July 13, 2006
The Edgewater
At a wedding reception a few months back, i mentioned my direction in life to a guest at the table we shared.
"That's my hometown." she said.
I immedalty prodded her for the best bar in town. She replied. Her answer reminded me of the subjectivity of the english language. The word 'best' is, like most things in life, defined in different people different ways.
"So how about the most out of the way, unheard of, most genuine spot i can find?"
"The Edgewater." she replied.
"It is on the bank of the Muskingum River. On the deck out back they tie trotlines over the fence with bells on them. during happy hour, when a bill rings, it means there is a catfish on it. The bartender will go out and pull it in, clean it , and fry it for free."
Bingo.
I relayed this story to my new aquantinces yesterday. I only got two sentences into the story when i was interrupted.
"The Edewater." one said.
Bingo.
"I'll take you there. Pick you up at 7."
I was given a book when i lived in Manhattan called 'The Best Dive Bars of New York." I tried hard to visit each page of that book. Though i fell far short, and though i saw some great places, i realized there is an inherent consequence to being called a 'Dive Bar". To be one, means that you know are one. There is a deliberate acknowledgment in the revelation that removes the genuine ethos of a place.
As we approached the Edgewater that evening, we drove along the winding roads and patch-worked asphalt. The road curved like an x-ray of a scoliosis patient. i saw the cinderblock building sliding off of the river bank like in a Salvador Dali painting.
The Edgewater has no idea what it is.
And what is, is the dictionary definition of authentic.
The aluminum screen door swung shut behind me. The shellacked snapping turtle shell stuck into the driftwood was made into a clock-face. It read 7:25. Jerry Garcia is not dead. He changed his name to Paul and sits on the corner of the bar there. The linoleum tile stretched to the corners of the building like drum head, holding the most unpretentious ensemble of character i have ever laid eyes on. My PBR came in a can and my tip went in the mason jar. Out back, the shelter sits 5 feet from the river, less than a mile from the southern most lock on the river, before its terminal into the Ohio. The sycamore trees stretch out over the slowly scrolling water at acute angles, as if trying to see their own reflection in the muddy water. The masonite ceiling fan blades hanging from rafters of the picnic shelter have soaked in the river mist and appalachia air and now hang like wilted petals of a daisy. There are piles of cans behind the horseshoe pits with labels from 4 or 5 branding rebirths ago of the great american beers. Miller, Strohs, and Old Milwaukee lettering from the 80's sits in the yard like a typographic archeological site. The bales of straw stacked by the door are brought out for the weekend musical shows and televised Nascar races, and used to keep the pipes from freezing along the foundation after the summer shows are over. The dock behind the bar had no trot lines tied to them, but the fryer was on, and Tina* gladly brought us dinner (there is no 'heart-smart' menu there) and turned on the speakers for us that hung in the truss-work of the patio. The first (and 4th, and 6th) song played was Sweet Home Alabama. At first i thought it was a mistake. But then i got to thinking, there really wasn't other song i felt i wanted to hear. And what i did want to hear (cash, cline, kristoperson, seeger), we played in the jukebox during the shuffleboard game. Tina couldn't figure out how to turn on the halogen lights nailed on the telephone pole, so we adjourned indoors, to incandescent lights, (except for the bear claw machine's fluorescent bulb) after the horseshoe match was called on the count of darkness.
I sat at the table with the Crew coach, a biology and a geology professor. We peeled labels from bottles over a discussion about mastodon bones, until the bar light went out and we went home. The turtle shell read 11: 43. Before we left, we said our goodbyes, and paid our tabs. Tina kept no credit cards, nor wrote anything down. As we left she asked each for the money we owed. She put it in a metal box behind the bar below the pickled pig hearts and hard boiled eggs.
There are many great places to quench your thirst, from Midtown to Malibu. But like teenage girls, - like $16 martinis, to $1.50 beers, - they are self conscious, they are concocted, like a push up bra, they are forcing their issue. I imagine the people at the edgewater don't have much of an opinion about that, or themselves. The topic of the biggest catfish in the river, however, was a different matter altogether.
*Upon my second visit, with my father, Tina welcomed me by name as the aluminum screen door shut behind me.