Ohio Girl

“Think they’re in the Armed Forces?”

“I hope so. That would be some kind of fashion statement.” We whispered as two men in army fatigues entered Billy C’s just ahead of us.

The bar was lined with faces we recognized from our previous visit. They remembered us too, with the bartender smiling extra big at my friend. He remembered my drink and then quickly recalled they were out of Wild Turkey.

“How about Jack Daniels?” I asked. He returned shaking his head no.

“Beam?” I whined.

“That, I think I can do.”

My friend and I played pool—poorly—while the soldiers surveyed the place. I caught them checking us out--conferring with one another. It’s early and we can do better, seemed their consensus.

I have seen lots of soldiers on nights out over the last few years. I’ve seen them in groups with intensely short hair and T-shirts that say, The  few, The proud. Or whatever. They whoop and holler and wrap themselves around the smallest girls in the smallest tank tops.

I’ve seen them more solitary, heads propped on their arms, at the bar. They want to buy you a drink and chat and flirt. Just like everyone else. Then they get torn--between telling the kind of soldier stories that might get them laid, or the kind that once they start, they cannot stop. The kind that sends girls for free drinks from someone else at the other end of the bar.

We switch to darts and the three large televisions that look down on all the drinking switches to Over There--a series about US soldiers in Iraq. Our two, bar-stool-based ones immediately fidget and are soon gone. A fight breaks out over nothing intelligible and we leave too. All of us mining the west-side for better recruits.

In a world where private citizens are illegally wiretapped, the Quakers are followed around like Al-Qaida*, and the President of the Free World brings about debate on the legitimacy of torture—well, I am loathe to complain about traffic cameras in such a world. I will, of course, complain anyway.

It was a grey Saturday. Unseasonably warm. Armed with that hypo manic hopefulness that the New Year brings, I decided to drive out to the hinterlands and take the dog for a hike. Rain be damned!

We set off with water and bananas and good music. Heading down West Boulevard toward I-90, I observed the houses that were still lit for the holidays. The dog had her head out the window and her wagging tail repeatedly smacked me in the face.

In my memory I felt uncomfortable BEFORE I saw the beige boxes perched on poles, lining either side of the street. Like a chill. Like someone watching me. Of course, they were. I checked my speedometer. I was right at 35 mph. I had not run any lights, so all good. I thought about how dirty my car was and if the cameras were picking up my NASCAR bumper stickers. I thought about the silly hat I was wearing. Can they see that? Then I wondered if I should make a lewd hand gesture, or smile, or just act cool. Everything is cool.

The hike was a good one so I forgot all about the cameras. I went home a different way to accommodate some errands. The dog waited patiently in the car. I was appreciating that feeling you get after some exercise and fresh air when all of the sudden they were there again--the beige boxes.

Still obeying the law, I tried to understand why I was having such an allergic response to them. My supple muscles turned taut. I thought of big concepts like freedom and privacy versus safety. I thought about how to express my feelings without using the term ‘Orwellian.’ I worried that someday I would end up barricaded in my house with a tin-foil cap and drawing pictires of black helicopters on the wall.

And then I scratched the side of my head with my middle finger. The best, ambivalent, passive-aggressive, and juvenile response I could muster.

*Once upon a time I was a member of a Quaker congregation. I know they can be irritating with their peace and justice, non-violence, let’s knit our own clothes stuff, but how about spying on a livelier bunch? They sit in circles, in silence, for crying out loud. They do things by consensus. It would take forever to get the blood pumping and the group agreement necessary to do so much as scratch the sides of their heads with their middle fingers.

We all have to get out now and then. Cut loose. Let off steam. Shed our skin. I am sure you have your own, preferred cliché. Here are some off-the-beaten-path locales that might be just what you are looking for.

The Parkview Nite Club

The Parkview is a nice place. It is my neighborhood hang-out and the starting point for any further bar-hopping. Most people would find it accessible to their needs. And indeed, on most nights, you will observe all ranges of age, race, and socioeconomic class. It boasts some good food, some funny regulars and a really cute bartender. Best of all, at whatever time you stumble out there is a lovely view of the Lake and the Cleveland skyline. Note: They do not regularly carry Wild Turkey. They purchased a bottle for me, but it is now gone. They have promised to get more, especially since Thanksgiving is coming.

Sample Conversation:

Bartender: Hi ladies. Long time, no see.

Me and My Friend: Yeah.

My Friend: How you been?

Bartender: Oh, you know.

My Friend: Have you seen the one-armed guy lately?

Me: No, no, he had one leg and two arms.

My Friend: Oh, that's right.

Bartender: No, not since that night. And we have found no bread in the bathroom of late.

Me: Bread in the bathroom?

My Friend: Remember, I left a trail of bread crumbs.

Bartender: More like a pile.

Fatboy's Country Club:

I would not recommend going on karaoke night, but Fridays and Saturdays are just fine. Live bands play contemporary country as well as some important standards. Bikers slap backs and make crude gestures in the rear of the bar. Women wear tight jeans and peroxide-laden hair on the dance floor. And if you put David Allan Coe on the juke box everyone, and I do mean everyone, will sing along. Note: No Wild Turkey. Go when you are ready to settle for Beam.

Sample Conversation:

Man who looks like Sean Connery in a black, cowboy hat: Hi girls.

Me and My Friend: Hi.

Me: Is your name Ramone?

Man: No, it's Angel.

Me: Well, that's close isn't it?

My Friend: Yes, a close second.

Man named Angel (to My Friend): Are you Puerto Rican?

My Friend: No, but I speak Spanish.

Man (to me, when My Friend has gone to the bathroom): Are you Puerto Rican?

Me: No and my Spanish is not nearly as good as My Friend's.

The Victory Lap Café:

Definitely DO go on karaoke night (Friday) where long-haired men belt out metal tunes, while women sing 'You Light Up My Life.' The wood-paneled walls are covered in NASCAR paraphernalia which, for me, gives it a homey feel. The bartender is friendly and good at guessing your age. Note: The Wild Turkey is flowing freely.

Sample Conversation:

Dave: Your friend speaks perfect English.

Charlie: Sure does.

Me: Well, I mean, she was born right here in America.

Dave: Are you Spanish?

Me: No, but I speak some Spanish.

Charlie: Really?

Me: Si.

Dave: But you're NOT Spanish.

Charlie: I speak English and Hillbilly.

Me: Ah, yes, I am conversant in that dialect.

Dave: She said 'dialect.'

Charlie: You gonna sing something?

Me: No, you?

Charlie: Naw.

Me: Aw, come on.

Charlie: What do you think I'd sing?

Me: If I had to guess, I think you'd go for some George Jones.

Charlie: That's right, doll, you got that exactly right.

The Ugly Broad Tavern:

I was hesitant about the name at first--like maybe some jilted dude named it after his wife--to be mean. But it is welcoming, complete with a fluffy, bar dog that wags around and free condoms in the lav. The owner is a large woman who plays touch-screen, video games while the bartender pushes Jell-O shots. Note: They have Wild Turkey, but are really hot on the Jell-O shots.

Sample Conversation:

Me: You know this is the sidewalk don't you? You missed the driveway.

My Friend: Well, I wasn't sure if that was the driveway. The sidewalk works.

Me: We just drove completely around the building on the sidewalk.

My Friend: But it worked. Let's park on the street.

Me: I wish you had dropped me at the front door.

Partner's Pub:

Well, I recommend going once just to soak up the weirdness. Black boys in baggy, white tees dance the mating dance with Appalachian, White girls who have gotten all gussied up in their best tank tops. The bartender has a spiky, bleached do with a cut-off sweatshirt, zipped open to his navel. It hangs off his shoulder exposing one nipple. Note: Wild Turkey is in ample supply and they even have a vintage, Turkey statuette that once held the precious liquid. If you ask to hold it, they will let you, but only for a moment. Then, they will assume you plan to steal it.

Sample Conversation:

My Friend: This woman is asking where you live.

Friendly, Slightly Out-of-Place, Woman: Where do you live?

Me: Near here.

My Friend: Lake County.

Woman: I live right off Dennison. Come over and I will make you biscuits and gravy.

Me: I'm a vegetarian.

My Friend: Me too.

Woman: I will make you tomato gravy.

Me (whispering to My Friend): Is this not like the 10^th time a nice, lesbian has offered to make us biscuits and gravy?

My Friend (whispering back): I was just thinking the same thing.

Happy Hopping!

I went for Scoops the other day—a yummy ice cream shop on Professor located in Tremont. As I drove past Lincoln Park I was misty for the time I lived in that neighborhood. My place was on West 18^th, a street narrow enough to be one-way, (although it was not) and brick-lined. It was tucked behind an overpass, but quiet. The small yards were filled with flowers. My neighbor-always on his porch-monitored the comings and goings of residents and visitors alike and always shared plates of pork and rice when his daughters came to cook. A few houses down a man raised roosters (I never liked to ponder the purpose) and waking up to their calls was romantic and otherworldly.

On my nightly dog walks kids came out to pat my Sophie's back. They would giggle when she unabashedly plopped down in the street to beg a belly rub. After passing by a home where two goats lived in the yard, we always headed up Willey past the APL. Hell's Hill, as I came to call it.

Each night there was a new discovery to be made-discarded toys, old shoes, bits of torn clothing. Bikes would appear, bent and rusted out, over night. Sophie sniffed out animal carcasses, including a large, skinned deer whose eyes peeked out blankly from a Hefty bag. For a few weeks a homeless man made his encampment in the brush and waved as we passed. I always considered walking a different route, but Hell's Hill, with the clichéd allure of beauty and horror, could not be avoided.   

Driving eastbound on Storer, right around West 60th, things suddenly look southern. A weeping willow, so large it seems to confound its urban confines, hangs over a Marathon station. The gas there is 16 cents cheaper than the one by my house.