It might have been called a club. A sit-down place where ice cold beer was served, six in a bucket in glass or cans for those that felt like partying, and one at a time for those that didn't. The outside of the bottle would be wet, and the labels would peel from the glass. The bar was narrow, about six people could sit across, only four ever managed it, and the bowls with pretzels and nuts blended in with the scratch's and loss of paint that the counter held, it's top being constantly wiped off with a stained dark rag, to remove the crumbles of the crackers and skins.
Seven small tables stretched from the light so diffused by the glass block wall, up to the corner of the bar. A black and white television replaced the old tube radio, it's twelve inch square picture showing the World Series through a muddled screen, the dust almost thick, the smoke from the unfiltered cigarettes curling down from the tobacco stained ceiling, along with paint, and webs tying the walls to the roof supports.
The Sportsman were gone. The feeling of those inside was captured by chairs, each one different, each one in a state of disrepair. The pictures on the walls were strips of paper sent and hung by the beer men. A license, as such, the only thing purely clean, it's frame caked over with the hand-me-down dust and dirt of many, many days.
The door has the residual of the bodies who came in, and poured out, as night encloses the enclave.
Ralph E Peck
Photo by Ralph Peck
The Sportman, Spavinaw, Oklahoma
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