Dive bars are known for overserving patrons. Dive bars are known for employees being drunk on the job. Dive bars are where fights often break out. I have been working at a dive bar for over two years.
If you want an unforgettable experience, follow these simple instructions. Drive to a suburb of Detroit that is filled with people who appear put together, where the place you’re going doesn’t seem to belong. You will see a restaurant on the corner. It will have a run down patio bar, and a sign that has been destroyed from the weather. Walk into the double doors (one of which has been out of order for as long as I can remember). See the host. (This is critical. If you seat yourself you will not get service). She will most likely be a bubbly high schooler eager to do something besides put in Doordash orders or wait for the phone to ring. Treat her nicely as she gives you a seat in the bar.
Once you are seated, you will be told that the server will be right with you. Depending on who you get, they might be on a smoke break and you will have to wait a bit. Don’t let this discourage you. In the meantime, you can take a look at the menu. I’d recommend not wasting your time looking at the list of beers on tap, I can guarantee they aren’t pouring. I wouldn’t advise ordering a cocktail either. They’re annoying to make and will probably piss off the server and the bartender. Oh, and don’t even think about asking if we have any of those fancy liqueurs. We don’t. If I were you, I’d go for a vodka soda and order a shot of Rumple Minze to get the full experience.
Great, now you’ve got your drink. Time to sit back and wait for the show to begin. I can’t tell you what time it will begin or what exactly will be showing, but I can guarantee there will be something. In order not to miss anything, you should take in the scenery. Look around and see the girl who is somehow balancing a tray of fifteen waters on one hand. The boy sneaking a mismade drink into a paper cup without management knowing (as if they’d care). The cups that have been sitting on the table for way too long considering none of the servers are busy. The managers on their laptops infinitely “creating the schedule.” The barstools on top of the wooden stage with the seats flipped upside down, in need of major repair. The perpetual smells of fried chicken, spilled beer, and melted cheese. The sound of clinking glasses hitting the table before the liquid disappears in one gulp.
But most importantly, don’t forget to take in the people as well. The couple next to you who seem too young to have martinis in front of them (and you’re probably right). The older couple who ordered what you believed to be way too much food, yet somehow they managed to finish it. The bartender, leaning, hands in pockets, talking to the customers while ignoring the mass of tickets pouring out of the machine. The flustered employee who seems to be having a bad day but you can’t figure out why. Trust me, no one can. And finally, the people who seem to all know one another: the regulars.
Let me introduce you to them (the way most people see them).
Russel: The failed rocker who spent all of his parents inheritance in 6 months in California. All he wants is a family, but he chose a life where most of his friends die before the age of 50. He verbally adopted me and calls me his daughter in order to combat this. He also calls one of the other servers “Mrs. Russel.” He will give you a soggy hug every time he walks past you, which isn’t necessarily a good thing because he smells awful. Beer, sweat, and cigarettes are not a pretty combo. He only drinks Post Blue Ribbon and shots of Jameson. This order combination is named after him.
Jackie Daytona: The manager who happens to be dating my mom. Together they have a collection of small animals on the ledge besides the bed in their studio apartment located across the street from the bar. Good thing he lives so close, because I honestly don’t know if he knows how to drive. He is a smoker and drunk, just like all of the other employees. He was even accused of being a cocaine dealer once after he kicked someone out for doing it in the middle of the bar. He is the one who introduced me to the listerine tasting peppermint schnapps called Rumple Minze. He isn’t afraid to tell customers to (pardon my french) fuck off.
Luis: He is the sous-chef at the bar. He is married, yet has asked me, and dozens of other employees, to go on a date with him. He is oddly specific about it, too. He always seems to be stressed out, and blasts screamo music in the kitchen. His body is decorated in colorful tattoos of people making up a butterfly and Star Wars characters. He is often seen sneaking margaritas while he is working.
Everyone else: The thirty something other employees. Some had kids at seventeen. Some have been on month long benders (getting high and drunk every. single. night). Some who try to sleep with people half their age (or twice their age). Some who are compulsive liars. Some who wear flashy purple jackets with tophats for their barback shifts and put on a show during karaoke. Most who have DUI’s. But all who love the place they work at.
Me: The twenty year old student, who was told that I was “all work no play.” The one who rarely drinks and hates the idea of drugs. Who has a steady relationship, but doesn’t have the courage to stick up for herself when she gets hit on by old men. Who doesn’t wear short shorts or show off her body. Who doesn’t swear or use crude language. Who is, by most people’s standards, a good girl.
And yet, when I am out with friends, I am often drawn to dive bars like this. Places in need of a paint job, that reek of smoke and bourbon, and where a conversation from across the bar is commonplace. Places where I don’t seem to belong.
You can’t understand it, you say? You say that I could get paid more elsewhere. That I could get home before 3am elsewhere. That I could have a higher clientele elsewhere. That I wouldn’t have to deal with poor management elsewhere.
And to that I say, I know. But let me explain.
I can argue that the reason is because I see them struggling. Because they took the time to train me as a host, then a server, then a bartender. Because they are always so short on employees. Because they need me.
But if you want me to be honest with you, the real reason is because I love to watch the mess. Be part of the mess. Because the people who sit on the barstools are accepting of every single person who walks (or often staggers) through the glass front door. The people who seem to be poor role models, I look up to. The ones who come into this dingey bar far too early in the day are the ones I feel comfortable with. Around them, I can (within reason) do whatever I want. Dance around the bar. Hide stickers of the managers in hard to reach places. Co-raise stuffed animals with other employees. Raise an army of plastic mini babies. Do “weird” things.
You will never see Russel, Barry, Jackie Daytona, Rod, Richy, Goose, Steve, and everyone else apologizing for who they are. Covering it up like the rest of the customers do. This dive bar, in the middle of our prissy suburban bubble, where everyone appears to be perfect, with perfect kids, perfect clothes, and perfect houses accepts that we aren’t perfect, and that’s what makes it perfect for me.
So while you may see these people as questionable characters, this is how I see them:
Russel: He is one of the most protective people I have ever met, and not just to me. Once, there was a kid who threatened to fight the bartender, and Russel was there acting as a bodyguard. He also will not go a day without telling the people in his life that he loves them. He can always tell when someone is upset and will let them rant about whatever it is for as long as they need. To say he would go to jail to protect any one of the girls who work here is an understatement.
Jackie Daytona: He is the go-to guy. Even when he isn’t working, he’s working. You can catch him coming in to cover his co-worker’s shifts, do manager duties on his days off, or deal with employees personal problems. He is also the person everyone relies on to do the dirty work, like firing an employee or telling a customer they’re cut off. Not only that, but he is the manager who cares most about the employees. If I tell him I’m having a mental breakdown from working too many days, he will be sure to find someone to step in, and if he can’t find someone, he will do it himself.
Luis: He is by far the most hardworking employee at the bar. There are countless times when he has been the only one to show up for the morning shift and the only thing he asks is that we be patient for the food to come out. He is also always cooking up new creations for the servers to try during their breaks.
Everyone else: The thirty some other employees whom I see as family. Some who are extremely smart and love to read. Some who work more than one job. Some who will offer you a place to stay. All who have one another’s back.
As the wee hours of the morning roll around, the server begins to push the tables and chairs to the edges of the bar. The bartender takes the cash out of the drawer and begins to count. The bouncer plops onto a barstool and lights a cigarette moments after telling you that you need to leave. You suddenly realize that you have been at the bar for far longer than you intended, now understanding what I’m talking about.
