Joyce and Holly are knocking down some innocent creatures, but Stevie is, well . . . an artist. So at one point, in frustration, Stevie cheats and gets the gun right up against the screen and starts firing away, blowing away bucks, when the two old guys at the bar (like the codgers in the Muppet balcony) — who have been drooling all night over the nice stances of the gals — chime in, "Hey, why don't you try hitting them with your purse!" This gets the place going; Stevie is having fun, but I watch to be sure he doesn't turn the gun on the crowd.
It's getting damn near 10, Gonzo is free, and some elk have died, so Stevie and Holly go out back for a quick smoke in the cozy smoking area before we leave. The smoking area is roughly the same size as the bar. It's outfitted with plenty of picnic tables and enough ashtrays for an army's butts. I'm still at the bar with Joyce, but I can see the smokers through some fancy new monitor that has four different camera angles on the screen. I'm like, wow, Carol, that is pretty high-tech for this old place — what's with the security? Lots of fights? People doing lines? Blowjobs caught on video? She says they're for catching people smoking pot. I laugh, but she means it . . . I ask her if she has confiscated any, and it's her turn to laugh at me and she says, "This is serious stuff. We could lose our license."
I'm not surprised . . . I guess a dive can be a blight on the community, and consequently, the community tries to squeeze them out. One thing is clear: The Do Drop Inn and Carol, in particular, are trying to keep it clean and keep it real, and I hope they can do it. I'd hate to see a classic dive like this one disappear into our memories, what's left of them. Time to find those hookers.
