Dreams From Commonwealth Avenue: A Dive Bar Noël

As far as the neighborhood was concerned, the bar had simply been there forever...

Drawing by Anthony Head

I.

Into the Ring of Darkness

If one sought the spirit of the season in this fading city, one searched in vain upon the high streets, at least on the night of December 25. The downtown core felt empty and compressed and was ringed by a cold darkness now that the great hordes had stripped the stores of their wares and fled again to the outer boroughs with their junk. Under dark and thick clouds, the night closed over the inner city street-grid with no moonlight to cover the roofs, the sidewalks, or the streets.

Commonwealth Avenue was once a lovely residential street with wide sidewalks, only four blocks from the courthouse. Once stood a never-ending line of grand houses, where family generations lived beneath sturdy, well-built eaves. Back in the day, the street would be aglow this time of year, bright with eggnog toasts on the porches and children’s grateful love for Santa Claus still flickering in their beds upstairs.

Then the generations moved away so those sturdy structures could serve more aggressive ambitions—like those of lawyers and dentists and tax assessors. Later came lumberyards, new car showrooms, furniture showrooms, appliance showrooms, and drive-in burger stands at the corners.

Now Commonwealth Avenue is lined with sandwich shops, tattoo studios, and empty storefronts. There are liquor stores and discount shops stretching for miles in both directions and—one right after another—the hardware store, the gas-station, and even the barber-shop had earlier been emptied of whatever could fit inside a box or a bag or wrapped in paper and shoved under plastic trees in the outer boroughs.

Within this inner-canyon of defeated commerce, the night belonged not to carols being sung or fireplace kisses, but to the sharp wind from the north bringing rain. Above the sidewalks on the 100 block of Commonwealth three streetlights cast down their yellow vapor glow into the gutters, where cold drizzle fell. The pale amber light from above also fell upon overstuffed trashcans that would not be tended to for another few days.

In the middle of the block, Shepherd’s Bar was a brick storefront, housed on the ground floor of what used to be a two-story house. As far as the neighborhood was concerned, the bar had simply been there forever and had long outlasted the memories of the old home. The stubborn structure did not crumble like the sidewalk before it; it endured the weight of every passing year simply to increase its own stubbornness.

With slatted shades almost permanently lowered, looking through the front window was as useless as staring at a blank page. The bar’s front entrance was set in a recessed cove, a couple yards back from the sidewalk, under a faded blue-on-blue striped awning. Even with a neon sign fixed above the doorframe glowing OPEN, the old bar remained basically invisible to the rest of the fading city.

The cab pulled away from the curb. Two silhouettes push at the heavy wooden door.

Sitting on a barstool, the doorman was bundled tight against the wind-blasts that followed every person inside Shepherd’s Bar. He’s just finishing telling the story of that one terrible winter that was so cold he had to pour hot coffee on his boots all night to keep his feet from freezing.

“It’s like pissing your pants in a snowstorm,” he says, a wide grin on his ruddy face as he pauses before delivering the moral of his story. “It’s a warm feeling, but it ain’t gonna last.”

He will tell that tale at least three more times before Last Call.

II.

The Feast of Joy

A single string of oversized Christmas bulbs is draped informally over the backbar mirror and the old boxy brass cash register sitting next to the bottles of booze. The fat incandescent bulbs do not twinkle and a few have lost most of their paint but they still glow red, yellow, blue, green with persistence. They were first plugged in by a bartender sometime in the 1990s, who said that Shepherd’s had been called a “dive bar” on a local TV news story about the murder that happened across the street at Wehnke’s electronics. She said Christmas lights were a part of every dive bar she’d ever been in and Shepherd’s had apparently reached that status, even though it was only about 14 years old at that time.

The string of lights is all the holiday decoration that the owner allows because it was part of the bar before she bought Shepherd’s. The owner’s name is Christmas Young-sook Snow—she swears with her hand raised like she’s taking an oath every single time she tells someone new.

Nobody forgets her name. Either because of its uniqueness or because it belongs to a well-regarded person, a treasure of Commonwealth Avenue who’s just about seen it all. No one complains about the lack of Christmas decorations around the holidays. At least not twice.

And never on December 25.

“I’m all the Christmas this bar will ever need,” Christmas Snow always says, settling the issue and smiling with her hands turned up in a gesture that conveys this business is all mine and this business is all I’ll ever need.

Christmas Snow does not own the two-story building that Shepherd’s resides within, nor the land beneath it. Not yet anyway.

The long hand-crafted wooden bar, scratched by keys and rings and pocketknives, stretches from the front wall back to the popcorn machine, which is room enough to sit twelve; then it takes a sharp turn to the left and extends for another five bar stools. Follow the cracked red-leather booths on the other side of the room against the brick wall all the way back past the square tables and chairs to the back corner, where the jukebox and red-felt pool table have kept each other company for decades. Smoking’s allowed out the back door on the patio.

Christmas’s eyes constantly scan the room in search of empty glasses and overflowing ashtrays. She’d been looking for both items, in tandem, from her spot behind the bar ever since she’d started bartending at Shepherd’s in 1986. Smoking hasn’t been allowed in bars for well over a decade now, but she can’t stop looking for those little red plastic ashtrays. It became a habit and it’s been hard to shake.

Christmas is appreciated for her long pours of intoxicating spirits and prices that don’t set out to pick a customer’s pocket. She carries an adequate number of beer selections and some fine red wines from Spain, France, and Argentina. She can carry on several customer conversations while flirting with the beer-delivery driver. A couple of her regulars stopped drinking long ago but never quit Shepherd’s. Giving up booze turned out to be easier than sitting at the bar and talking with Christmas Snow.

Every seat in the house is taken and groups of threes and fours are huddling close together in the spaces in-between. Not because it’s cold inside; if anything, it may be a bit too warm and musty with all these bodies and wet jackets. It’s the steady thrum of five-dozen other conversations swelling and fading that tend to creep into whatever anyone is trying to say to anyone else at any given time. Whenever another familiar song comes on the jukebox—which most of them are—the sing-alongs tend to get louder.

The buttery perfume from the popcorn machine is only a faint note in the air tonight because Shepherd’s is awash with the aromas of honey-baked ham, sliced turkey, and spiced chicken wings. The spread is set out on porcelain platters in a “come and get it” buffet on the table in the back corner, beneath a wall covered with old photographs.

Every year it’s a mistake to do it this way. Everyone lines up to fill their paper plates with the free food and then they always linger to look at the old photos they’ve seen a million times before of the Little League teams the bar sponsored, and the bowling clubs, and shuffleboard teams, and midnight basketball squads. Every player in every photo has “Shepherd’s” spelled prominently on their jerseys. There is one picture, in a newer, slightly more ornate frame, showing the Shepherd’s Quidditch Team that took third in the city league championship 10 years ago. Christmas posed with the team because her granddaughter had played on it.

On December 25 of each year, this logjam for food and nostalgia just gets worse because at the next table where the complimentary wines and wineglasses are set out, the wall holds photographs of regulars who passed away. Isabel the artist in 1981. Toby in ’89. Grace and Shultzy in ‘95. Happy—that’s just what everyone called him—just a few hours into the new millennium. Many of the older pictures are framed with yellowing copies of newspaper obituaries, which never fail to mention that a gathering at Shepherd’s Bar at 136 Commonwealth Avenue after the funeral services was not only in good form, it was expected by the deceased.

Mrs. Henson, who lives in a rented room two blocks away, comes by the bar every year but only on this day. She fills her plate, looks at the photos. She doesn’t drink so she passes on the wine, but pauses in front of a picture of her late husband proudly holding aloft the tiniest softball trophy in the world with his teammates. He was so young, she thinks. After finishing her modest meal, she thanks Christmas and the two speak for a few moments more. She smiles and nods, and waves goodbye to the bartenders on her way out.

By the time most everyone has returned to their barstools and tables and booths their food is already half-eaten and cold, their wine glasses empty. A few are still wiping away tears. The conversations begin to swell again. The jukebox is playing a song by a local musician, who sits at the bar, staring straight ahead into the reflection of the backbar mirror with a slight smile. There are more stories to be shared. More laughter. More wine. More fellowship.

Both TV screens have the game on but not the sound, just like every other day of the year, and there are many eyes watching. Behind the bar, Sylvia and Russell make a few rounds of hot toddies and Irish coffees then call it a night on the specialty cocktails. “Just regular drinks now, folks. Everyone’s had a long year.”

Christmas brings the doorman, Robbie, a heaping plate of food she’s warmed up and a cup of coffee. “Not for your feet,” she says. Robbie sets the food and coffee on the bar. Sylvia slides him a shot of vodka with a smile. He feels the blast of cold wind on his back and he swivels around.

The Landlord has already taken several steps inside past Robbie and is following Christmas Snow back toward the empty buffet table. A trail of wet shoe print-puddles follows him.

III.

THE GHOSTS AND THE DOGS UPSTAIRS

Above Shepherd’s Bar, the building’s top floor held a queen-sized-bed, a long leather couch, a refrigerator, three tables, a television, a kick-ass stereo system, and a wall of vinyl albums. And Christmas Snow’s two dogs. The rest was used for bar storage and ghosts.

By the time the door’s lock has turned, both of the former city-pound mutts had loped from the couch to the foyer with their tails slowly twirling.

“Don’t smoke in here, you know that.” Christmas’s voice was direct but familiar.

“Of course,” says the Landlord, who drops his cigarette into the red plastic ashtray on the stairway railing at the top of the landing.

Christmas looks at the Landlord’s wet shoes. “Don’t worry about the floor, I guess.”

She leans toward the dogs, who are quite used to her comings-and-goings and bringing people inside.

They scuttle past her and after a cursory inspection of the Landlord’s wet shoes, pantlegs, and briefcase, they return sluggishly to the warmth of the couch in the next room.

“Has he been by yet?” asks the Landlord.

“I haven’t seen him. I don’t know why you think he’d be here? It’s just the usual crowd.”

The Landlord looked past Christmas into the next room where the TV was switched to one of the many log-burning-in-the-fireplace channels with the sound turned down.

Christmas believed the dogs preferred to listen through the floorboards to the sounds of the bar below and were especially comforted whenever they heard her voice. The beat of “Wooly Bully” by Sam the Sham and the Pharaohs was rising up now into the second story.

“I know he always comes here on Christmas.” The Landlord looked tired as he spoke.

“It never matters. I 86’d him years ago. He’s never stepping foot in my bar again.”

The Landlord walked to the other room and stared a moment at the fire on the TV and the dogs lounging on the couch and then he kept going to the window. He looked out and stared at Commonwealth Avenue. The wet street would be slick as glass by morning if the temperatures kept falling.

Christmas joined him at the window. “Is that yours?” She pointed to a small black sedan parked in front of the bar.

“Yeah. Christmas present.”

“From …”

“Yeah.”

“That’s nice. She’s good to you.”

“Yeah.” The Landlord turned and walked to the bedroom, flipped on a light, and looked around. Apparently satisfied, he flipped off the light and returned to the TV to stare at the fire.

“I thought you had three dogs.”

“Dreamy died in June.”

“Ah… that’s too bad, Chrissy.” The Landlord pivoted back to look at the bedroom. “Has he been here? I just want to know.”

“She was a great dog. She never wanted anything to do with the bar. She only went outside to race downstairs to the patio and pee and poop and then it was right back up here in the bed all day and all night if she should get away with it.” Christmas smiled. “I still feel her at night sometimes in bed.”

Christmas flipped the TV to a different fireplace channel. “I have not seen him in I don’t know how long. Is that all you’re here for … or are you here to not sell me my building again?”

The Landlord made a point of looking down at the briefcase in his hand and staring at it just a moment too long before looking back up into Christmas’s eyes. “You’ve got a good crowd tonight.”

Christmas dropped her shoulders, just slightly. “It’s just the regular crowd. I honestly don’t know where he is right now.” She turned and walked toward the door.

The Landlord followed.

The dogs leapt from the sofa in anticipation but were told to “wait” as Christmas closed the door behind her. She said the same thing to the Landlord as he descended the back staircase. The temperature was at that point where the drizzle could turn to sleet at any moment. She waited on the landing.

The bar’s patio had two tables with two large umbrellas, under which seven people sat smoking. The Landlord stepped toward one umbrella and asked to bum a cigarette. He lit it and took two deep drags, exhaling into the gray mass of clouds smeared overhead. He put the cigarette between his lips and walked back into the bar.

IV.

LAST CALL

It’s time for another round.

Someone jammed the jukebox with so many consecutive plays of “Wooly Bully” that Russell leaves the bar to unplug the machine in order to reset it. Nobody left will cop to being the knucklehead who did it, but most of those who have stuck around till closing have broken into their own horrible, ear-crippling rendition of the song.

Russell finally says, “The jukebox is ready to go again so you can all shut up now!”

He plays one of the two Christmas tunes allowed among the song selections because both exist on CD mixes burned especially for Shepherd’s. One was made before Christmas took over and one after. Russell chooses the song from the older CD, it’s that barking dog rendition of “Jingle Bells” that annoys everyone.

And just for fun, Russell plays it twice.

As it gets closer to 2 a.m. the crowd keeps thinning until Christmas says, “Last Call!”

But before anyone tends to the remaining customers the Shepherd’s Bar team gathers to hear how many times Robbie told his boring old hot-coffee story. Sylvia guessed the right number, five, and so she enjoys a shot of her choice, Calvados apple brandy.

Christmas flips off the outdoor neon O P E N sign. She puts her hand on Robbie’s shoulder and leans on him a little as she looks around for any forgotten scarves or gloves or keys. She notes that there are no red plastic ashtrays to empty.

Everyone finishes their drinks and thanks everyone else for the wonderful night.

“You’re all the Christmas we ever need,” says Arturo with a grin as he joins the line out the front door.

“See you tomorrow.”

The cold rainy night still presses down on Commonwealth Avenue.

The silhouettes scatter away on the wet sidewalks, passing shops that are dark, empty, and shuttered until sometime after the New Year.

At the intersections the stoplights are blinking red in all directions.

The last cab pulls from the curb, slipping away from the yellow glow of the streetlight above.

Christmas hands her staff fat envelopes of cash on top of their tips for the night. She tells them to get home safely and that she’ll see them tomorrow afternoon.

She performs her usual walkthrough, trusting that her staff did their jobs so she doesn’t need to check on the beer kegs or that the liquor stockroom is locked. She leaves an envelope on the bar for Lizzy, who’ll be in around 8 a.m. to clean up the rest of the mess and haul the trash to the curbside to wait.

A dog barks. That was Roxy. But she wasn’t upstairs.

The dogs must have been allowed outside and are on the patio.

Christmas allows some tension in her shoulders to release. She steps behind the bar and pulls a bottle of Spanish tempranillo. She picks up two stemmed-wineglasses and heads toward the back door, flipping off each light switch with her elbows as she walks until only the string of Christmas lights across the backbar mirror remains illuminated.

After punching in a final selection on the jukebox, the second Christmas song from the CD mix that came much later than the first, Christmas steps outside into the cold winter night.

THE END

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Anthony Head mostly writes about Texas.

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