A Guide to Selecting the Proper Dive Bar
Abandon All Hope, Ye Who Enter Here
By Chris Adams
Illustration by Mark Reusch
Ahhh… Springtime has once again descended like a dove onto winter-weary Boston. The sky has shed its grey gabardine cloak to reveal its glorious azure skin, the lilies and magnolias are in full bloom, and the air is as dewy and sweet as your girlfriend’s breath after a refreshing gargle of Listermint. And, of course, the streets are teeming with the supple limbs and bright eyes of you, our beloved college students, our tourists with trust funds, released at last from the vicious, stifling grip and stuffed shirts of academia, chomping at the bit of your new-found freedom, ready to take on the world as you…ummmm…you….
That’s right, kids! Smile – the dream is over! No more nappy-time! Snap out of it! Time to wake up and jump headlong into the crapshoot of the gargantuan, merciless real world and find out that, regardless of your scholarships, grants, and GPA, you’re rollin’ snake eyes, buddy. Bid a long, tearful adieu to that comfortable, carpeted, well-lit dorm, which came complete with a fresh supply of tissue for every toilet, a guaranteed square meal, and a fluffy-stuffed white pillow upon which you could rest your fluffy white head, stuffed with idealistic notions and dreams of your glorious future, secure in the fact that another check from mom and pop was signed, sealed and delivered. Say sayonara to your frat-house friends and giggling gal-pals – it’s now time to embrace official adulthood, your first foray into the grown-up world of independence! Isn’t it exciting!? Isn’t it like a brand new adventure? The dawn of an invigorating bright new day? Here, let me gaze into my crystal ball and see what the next year has in store for you:
Ahhh… I’m getting an image… yes, yes…it’s becoming clearer… yes, there it is, how appropriate – your diploma. B.A. in English, huh? Good choice – liberal arts may be the most general school of study, but it leaves you open to the widest range of possibilities, doesn’t it? See how proudly it hangs on the wall… oh, wait a minute… it’s not hanging on your wall. It’s sitting on that card-table – that stained card table. And what’s that thing sitting on top of it? Why, it’s a half-eaten bowl of Ramen noodles! You’re using your diploma as a dinner tray! What an awful thing to do to the fruits of your four years of studious labor! Wait… hold on… something’s coming into the picture… oooh, it’s a nasty cockroach. Your cold, half-eaten dinner from the previous evening would disgust any self-respecting human, but apparently not this feisty little critter. Oh – and here you are – you’ve just entered your apartment and tossed your battered raincoat onto the floor. The floor, of all things! Don’t you have the decency to at least attempt hanging it up? Look, there’s a perfectly good rusty nail sticking out of the cracked plaster wall – you could have used that! Oooh, I see… you’re not feeling too good about yourself. I can understand why.
Your fuzzy delusions of grandeur have been shattered by Mr. Reality’s cold hard slap in the face. He’s an unpleasant man, isn’t he? You look worn, battle weary – at such a tender age, too. And that Copy Cop uniform is at least one size too small. Oh dear, it looks like you need a friend. Too bad you didn’t keep in touch with all those college pals you promised to write, huh? And… no no… don’t give me that doe-eyed look! I’m not gonna be your fuckin’ friend! I’ve got my own dungheap of an existence to deal with – I don’t have time for yours! You’re gonna need a friend that you can always count on, that’ll always be there in your darkest hours of need, one that won’t abandon you as you try to twist out of the fate that’s been mercilessly foisted upon your drooping shoulders.
And that friend, oh shattered post-collegiate reader, is called booze.
Oh sure, you’ve encountered that buddy before. You’ve met at the occasional college party, danced briefly, enjoyed a quick flirtation, but that was about it. Soon, however, you’ll find that this relationship is going to get a lot more intimate. This special friend will help you through those long dark winter evenings when you haven’t got a soul to talk to. She’ll help you muster up the courage to humiliate yourself every weekday morning as you hustle bleary-eyed onto the subway, ready for another nine soul-grinding hours at a job you detest even more than your miserable self. Even when the gas is shut off, the phone doesn’t work, and the fridge is on the fritz, this nurturing comrade will be there for you. But where should you meet this companion? At what locale will you engage in your little trysts? Which hideout will be suitable for your forbidden subterranean affair? You don’t wanna meet at your place – that would be indiscreet, and besides, don’t people who drink alone have a problem? (You see, you don’t have a problem, do you – you just need something to help you through a bad patch, a tough stretch in the doldrums of the post-graduate netherworld.) No, you need to venture out, to be among people who share your plight, who recognize the unfortunate situation that’s been thrust upon you; those who are also seeking distilled and bottled comfort. You need to frequent a good old-fashioned American dive bar.
First, you have to select a bar that’s going to be suitable to meet your needs. Here’s a set of guidelines that will help you find the perfect place in which to drown your sorrows, your identity, lack thereof, and basically anything else in your existence that demands routine isopropyl annihilation.
#1 – It’s gotta be cheap: Remember, Chef Boyardee is considered a delicacy at your place, and finding quarters in the couch for the laundromat is your equivalent of discovering the lost mines of Solomon. You need to be able to drink and tip on the cheap. (And you hafta tip – remember, this place will be your second home for an indefinite period.) Screw those five dollar fancy drinks with umbrellas in swank fern-lined environments. You’re gonna want a place where you can get a beer for two-fifty or less and something shorter and warmer for under four bucks. Fuck ambiance – ambiance costs money, and anyway, you’ll be able to envision your own as soon as you get yerself nice and tight. And you’re gonna need the leftover change for subway tokens tomorrow – that’s right – tomorrow will, in all probability, occur – but you don’t wanna think about that just now, nor should you. Just remember to get as drunk as you can while spending the least amount of $$$ possible, and you’ll do alright.
# 2. Location, location, location: You wanna find a place that’s so close to your lousy fucking hole of an apartment that you can walk there and pour yourself home whenever necessary. Driving? That’s a no-no. Killing yourself might not sound so bad right now, but you’d run the risk of killing somebody who’s actually managed to make something of his or her life – you know, one of Them, the successful, shiny happy people. Right, killing them doesn’t sound like such a bad idea either, but believe me, you don’t wanna do it – unless enduring 5-10 years of anal rape behind bars is your idea of a party. (If it does, you need a lot more than booze to help you out of your current mindset. Quit reading this article immediately, phone up mom and dad, and start sobbing that you need to fly home as soon as possible. Ask them to ferret out a good shrink while they wait for you.) And you don’t wanna take the subway – they shut down shortly after midnight here in Boston. “Well, I’ll only stay for a few drinks,” right? Wrong. Quit kidding yerself – you’re gonna be closing the place nightly, clinging to the walls as the bouncers drag you out. And anyway, you’ll be in no state to ride the subway, blabbering incoherently, your head lolling from side to side with the rhythm of the train. You’ll end up either missing your stop, falling onto the tracks, or getting mugged (people in your condition are what’s known as an “easy mark.”) So make sure that your watering hole of choice is within walking distance, or, if absolutely necessary, just a short cab-ride away.
#3. Smokes: Make sure the joint has a fully operational cigarette machine that takes change and bills, and stocks your brand, plus a backup. “But I don’t smoke!” you announce, incredulous with disgust. Yeah, sure – trust me, in 6 months you’ll be up to a pack and a half a day. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.
#4. Jukebox: This is crucial. And it can’t be just any old jukebox. You gotta make sure that the sound system is good and loud, so the tunes can travel over any din the other patrons are making. Ideally, you want a system that’s so loud that you can’t make heads or tails of the banal prattling of whatever person with whom you’ve struck up an idle conversation. This way, you can pretend to engage in all the social niceties of conversation without having to listen to his or her vomitous verbiage. Putting on a pretense of interest will help you kid yourself into believing that you’re not a total lout after you take ’em home, fuck ’em, and kick ’em out without cabfare. (Of course, you are a total lout, but you’re already well aware of that – why belabor the point?) A good loud system will also conceal the rambling conversations you have with yourself when you’re alone and soused beyond recognition at one A.M. Warning: This will occur with alarming frequency. Also, you gotta make sure that the jukebox has music you wanna hear on it, with at least one really long song which you utilize as your first selection (recommended cuts: the Velvets’ “Heroin” and Julian Cope’s “Safesurfer”) so you don’t miss any more of your tunes as you load the box. (As soon as you show up at the bar, it’s best to put five bills into the machine immediately – that way you’re guaranteed to hear all the music you want as a soundtrack to your journey down the amber road to oblivion, without having to stumble up and throw in another buck every half-hour. This also lets you monopolize the music, so you have the added bonus of sadistically pissing your personal tastes on every other sucker in the joint.)
#5. Bar staff: Make sure they get to know you, which won’t be difficult. They’ll be glancing at your ugly mug more often than they see their own kids. Thing is, ya gotta make sure that they like you, too, which can be tough, as you’ll spend a great deal of time making a total prick of yourself. This is where the big tips come in handy. Get to know all their names. Better still, if you can manage it, find out their birthdays, so you can give them little gifts on the appropriate day. This’ll help make up for all the times they’ve had to carry you into a cab, passed out cold and reeking of your own bodily fluids. In lucid moments, always give ’em a warm handshake, greet them by name, and make sure you’ve paid off whatever tab they’ve been generous/foolish enough to grant you. Such formalities will, over time, work for you. For example: If you find yourself belligerently threatening a Mike Tyson-esque stranger because he didn’t agree to help you sing along with the Dean Martin song blaring from the box, one of the bar staff is sure to diffuse the situation in a swift, effective manner.
O.K., I think that’s about it. Enjoy these post-collegiate dark days. They only happen once, so you might as well make a big Bacchanalian production out of them. Pretty soon, things will get better, and you’ll abandon your beloved watering hole for brighter horizons. Either that, or you’ll become a raving alcoholic. In which case, a big cheery “whoops, sorry – my fault!” right atcha.
