Dance of the Dive Bar

Every town probably has one.  The ubiquitous "dive bar" that is the destination for so many people--the proverbial dangling carrot that helps them through their day or week of drudgery in a dead-end job.  In the evenings they drift in--the lonely, the desperate, the people that can't stand to drink alone, or the just plain thirsty people that have no social expectations.

I was in the mood for a beer and a burger Friday night.  I decided I would stop in on a place I had wondered about since moving here.  I found that Dave's of Milton on a Friday evening is the kind of place where I am the best-dressed person in the entire establishment, and I don't dress very well.

It's a place where, unbelievably, Bud Light is the best choice on tap.  I opted, instead, for something called Irish Death.  I'd say the brewery nailed the name perfectly.  It looked Irish, but it tasted... well, not good.  I couldn't put my finger on it, but it was as if something they hadn't planned on spilled into it during the brewing process.

Although they had things other than burgers, the burger page was the part of the menu I was interested in.  While I hoped for something unique, it contained only the usual fare you find on every bar menu.  There is always one half-pounder, one chili burger, one sandwich bread patty melt of some kind, one regular cheeseburger, one burger with something BBQ on it, and one dip burger.  I'm sure I forgot something, but that pretty much covers it.  Same menu--different place.  In all fairness, the burger I ordered was good.

As I sat there at my little tall table in the bar area, I noted things that caught my eye:

• The walls of the dining room (it's a bar and a restaurant), once pea-green, but now leaning more toward brown.
• The brightly lit but silent dart machines that lined the wall at the far edge of the dark bar room, hoping someone will step up to play their beer change and wake them from their twinkling slumber.
• The black-painted ceiling, dotted with rectangles of scotch tape from decorations past.
• The fire extinguisher standing behind the bar, trying its best to fit in inconspicuously among the liquor bottles.

There is something about the people that drop into a bar on a regular basis.  Of course, there are exceptions, but for the sake of this blog post I'm going to put them into two categories: one for men, and one for women.  The men usually drop in on the way home from work.  They meet their bro's or workmates for camaraderie, and end up staying too long--getting into trouble for their driving or by their significant others when they finally arrive home late.

The women seem to be on the hunt.  They are the divorcees or the working single moms that managed to get away from their home life for an evening.  They do their best to stay attractive and desirable by sporting bottled hairstyles of their youth, which they have lovingly shaped and reassembled for their "night on the town".  They stroll in like alumni, at once saying hello to the other regulars and letting their eyes sweep the room--sizing up the crowd for newcomers.

Like the theme song from Cheers, a bar really is a place where they can go, where people will greet them by name.  It's a place where they can be comfortable, have a good time, and be treated well.