How Men Make Friends

I need to get out, right now. As my work day comes to an end, the usual stress and tension has built up in my chest and has made it hard to breathe. I can’t breathe again until I can get out of here. It’s 4:56pm. Every second reaches, grabs, pulls, and slowly crawls across the clock. People around me are starting to stand and stretch, starting to bullshit with people around them about what they’re doing tonight. Thankfully, no one mentions going to a dive bar, so I can drop the self-conscious thoughts of any co-worker seeing me at my usual spot. 

Big V’s is a dive bar on University and Snelling in St. Paul, Minnesota. It’s had the same early evening clientele for years, featuring the old irascible curmudgeonly ex-military ex-husbands night after night. I never like going out, for any reason, but Big V’s is a controlled environment that I can sometimes handle, as long as it’s the right time of night. I make a lot of trips here in the summer to watch baseball, my first and only love. It’s when the bands show up, sometime after 8:30 PM, and set up their equipment while people around my age begin to fill the place up. My cue to leave, in other words. Hopefully the game is wrapped up by then, or I’m stuck sweating it out.

It’s a ten to fifteen minute drive from work provided the stoplights cooperate. As the sun is setting, it’s on this drive where I’m assaulted with the reminder that it’s February in Minnesota. The sky is gray, the horizon is gray, everyone’s expression is gray, their skin tone is gray and their eyes are gray. The streets are a soup of sand, salt and slush, and the hardened crusty buildup of months-old dirty snow lines every road and every sidewalk. If by some weird mistake you spot some grass, its green will have been mangled and rung out into a dirty dishwater brown. And that’s if you happen to be privy to the eight or so hours of daylight that we’re permitted. You feel like slicing open your own hand just to see some God damned color. 

There are twelve parking spots behind Big V’s, several of which are always available, allowing me to utilize the back entrance. All the better since it enables me to sneak in unnoticed as I navigate through the darkness. The dumpster near the back door is actually a helpful guide, providing a hideous miasma of rotten food and garbage that leads me to my drinking hole. I push through the door. It’s around 5:30pm, so whatever meek suggestion of sunlight the day provided is quickly dying. Not that it matters – if it’s ever lighter inside than it is outside, the difference is negligible. The bar is one long rectangular room. The old regulars, all between thirty and forty years my senior, are sitting closer to the front door so they can step outside for a smoke or three. I sit on my own island so we’re separated by a good 20 feet or so.

The bartender tonight is V himself which brings my comfort level up a notch. He’s not particularly Big, not visibly anyway. Maybe his wife named the place? Or his mom. Or his sister. Those are the types of insults the regulars barrage poor Vic with, but he knows that goes with the territory. His grey beard is stained with tobacco, matching his brown tinted glasses. As for me, Vic knows who I am but does not know my name. He’s never asked for it and I’ve never given it to him because it’s irrelevant. I’m Grain Belt Premium Guy. Twins Hat Guy. He knows exactly what to get me when he notices me at the far end of the bar. Sometimes he sees me right away and sometimes it takes up to twenty minutes, but I don’t go out of my way to get him to notice me. I never bother the guy and he never bothers me, so I tip him a dollar for every beer.

And so the routine begins: I find a discarded copy of today’s St. Paul Pioneer Press and read through the sports section while some random NBA game plays on one of the three 27” Zenith CRT televisions mounted on the wall across the bar from where I’m sitting. Nobody in this place gives a rat’s ass about basketball. Sports on TV is a mere formality. As I hunch down over the bar to read Tom Powers, I notice Dale giving me the evil eye. He’s wearing his sweat stained US Naval Academy hat he wears seemingly every day. I shrug off his stare -- over the years I’ve learned it’s just an alpha male thing. He has an intimidating presence since he’s the biggest of the group, almost as tall as I am. The size factor might be why he feels like he needs to stare at me.

Dale has only spoken to me directly four or five times, squinting through his eyeglasses, always to curtly inform me of something like my collar wasn’t folded properly, or my hat was crooked. But he talks so softly I can’t remember what his voice sounds like off the top of my head. I can always tell when he speaks up, because everyone else quiets down to listen, even Don. 

Old Don is the type who you’d ask what time it was and he’d tell you how to build a clock tower, and then say you couldn’t because of a government conspiracy and it’s all that damned Obama’s fault. Everything he says is an announcement. It’s clear listening to him that in his own mind, Don has already paved the roads of his empire with the skulls of all that disagree with him. Big V’s is Don’s kingdom. Expecting quiet from Don is like expecting the wind to stop blowing. Perhaps he talks so much to distract people from seeing his godawful jet-black toupee, but it doesn’t often work. He’s such a caricature that he might well be drawn by the old Looney Tunes animation artists with bulging blue eyes, an exaggerated expressive face, and a voice that sounds like it’s been dubbed over by Mel Blanc. He’s often smacking the bar for effect to emphasize his points, however nonsensical they are. In this setting, being trapped in a conversation with Don is my primary concern, but even that blowhard knows what a lousy listener I am.

Bill is here also, who as usual is excited about living up to the barfly stereotype, laughing loudly, barking inappropriate jokes, howling at women on TV and getting drunker than everyone else. Each guy here no doubt fancies themselves as the alpha of this place, but Bill is the only one who feels like he has to win every pissing contest to maintain his standing. Don talks just to talk, but Bill loves to challenge people and actually get in their face. He’s also ex-military, a former Marine, so he always tosses out a few “The Navy is for pussies” barbs Dale’s way, who glares back in kind. Bill’s on the shorter side, thickly built with salt and pepper hair and sun-baked skin. It’s unexplained why he’s so tan when he’s here the most often. I’m not sure he even has a job. At least Dale and Don look old enough to be retired. Dale’s usually the peacemaker between Don and Bill’s daily arguments, Vic sometimes interjects as an arbitrator, while poor Stacy just sits and tolerates it all.

Stacy is the most mellow of the old guys, although I’d imagine being a male named “Stacy” has a way of humbling someone. I get along with him the best. He’s a string bean with a gray mustache that works as a maintenance guy at the Hampton Inn down the road. We talk about the Twins, about how ownership will never spend the money to be a real contender, how disastrous the Johan Santana trade was, how nobody will ever have a better looking swing than Joe Mauer, how Nick Punto somehow got 536 plate appearances one year and hit .210 while slugging .271. 

“That’s an OPS+ of 53 for God’s sake!” I say. I have the number memorized. 

“An oh-pee-what?” he always replies. I’m a fan of new fangled baseball statistics, while Stacy is a traditional baseball card stats guy. I like nuanced measurements, he likes batting average and runs-batted-in. This often leads to arguments like the value of Joe Mauer vs. Mariano Rivera. As satisfyingly textbook as Mauer’s swing was, Stacy would rather have Rivera because he’s “clutch,” and Mauer is “not an RBI guy.” I would rather have the excellent defensive catcher who hits about 50 points for average better than the replacement-level catcher, thanks. I’ve spent the better part of two years trying to convince Stacy on this to no avail.

We also share good memories. He tells me stories of the ‘87 World Series Champion Twins, for which I was much too young to remember. We talk about how the ‘91 World Series team would’ve smoked ‘87. Stacy was at the famous Game 6 in ‘91 with Kirby’s walk-off and always spoke of how tense it was. “We were living and dying with every single pitch,” he said. Conversely, my memory is having to go to bed early, but waking up with supreme confidence the next morning, opening up the paper to see Kirby’s fist pump as he rounded 2nd. “Of course they won,” was my thinking. “This is Kirby Puckett. This is the Metrodome. There’s no way they’re losing.” This drives Stacy crazy. “There were four or five instances where they could’ve easily lost, I’ll have you know,” he reminds me. 

Big V’s plays host to a few other semi-regular folks whose names I’m not familiar with. They’re in and out, and I’m not sure I’ve even so much as made eye contact with them. I’m sure I’m just as anonymous to them as they are to me. Nine times out of ten, this group I’m with now is content to stay within their own universe and not even notice anyone else at the bar, let alone me, unless it's Stacy and it’s baseball season. I guess it pays to look like an overgrown homeless guy, complete with scraggly beard and tangled greasy hair to my shoulders. I’m not exactly approachable. Bill loves to annoy me for sport occasionally and Don loves to ramble about something in the news to anyone in particular just to have an audience. I just painfully nod and agree with him, praying to someone or something that he’ll go away.

This time around it’s Bill who ambles up to me, unprovoked, taking a seat to my right. He reeks of tanning oil and hair dye. “Listen,” he says. Oh, great. The way he speaks has a flair for the dramatic. I’m not sure if it’s the never-ending supply of alcohol or it’s just how he is. Probably both.

“Can I tell ya something?”

You’re going to tell me anyway, Bill. “Okay,” I dutifully reply.

“How in the hell are you doing, man?”

“I’m all right.” I chug the rest of my beer to make sure I’m fully prepared for this conversation. He must be bored with his clan if he’s bothering me.

“No, no,” Bill says, shaking his head. “None of this small-talk bullshit. I mean, how are you doing? Why is it you go on and sit over here by yourself all the fuckin’ time?” I’ve been coming to this bar for a couple years now. If I had a nickel every time Bill asked me this, I’d have at least enough to buy him a beer so he’d leave.

“I’m done with work for the day and I’m having a beer,” I responded. “How else would I be but okay?”

Bill slaps me on the back. “Well, son of a bitch. Why don’t you come have a seat with us?”

There is no chance in hell I’m going over there, so I have to think of something fast. Excuses and explanations flood my mind. Might as well be honest. “I’m not gonna stay here long. I’m leaving as soon as the band shows up.”

“C’mon, have a seat,” Bill says undiscouraged. “We can all watch the uh...” Bill pauses to check what teams are playing on TV, but it’s in a commercial timeout. “We can watch the game. Don, what’s the score?”

“The score is bar tab $50, Bill $0.” Loud abrasive laughter rings out.

“Ah, fuck you guys!” Bill shouts back in frustration. Vic arrives to save the day.

“Another Premium?” he asks me.

“Boilermaker.”

“You got it.”

My bar routine is two Premiums on tap followed by a boilermaker, running me a total of about $15 with tips, then sobering up as much as I can with water until the place gets crowded. Bill still aims to get me to deviate from this formula, as he’s still sitting there staring at my face. 

There’s really no way out of this, not with him. Anticipating my whiskey, I decide to make a bold move. I’m going to tell Bill exactly why I won’t go over there.

“You want to know why I sit over here?” 

Bill is rapt with attention, his expression unchanging. He is one stubborn bastard, and he knows it. Several months back, some band from Ohio was in town and they weren’t too thrilled with the turnout that night. Despite a cheap $5 cover charge, the turnout consisted of the regulars, a couple stragglers and myself. The singer tossed a sarcastic barb about the paltry audience and the lack of a response, and Bill took it personally. He stomped over there, stood directly in front of the stage -- which is in fact only about a foot off the ground and the size of a small bedroom -- and stared the infractor in the eye without moving a muscle for 45 straight minutes. Singer Guy was bemused until they finished their set, when Bill remained undisturbed in his power stance with his concentrated gaze fixed like a starving dog on fresh meat. Singer Guy finally relented and apologized. Nobody knows if Bill would’ve taken a swing at him or what, but we do know this; he would have stood there like a statue for as long as it took until he got what he wanted. I don’t know much about Bill, just not to mess with him. He’s a fucking psycho. 

“Oh yeah? Why’s that?” Bill says while straightening his posture.

“Because I’m depressed,” I say with a half-assed shrug. “I don’t like people. I don’t like being around people. I barely have any friends. I barely talk to my family. So I force myself to come and sit here so I’m not in my apartment by myself 24 hours a day.”

Bill’s expression has still not changed. He may be headlong into one of his psychotic Bill trances. I’m not sure he’s even listening to me. I think he was girding up for a fight and he’s in the process of girding down. But again, Bill is a fucking psycho. So I have to keep talking. 

“You ever get depressed? Or hear about anxiety? I hate that people call it ‘anxiety.’ That just makes people ask, ‘What are you nervous about?’” I study Bill’s face for a response. Nothing. I press on.

“It’s not ‘What am I nervous about,’ that’s a ridiculous question. That makes anxiety sound rational and straightforward. It isn’t.” Still no response from Bill. Not even a blink. Vic mercifully brings me my drinks, so down goes some whiskey and down goes a chaser. 

“The truth is, I can’t take too much exterior stimuli. My brain gets overloaded by simple bullshit. Like, if this bar were any brighter, I wouldn’t be able to sit here longer than 5 minutes. If it were any louder, I wouldn’t be here at all. I get overwhelmed, I can’t take it. And if something suddenly happens, anything, something unexpected, and I reach that point where it’s too much, I get a panic attack, and that’s where--”

“Listen, kiddo,” Bill finally interrupts, slapping my back again and looking back toward his buddies. “What you said...” Bill looks back into my eyes with pure sincerity and utters the following, dripping with drama: 

“I... do not... have a fucking clue... what in the blue hell you’re talking about.”

A burst of exaggerated Bill laughter follows. “You might well be speakin’ Portuguese.”

“Oh, okay,” I responded, forcing a smile which no doubt looks as fake as old Don’s hair. “I’m not crazy or anything, man.”

“Sure ya ain’t,” Bill says with a wink. “That’s called life, kid, what you talked about right there. You’re sick? ‘Cause you can’t sit by people? You fancy yourself a special snowflake huh? You’re too good for us. Hell, we’re all so lucky that you even come here at all!” He laughs a booming laugh before heading back to his tribe. 

I don’t care what he says, I’m just glad he’s gone and I can down the rest of my whiskey. “Ahh, the ol’ woe-is-me bullshit,” I hear Bill say to Dale. Oh boy, I’m a part of old man dive bar gossip. How exciting.

As I laugh to myself about Bill and Dale talking like teenage girls, I realize how strangely calm I feel. Stacy approaches and takes the bar stool next to me, something he'll only do while the Twins game is on.

“Hey man, uh...” He seems unusually shy. “Look, to tell you the truth...”

Stacy adjusts his Hampton Inn polo shirt.

“I don't know what the hell you're talking about either. But at least I'm not an asshole about it.” And he laughs a weirdly loud chuckle. He's clearly uncomfortable.

“Thanks, Stacy.”

It feels nice to get someone's approval, even if all I do over here is mope and watch baseball. Men don't make friends easily when they're adults, I suppose.