My friend had that mischievous gleam in his eyes, so right away I knew that we were off on another adventure.
Bay water was brownish blue, then foamy and green around tide lines. We both smelled mullet bedding on the bridges going into Apalachicola. “Bet you’ve never seen anything like what I’m gonna show you today!” he grinned. He was right.
The Tavern was cavelike - high ceilings, concrete floors, a few dusty windows that filtered out the light. Several dogs lay panting next to their masters, who slept fitfully upon the bar, emitting a snore or an unintelligible word now and then. Two massive women with dark underarm hair and sweaty sleeveless T-shirts shot pool in the back. Beyond this was an open door, leading to a weedy courtyard out back.
It took awhile to get the bartender’s attention, as she was meticulously lining up old cigarette butts in an ashtray. My friend ordered a can of Budweiser, grudgingly fetched from a moldy smelling cooler. He wiped greenish stuff off the top with a bar napkin. Unknowingly, I ordered a margarita. The tiny, black-haired bartender looked at me contemptuously for a minute, then replied “I don’t make no golderned margaritas!”
Intimidated, I asked for a Jack and Coke, which she served pompously and unceremoniously with a small dead bug adorning the edge.
After I removed the unsightly garnish, I settled down a bit, as my cocktail was delightfully strong. Then, my friend began to point out a few very unusual aspects of our surroundings. The bar intself was hand carved mahogany. Clydesdales pranced merrily along in front of wagons full of beer barrels. They were surrounded by intricately carved townsfolk hoisting steins as if in salute. Behind this amazing wooden masterpiece, was an ancient marble soda fountain. Silverplated spigots graced this antique - tarnished, yet still beautiful. It had been shipped down the Apalachicola river during the 1800s when cotton was king. The Tavern had once been a drugstore and soda-fountain!
Eventually, it became Chauncey’s bar - a rowdy waterfront juke joint. During Prohibition, shrimpers and fishermen would get their drinks in the back courtyard. After that, it changed hands again and was renamed the Tavern.
We ordered another drink. After this one, my head began to swim. What ghosts lurked in these musty corners, sent to glory in drunken brawls? I shut my eyes and tried to imagine small children ordering sodas here. When I opened them, my friend looked over at me, still grinning and said, “Isn’t this a classic?” I had to agree.
(The Tavern burned down in February, 1985.)
