My Dive Bar Has Closed Forever

Everyone has one and the one I once frequented to end my evenings has closed their doors. I'm not sad because I know there's another just around the corner. Long live Dive Bars.

Walk into Any Dive Bar, USA, and you walk into the societal alembic of what makes the core of our people unique. By our people, I mean the ones who have the nerve to get into the mix of things by way of curiosity in its purest form. Who are you? Where did you come from? Tell me a story.

And the only witness to any of this communal experience is the drink before us. Yes. This, I like.

Uninhibited but polite

Years ago, I often frequented my local, townies only, pub. Dragged there at the end of nights of dinners, lounges, and several other haunts. It was just the thing needed to become reckless. It was where you would actually run into people from high school, ex-coworkers, staples in the community, and anyone ready to throw a fist. It was cash only and of course there was a taco truck that raked in the money every night after the bar closed.

I walked into people having sex in the bathroom. I witnessed more arrests than I care to count. I saw a bottle break and be held up as a weapon and remember saying out loud, completely drunk, “This is not a movie, guys,” to no one and everyone who all ignored me or agreed emphatically.

In my experiences, the men were so kind. I am laughing as I write this because it is hilariously true. The blackened fingernails from blue collar work, the construction workers, the men who just needed a “good woman” to keep his house and often said things like, “I have a boat. I go fishing on the weekends. You should see it. Come out and fish with me,” missing teeth notwithstanding, were some of the kindest men I have ever come across. These men were polar opposites to the douchebags in any swanky parlor or lounge where there was a $15 cover or velvet ropes and bootlicking VIP sections. No, the men at the dive bar were perfect in every way. They were classic in the way they called women hun, sweetheart, young ladies, etc.

It was a place safe from the demands of a labelistic society that insisted it bends the code of dive bar culture to suit sensitivities. This was a motherfucking dive bar and anyone who doesn’t like it can leave. I loved this for the dives. There was once a time where one could stop off at any dive bar and immediately know the code. The rule was to walk to the bar, order a drink, STFU and drink it. Do it long enough, someone will social proof you and the rest of the bar will follow. You’re alright here. Have another.

“Leave the party before the devil shows up.” —Denzel Washington

From the dark booths to the bathroom floors , everything was filthy, dredged in a combination of human matter and alcohol. The people were so local that we kicked tourists out, calling them kooks (I live in a surfy area). But most importantly, as time went on, this was a place where friends came to have deep, private, life altering conversations. Inside any one of the four, deep red, vinyl booths with rips and patches, we gathered in windowless, dim lighting. This is where we talked about divorces, breakups, one night stands, rumors, and big decisions. It was quite possibly a perfect confessional for anyone.

We want your land

These dives have history and are built on lots that are decades old. Big corporate real estate doesn’t care about a code or a cultural phenom that dates back to prehistoric times. We don’t care than a man needs to get a beer after back-breaking work. Or that dumb college kids need to socialize and can’t do it without a shot (not that anyone drinks anymore). No one cares that young people who have social anxiety need to peel off the labels of their beer bottles and stick them to something because a peer is asking personal questions. No, Big Corporate Real Estate is going to make the proprietor an offer they can’t say no to.

And as quickly as your twenties are over, you see a Verizon wireless store right where you once threw up.

Soon, you drive by on that commute dropping kids off at school, right there, right where you fought in the parking lot. Right there, where you stood in line for tacos at 1am yelling something about your pussy into the dark, dark alleys with your friends, you see a thirteen-year-old with their parent walking out of the Verizon store with their brand new cell phone.

And you wonder: will you ever be lucky enough to know how dangerous and wild life can be without a GPS insisting that it can optimize your human experience?