Everyone Needs a Place Like The Par 4 or "There's a Tear in my Beer"

  

"In the last year that the Par 4 was in existence, a Cuban refugee, Hermes Entenza, lived next door at the Honeycutt's. We went to the Par 4 once. Hermes' only livelihood was painting. I asked him to paint me a picture and when he asked of what, I said "the Par 4". This is it."
Robert H. Lee

"There's a tear in my beer 

'cause I'm cryin' for you, dear   

You are on my lonely mind. "

Hank Williams

I hopped up on the barstool next to my friend who had arrived just before me at our regular hang-out.  Before my butt hit the vinyl covered cushion, my Miller High Life was being placed in front of me on the bar. It was that kind of place. They knew your beer and watched the door to see who was coming in so they could grab it from the icy cold cooler and serve it before you had a chance to ask.  There was no need for questions about how you would pay. If you had been there before you were automatically added to a little recipe file box of index cards. Each card had someone’s name written on it. And each card had a series of hash-marks which kept track of how many beers you had drank. When you paid, which was whenever you happened to have some funds available, they simply scratched through the corresponding hash-marks with the number of beers you paid for. 

All beers were one dollar, so no need for pulling out a calculator.

I grabbed the salt shaker from the counter and salted the rim of my bottle, took a swig, and turned to my friend.  “I found the perfect job for me in the paper today!” I exclaimed. He half-laughed and smiled as he retorted, “What? They are looking for someone to sit on a barstool, drink beer, and philosophize?”  Hahaha.  This quick answer had me laughing already. It’s why I came here to this little pub named The Par 4.  It was a place to laugh.  It was a place for the broken-hearted to come and have fun. A place to be yourself. If laughter and camaraderie have healing powers, then this was a place to fix your broken heart.

Joe

My own broken heart had lead me here.  After a break-up of a three-year long relationship I had nowhere to spend my weekend nights.  My ex-girlfriend and I had hung out with other couples and spending time with a bunch of lovebirds was the last thing I wanted to do.  I was living with my parents as I was trying to wrap up college.  We lived on a lake surrounded by farm land and dotted with small towns.  There were only three bars in the area. The Par 4 seemed like an unlikely place for me to go, but I was desperate to have company.  I walked in to the dimly lit pub which had previously been a Pure Oil gas station and service bay.  Jimmy was bartending that first night. His step-father and mother owned the joint. He was the only person in the place and obviously hungry for company as well.

As I drank my first cold brew, Jimmy told me about his recent break-up with his fiancé. She was also the mother of his son.  Jimmy was the same age as me. I told him about the fresh heartache I had suffered and we were fast friends.  The next beer was on him. And the next. Jimmy needed to talk and I had nothing else to do so that made me a good listener.  I needed to talk and Jimmy was stuck behind the bar I sat at, so he was a good listener too. We came from different worlds. I was a wannabe hippie that went to college and Jimmy was already a Dad and working to support himself. But that did not matter, because heartbreak does not discriminate.

The bar was uniquely situated just inside the local college town. A prestigious college well known for high academic standards. Just on the other side of the town line was another town.  These communities sat side by side for hundreds of years and were polar opposites in most every way.  The other town was a mill town. Old textile factories or whatever manufacturing had moved into those factories employed everyone who lived there. They were working people. They ran machines, worked odd shifts, and drove forklifts.  They came to The Par 4 after long hours of standing on their feet or moving heavy objects onto trucks. They came to sit, relax, and laugh with friends.  I don’t remember any of the Managers from these plants frequenting the establishment. Nor did the professors from the college. But the Professor’s kids that were my age were regulars.  The occasional group of students would nervously come in, but I’m not sure that they had a full appreciation for the beauty of this dive.  No doubt, it was a dive. Concrete floors, the old car lifts buried beneath the them. The barstool's rips were repaired with black electrical tape.  There were pickled eggs, Penrose sausages, and Sardines on the menu. Well, there wasn’t a menu, but the delicacies were prominently displayed on the shelf behind the bar.  Oh, and they had pickled pig’s feet as well.

Me (wannabe hippie) John (intellectual who hunted and split wood)

I made new friends. Good people.  Some that I had gone to high school with who were wrapping up their higher education as well. Some of my new friends were twenty years older and looked thirty years older. Factory work ages you. Some were extreme intellectuals who grew up hunting and splitting wood. A few were former city people, like myself, who had moved to the lake after the interstate was completed. I even made my first friend from across the pond.  My very proper British friend came here because it reminded him of pubs back home.  But we all had a few things in common; we liked to drink beer, we liked to laugh, we craved company. No matter which town you came from we all liked to discuss deep matters on occasion.

 

The bartenders became like family to me. Of course Jimmy. There was Nancy, Margaret (the owner), Mac (the other owner), and my favorite of all known simply as Slab.  Slab was a huge man with a huger heart. He poured beer into little paper cups so that he could drink along with us as he tended bar. He told jokes and heaved great belly laughs as he slapped his hand on the counter at the delivery of the punch line.  He was slightly hard of hearing so every time we played Liar’s Poker he would need a little clarification from time to time.  I might say, “I have six eights.” Slab would look at his dollar bill, scratch his head and ask,” Did you sat Aces or Eights?” I would reply, “Eights.” Still there would be a bewildered look on Slab’s face. “Snowmen?” he would ask. Smiling, I answered, “Yes. Six snowmen.” At that, Slab would call Moose and we would all examine each other’s bills to see if the total number of snowmen added up to six.

Slab (RIP David Stinson)

Slab was completely unaware of the concept of political correctness.  When he used offensive words I was comfortable enough to engage him in a conversation about why I thought that particular word was offensive. He always listened politely and seemed to consider my opinion. I doubt it had much lasting impact, but that was the kind of place this was.  He could say it and I could raise my objection, but we understood that we were different individuals and our own circumstances had brought us to this point. There was no need to judge.

The first time I brought my future wife to the place, I had warned her in advance about the potential for something offensive to be said.  We sat at the bar and I introduced her to Slabbie. He served our beers and looked quizzically at my date, who resembled the cover photo of Anne Frank that we are all familiar with. I could tell that Slab sensed that there was something different about her. I was getting worried. Was Slab anti-Semitic?

Clearly puzzled he bluntly asked, “What are you? An Injun?” 

Oh, man! I burst out laughing. My future wife looked at me with wide eyes, smiling. “What?” she asked. I knew this was a case where an interpreter was needed.  I said, “Slab thinks that you are a Native American.” She laughed. Slab was still looking for an answer.  He seemed unable to put his finger on what was ethnically different about my girlfriend. In those towns you were either of Scots-Irish descent or African-American. I explained that she was Jewish with Eastern European ancestry.  He seemed satisfied and returned to drinking from his paper cup.  

By the end of that evening he had drunk so many little paper cups that he eventually was standing on one of the swiveling barstools, doing the twist to the song blaring from the juke box: 

"Here she comes now sayin' Mony Mony" 

Some nut suggested that Slab “take it off, take it all off” and he obliged by dropping his pants!  After witnessing the largest pair of Fruit of the Looms we had ever seen, my date and I made a quick exit out the backdoor, practically falling on one another. 

Laughing out loud.

Not every night at the Par was fun and games.  Whenever humans gather there is bound to be tension. Especially when alcohol is involved. There were fights, that typically ended with men hugging and saying how much they loved each other. There were nights when a woman that was a former Austrian Nazi would get drunk and spew hateful and racist words. There were nights when Margaret, the owner, would get so wasted that she couldn’t walk or talk.  Her son Jimmy the bartender would ask me if I could take her home.  I would drive her nearly passed out self to their trailer on the lake where I would have to support her on the walk to the door. 

Jimmy would cross a few hash-marks off my tab.

There were sad nights when I watched Elvie the waitress pour her tip earnings from the steakhouse into the poker machine. There were also nights when she would hit a jackpot and clap with excitement and then spend all her winnings buying beers for the whole place.

Elvie, Tommy, and The Poker Machine

Driving drunk people home was a regular assignment for me.  Johnny, the perpetually unemployed ex-owner of The Par, was one of my regular riders.  He was strong and imposing.  Sometimes it was difficult to get him out of the car.  Under the influence he would tell me how he loved me like a son, only to barely remember my name the next time we saw each other. 

There were plenty of characters in this place and they kept me company and kept me laughing as I transitioned into the next phase in my life.

The TV show Cheers featured a bar where “Everybody knows your name.” It was posh in comparison to The Par 4. But it rang true for me that there are times in our lives where we need a place like this. A place to be with people, to laugh, and see that “our troubles are all the same.”

Fatherly Advice or How to Make Sure That They Don't Put Onions on Your Burger

It was crowded at Onie’s, the lakefront hamburger joint. This was a regular stop on our family boating excursions on the large lake we loved so much.  The lake boasted 525 miles of shoreline full of deep coves to explore.  Dad was always Captain. We would seek out glass surfaced coves for skiing and private spots to anchor and swim.  We would beach the boat on sandy, wooded islands and spend time hanging out with other boating enthusiasts. Mom might pack a picnic, or we would head to Onie’s place.

Dad had mastered the skill of smoothly docking the boat. My job for as far back as I can remember was to jump out of the boat onto the dock and grab the handrail on the bow to make sure we stopped in just the right place.  I knew how to do a quick and neat tie-off on the dock’s cleats. Boat secured, we headed into the grill pronounced Oh-Nies. That’s a long I and accent on first syllable.

Mom secured a table for us.  525 miles of shoreline and only two places you could dock your boat and eat!  It was packed and I was around ten years old.  I was painfully shy. I don’t mean to be cliché. It actually caused me physical pain to move outside my comfort zone and talk to strangers.  My stomach would clench, I would get shaky, and my muscles would tense.  My mother would gently ask that I say hello to whoever was addressing me, but my throat would dry up.  She would usually answer for me to save me the distress.

I walked to the counter with Dad. He always placed the orders.  He rattled off what the others wanted and then turned to me and said, “Tell him what you want.” Surprised that Dad was not ordering for me, my throat closed. There were people waiting behind us.  The short order cook was busy flipping burgers and dropping baskets of fries. The order taker looked impatiently at me as I remained silent.  Dad knew what I wanted. I looked at him with pleading eyes. He ordered for me.

Relief. Ahhhh. I can breathe.

We sat at the table and talked happily. I absorbed the excitement of people happy to be boating after long work weeks. The place was jammed and you would have to turn sideways to make your way between folks to leave, or use the restroom, or make your way to the counter.

The previously impatient counter guy shouted out our order number.  Dad squeezed his way through the crowd of hungry boaters to get the tray of food. He returned and Mom distributed the burgers, fries, and hot dogs. 

I was a picky eater.  When Dad had ordered my burger he had clearly said “No Onions”. As usual I immediately unwrapped the sandwich and opened the top bun to check that they got it right.  Nope. There on top of the meat was my standard mustard and catsup with tiny chopped up onions inextricably mixed in. I complained out-loud to my parents. Mom said to just scrape them off. Ugh, that never worked. “I can’t eat this”, I said. 

Then it happened. My father looked directly at me and said, “Take it back”. What?  He wanted me to go through that crowd of impatient and hungry people and ask for a new burger?? Yes, he did.  I pleaded with my father to do it for me.  I think that with my freeze-up at the counter being fresh in his mind, Dad decided this was a teachable moment.  He said that everyone else was happily enjoying their food and if I wanted to take the sandwich back, I would have to do it myself. Mom tried to volunteer to do it for me.  Dad drew a line in the sand. I was near tears. And then he said something that has stuck with me to this day.

Still looking directly into my eyes, Dad firmly said,” LeGette, you have to assert yourself.” He continued on with some tough love advice. “Have some self-confidence. They got your order wrong. Make them fix it.  You are going to have to stand up for yourself for the rest of your life. You can start now.”

I can’t say I was happy. Or that it was easy. I slid sideways between people and went to the counter, burger in hand, and shoved it forward. Impatient guy, “What’s wrong with it?”. I squeaked out “onions”. He grabbed back the sandwich, chunked it in the trash, and hollered out to the cook,” Hey idiot, I wrote NO ONIONS on this order!”.

Wow.  That felt kind of good.  They quickly corrected the issue.  I returned to the table with new sandwich in hand. Dad gave me a big smile and said, “Way to go, buddy!”. Now that felt great. My father is a master Dad.

Through the years he would use a similar method to show me how to navigate life. To be confident. To be a man. To be kind, but to stand up for myself.

Thank you Dad.