What is a dive bar? When I offend the owner of the establishment that this article on laid-back drinking holes was inspired by, the question of definition was an oversight.
“A dive,” said Tommy’s Pub and Club owner Jim Mack, “is a place for bikers, no-good doers and prostitutes, and we don’t want to be part of that list.”
Formerly Happy Days and Central Avenue Grill, Tommy’s on Central Avenue is a place for regulars. When a Tommy’s regular passes on, Mack has a memorial at the bar, and a framed photo goes up on the wall. Fishing pictures from patrons and NASCAR regalia make up the other decorations on the walls. Pickled beef sticks are sold for 50 cents — the same price as pain relievers, which is indicated by the old sign behind the bar. A jumbo computer is set up in the side room. Tommy’s has such a classic feel, a couple of movies and a rap video have been filmed there.
Mack was a Tommy’s regular for over 20 years before he acquired it. When Tommy died, Mack decided to help Tommy’s family out, as well as everyone that calls Tommy’s a second home. Bartender Ronda says the clientele ranges from 48 to 52, but Mack says that with the area’s growth, the joint has attracted more Plaza-Midwood yuppies.
The job of an old-timey barkeep is akin to an amateur psychologist. Mack doles out advice every day. Domestic problems are the most common topics, followed by employment issues. I told Mack that my girl is about to leave town and asked him what I should do.
“If it’s meant to be, let her free,” he said, then added, “Now if you were to say you raised a hand against her or were abusive, then we would have a problem.”
Several local dives are so exclusive they aren’t open to the public, as I learned while making the rounds. I was turned away from Keg and Cue on Tryon Street before making it into the bar. A second door prevents non-members from entering while the bartender peers at intruders through a rectangular slit in the wall. Creepy.
Another members only club is the Creek Lounge on Monroe Road. A hand-painted sign on the wall, “Accepting New Members,” encouraged me to try. Another sign posted the rules: “No Motorcycles. No Bike Insignia, No Colors. No Bike Apparel. No Weapons. No Drugs. No Drug Paraphernalia. No Drug Apparel. No Vulgar Language. No one under 21 except as designated driver. No Pets.”
A mixed gender (but uni-species) crowd of about 10 sat around the bar when I was there on a Saturday night. The sinks are located outside the bathroom, next to the pool tables, and an old shoeshine chair sits in a random corner. One woman was wearing a necklace with a glowing Jack Daniels bottle as the pendant. The barkeep pulled out a Polaroid to take a photo for my membership review. He couldn’t figure out how to work it though, and 20 or so photos came flying out of the machine. I was supposed to come back three days later to see if my membership was approved.
I thought the Creek was as redneck as it could get, then I went to Harry’s Pass-Time Billiards on Central Avenue. Chances are you’ve gone by this place many times without realizing it exists. Harry’s is in a grey, windowless building that looks long condemned. Inside, three buck heads hang on the wall. You can tell by the hornets’ nests hanging in a couple of places around the bar that nothing has been touched since the city was awarded the Hornets. For the first five minutes at the bar, Southern drawls were so thick I had trouble understanding anything. A woman missing some front teeth complained that her boyfriend filed a warrant against her for assault. She said she was going to kick his ass when she found him. Other things were said that made no sense to me. When a song came on the jukebox that someone liked, a man said: “Turn this up a cock hair.” To which another man at the bar said, “That depends on how furry you are.” Yet another man, sitting next to three chatting women, proclaimed while laughing uproariously, “I’m caught in the chicken coop.”
Golf was on TV and everyone at the bar was rooting against Tiger Woods. At first, I gave them the benefit of the doubt; they were probably just rooting against Tiger because he was the favorite. Then one of them complained that Tiger had too many different golf shirts and called him the N-word. Another patron called him a Rhodesian. I left my $1.50 Miller Lite unfinished and skedaddled.
To get to Jeff’s Bucket Shop, you must descend down a long flight of cement stairs, which gives you the feeling you’re entering a speakeasy — as one of Jeff’s faithful patrons described it to me. But inside the bar, which is scarcely larger than a bucket, the flapper era feel is lacking. It’s a hipster-heavy crowd — the Penguin of South Charlotte. When I was there, some girls were dancing to funk music like they had lost control of their limbs. On Wednesdays, Jeff’s has a “you be the DJ” night when people bring in iPods to share their favorite tracks.
The Press Box, next to the Bucket Shop, has been around so long, no one who worked there could tell me why or how the name came about. The bartender acknowledged the bar was a dive, and explained her dive bar criterion to me: If it doesn’t have windows to remind you that the outside world still exists, it’s a dive.
Inside the Fraternal Order of Police on Hawthorne Avenue is a bar called the Blue Light Lounge. I first frequented the Blue Light for an Elvis birthday party back in January. On a normal night, the only way to get into this dive is being brought in by an officer. Inside, I chat up Larry Walker, a retired cop. Walker had no designs to wear the badge, but after returning from Vietnam unemployed, it was his best option at the time. He’s worked in a variety of departments in his 30-year career, including homicide, and gave me the old “It’s a tough job but someone had to do it” line when I asked how hard it was to deal with tragedy and dead people. Old cases Walker never solved still eat at him today. As a general rule at the Blue Light, you don’t bring the job with you through the front door.
The Food Issue
This article appears in Sep 6-12, 2006.
You have not seen a true red neck bar till you have gone into the Oakhurst Country Club on Monroe RD. that is a true red neck bar, check it out sometime!