Where? We're at 16th Street and Bethany Home, and all I can see is an empty parking lot behind a Taco Bell. I can see the Starbucks, and I'm thinking, "Hey, there's a great dive behind Starbucks called the Swizzle, what the fuck are we doing here?"
Carla opens the door and assures me that I won't be disappointed her long time boozin' pal Lisa assured her this would tickle my pork loins. So I exit the machine and Carla points to a break in the barbed wire that has a door with a NO SMOKING sign on it. Holy shit, one of these places is actually open. We attempt to cross the lot when squealing comes ripping out of nowhere and this half-crazed security chick comes hauling ass right at us in her beat-up golf cart. The brakes lock up and the rent-a-cop security gal heaves to a stop, smiling ear to ear. (I'm guessing the cart isn't the only thing souped-up around here.)
"Good god, what kind of engine do you have in that thing?" I ask. Then we do the age-old dance where she shows me what's under the hood. Or in this case, under the seats. I watch as six giant batteries appear, all tied together and just raring to go. She is clearly proud and fidgety and fucking scary. Carla starts laughing as the only girl in her family, she's used to this kind of macho bullshit.
Carla and the security chick get the seat back in place when our new friend notices a guy stumbling out of the bar, so she leaps in the cart and peels out after him. I'm glad she's gone, and glad they don't give her a gun; she's dangerous enough behind the wheel of that Sun City dragster. Carla and I both half-run to the door for safety and agree that woman is probably the best security guard we've ever seen. She loves her job and I love mine. We open the door and let ourselves in.
The name of this dive is Playa, and what smacks you right in the face here is the sheer size of this place. It's a 4,500-square-foot rectangle with 14-foot ceilings and a square-shaped bar right smack in the middle. The bar serves to separate the joint the front half has a pool table, a shuffleboard game, three pinball machines (awesome), and a big-screen TV from the '80s (which, thankfully, is off). The other half of the bar is where all the action is. We grab two stools in the empty front half and sit next to a few local drunkards. The bartender is a young hip chick with tattoos and a rough "no frills" smile. No "Hello" or "What do you want?" Just a blank stare that says, "Hurry the fuck up."
Carla orders a Stoli soda and I get a bourbon 7 and both are strong and cheap. I start to make fun of the bartender's bandanna that has tacky rhinestones on it obviously she owns a BeDazzler. (If you know what a BeDazzler is, then you are old like me). Carla gives me a quick elbow and says, "Why do you have to be so mean? Don't piss her off."
Hey: It's my job to be critical. I jump into my drink and a cartoon thought-balloon pops appears over my head that reads, "Am I really an asshole?"
And another that answers, "Fuck you, you're fine. Fuck you. Drink."
I bury the drink in my gullet and order another. It turns out those around me are doing the same. The more quiet, efficient, serious drinking types are on our side of the bar, and the young, raucous crowd is on the other side. We are in the right place. Even the scary-looking vato next to us buys us a round Carla is hot, so I'm not really part of the deal, but I take the freebie. A moment later, I carefully flag down the barkeep and tell her to get my boy a drink to return the favor. I also ask her what's with the barbed wire and is this place going under? She laughs and says, "Hell, no, this place has been here since around 1980 and it's not going anywhere. The barbed wire is just to keep folks from breaking into the empty spaces, keepin' 'em from stealing the copper wiring." For all I know, half the folks in here steal copper for a living.