Len and Bill’s has been around for a long time. At least it looks like it’s been around for a long time. To be honest, it looks like it’s going to fall over at even the thought of a strong breeze. And that really wouldn’t be such a bad thing. Back in the days when the Gates Rubber Plant was in business, I’m sure Len and Bill’s was a wonderful way to end the third shift. When I first saw Len and Bill’s, in fact, a tattered banner hanging above the door announced three triple happy hours, including one from 7-10 a.m. But those days are long gone.
The night I finally worked up the gumption to step through the doors of Len and Bill’s, it was around 7:30 on a chilly Tuesday night. There were two other patrons in the bar: a man slumped in the corner, snoring into a pitcher of beer and a slightly more alert guy sitting at the bar. My friend and I joined him and waited for the bartender to take our order. And waited.
And waited.
Apparently Len and Bill’s has something against strangers who want to give them money in exchange for alcohol.
As we waited, I gave the place a once-over. Broken tables, chairs and barstools sat empty, as did cracked glasses and pitchers of beer. Half the florescent lights that hung above the downstairs space were either dark or flickering on and off. Up a set of five steps was a small room with a pool table and behind that the restrooms. Something in the place smelled like vinegar.
I spoke up, trying to get the bartender’s attention. “Can I get a Jack Daniels on the rocks?” My friend, feeling emboldened by my move, asked her what she had on tap.
“What you see is what we got.” At this point, she still hadn’t turned around to face us. She kept her back turned while her hands fiddled with some unseen object – perhaps the source of the vinegar smell.
“Now, c’mon Mary (or whatever the hell her name was), play nice,” the half-sober guy at the bar said. Finally, she turned around. “What is it that you want?” We ordered and she grudgingly poured a Jack and a Bud Light into glasses best described as diminutive.
“That’ll be $14.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me.” That was more than I had paid for two martinis earlier in the evening – it was more than I had paid for a Jack three times the size the night before. And that place had toilets that flushed.
“If you don’t like it. . .”
We paid the hag and asked if we could have change for the pool table. She said she didn’t give change. “But it’s your pool table,” I said. “I don’t give a shit,” came the reply.
“Now Mary,” our one ally in the whole stinking joint said, “Finding four quarters shouldn’t be too hard on a night like tonight.” I wondered what other nights were like at Len and Bill’s and why four quarters would somehow be hard to find.
Mary threw four quarters on the bar. “It’ll cost you an extra dollar to rent the cue ball.”
“That’s OK, I always carry one of my own,” I said.
“What?”
“Never mind.”
“Now Mary. . .”
So we played pool in the upstairs room and sipped our warm, elfin beverages and listened to static from a TV that had been playing a Nuggets game off and on for the past hour. Nobody else came in. Nobody else moved.
Once we finished our drinks, I left the cue ball on the bar and walked out the doors, hoping the winds of change would someday blow this shithole down once and for all.
-- Crazy OCD