THE BARTENDER KNOWS #13
THAT TIME I BARTENDED FOR THE DEAD.
All bartenders remember their customers — those that tip well, those who are funny and the ones who are real pains in the ass. But it’s not everyday that a bartender works and serves the undead. Or, at least, that was my theory.
I don’t really believe in ghosts. Not in any specific way. I’ve never seen a ghost wander through the walls in a bed sheet with two cut out eye holes. I’ve never seen a real vampire (other than some of my ex-girlfriends). I’ve never seen a werewolf (until I look in the mirror). But yes, I don’t know anything about the after life. I’ve never been there, thank God.
Turns out, I was very much working for the powers of the underworld, and it was at one of the oldest and, inevitably, one of the darkest dive bars in all of North Brooklyn. The latest incarnation of said dive bar was called The Plank. Previously, it had been named The Syn Lounge (which says a lot), and before that, The Rain Lounge (owned by the great Bobby Bell).
What is a dive bar, you ask? Here’s what Wikipedia has to say about it: “A dive bar is an informal bar or pub. Such bars are sometimes referred to as neighborhood bars, where local residents gather to drink and socialize. Individual bars may be considered to be disreputable, sinister, or even a detriment to the community.”
The earliest mention of the term “dive bar” goes back to the opium days of the 1800’s.
Quote:
“According to the Oxford English Dictionary, the colloquial use of the word dive to describe a “drinking den” or “other disreputable place of resort” comes from the fact that these types of establishments were originally housed in cellars or basements, into which “frequenters may ‘dive’ without observation.”
The OED says the first documented use of the phrase appeared in the New York Herald in July 1871: “One of the gayly decorated dives where young ladies … dispense refreshments to thirsty souls.” It appears again in 1882, then in an 1883 edition of Harper’s Magazine (“opium-smoking dives”). It is directly used in reference to a tavern in 1886: “A grand entrance takes the place of the tavern, which is relegated to down below, and is called a dive.”
I always made the joke that dive bars were called “dive bars” because they were perfectly positioned, in both theme and style, as a place where your life could take a ‘dive’, or a ‘downward trajectory’ and no one would judge you for it — nor could you judge anyone else. It was alcoholic reciprocity.
When this particular bar was thriving, I remember drinking there, distinctly. I think the year was in the early aughts and I was visiting Williamsburg for the first time. The neighborhood was quite different then — gentrification hadn’t quite set in, but the artists were firmly placed here. Yes, you could watch the Yeah Yeah Yeahs at a house party or bump into the members of TV On The Radio in some intoxicated stupor (you, I mean, not the band, although hey, in those days, who wasn’t soaked in their cups, right?).
I stumbled into The Rain Lounge and the music was going wild. It was a total dance party. Me, new to the game and visiting from New Orleans, jumped right onto the dance floor. That’s when Bobby Bell chatted me up.
“Man, you having fun, son?”
“Hell yeah I am,” I answered. Bobby Bell gave me a once over. “I like your dancing style. Have you been here before?”
“No,” I answered. “I’m visiting from New Orleans.”
“Oh, that’s why you’re cool. I mean, you’re the only white dude here.”
I didn’t even notice. But then I looked around. He was right. “Guess you’re not scared of black folks, huh?”
I wasn’t sure what I said about that topic. But two seconds later, Bobby Bell had three incredibly large four finger pours of tequila delivered over by a very gorgeous woman in a tight dress.
“Cheers, my man. Welcome to one of the only fully black owned bars in the neighborhood.”
“Cheers back. And thanks!” I said.
The night went in fast forward from that moment. Bobby Bell started showing off his moves. The DJ turned the music to a full 11 hilt — and the lady in the dress kept grinding on my hips like she was churning butter. It was a helluva night. The Rain Lounge made all the other bars I drank at seem boring.
Years later, when I moved to the neighborhood myself, the bar had changed to The Syn Lounge. I didn’t ask why, and for good reason. Anyone who remembers this bar remembers it very clearly. Let’s put it this way. A person once said to me, and I quote: “New York is a tough town. But each day you drink at The Syn Lounge your life expectancy goes down 10% with each beverage.” Least to say, I think new management had taken over. It was an interesting scar on the side of Bedford Avenue. I mainly heard rumors of brawls and drug deals and potentially corrupt undercover officers — basically a whole bunch of stuff I like to write about but generally try to avoid in my everyday comings and goings.
Did I drink there anyways? Absolutely. It was fun. I wrote 3/4’s of a novel there and countless short stories. No one fucked with me because I had a pen and a paper. They probably thought I was nuts (which, I am, see above: werewolf).
Time passed and the place was shuttered permanently. I was sad. I had made quite a number of friends in the place. Some of them had questionable backgrounds, but they were nice people. Other drinkers questioned my habits. I’d bring girls there all the time. If they didn’t like it, then I knew we couldn’t date. It was a great litmus test.
Then, good news arrived. The place was opening back up — and not only that, it was being opened up by my own friends. They named it The Plank (probably the best dive bar name in all history). I couldn’t believe it. Even better I was asked to work the place. My little dive bartender heart went pitter-patter. I trained, cracked open the door one Sunday afternoon, and we were open for business. (NOTE: If anyone knows what LITERATE SUNDAY is — it was born in that bar, but that’s another story, literally and figuratively. Just Google “LITERATE SUNDAY” and “THE NEW YORK TIMES” and you’ll understand).
Here’s the thing though. I have NEVER in my life worked for a more fucked up, dirty, consistently broken, never properly stocked bar in my life.
Now was this a bad thing? NO. I could hang. But weird stuff kept happening.
- Yes. Some of the customers were downright frightening. Like violently. I had to learn my way around a lot — even on a day shift. Fights, potential robberies, rampant drug dealing, open prostitution, the list goes on and on. I saw it all.
- Incredibly bizarre noises, creaks, echoes and other-worldly events happened on the regular. It was odd. Like I said, I don’t believe in ghosts. But if there was a place where hallucinations happened on the daily, The Plank was it. Something always was broken. Most of the time it was the people who drank there (including yours truly).
- This one was a doozy. There was CONSTANT water problems. Either the water didn’t run, or there was a flood in the basement — everything that was fucked up was related to water. I guess The Plank really worked as a name. It was a blue-green dirty pirate ship sailing the deadly Seven Seas right there on North 5th.
Then I found out why.
My boss, the owner, told me, quite off-handishly, the history of the building.
“Oh, yeah. There’s a secret passage in the basement that’s walled off.”
“What? Where does it go?” I asked.
“It goes underneath Bedford Avenue to the Senko Funeral Home across the street.”
“What!” I took a serious drink. So did she.
“I never told you this?”
“Ah, no, you hadn’t.”
“Yeah, this building, our bar, used to be part of the funeral home.”
“What!?!”
She grinned. “Yeah, there’s a passage underneath the street connected to the funeral home. That’s why this place is totally haunted. And you know what’s even weirder?”
I felt a cold, wet chill crawl up my spine. “Tell me.”
“They didn’t just put the bodies here. This building was used for all the body parts they found in the East River that couldn’t be identified. They’d find a part of an arm, or a thigh, or a half eaten head by the fish in the river and dump the body parts down here in the basement. That’s why this place is so crazy. Wild, right?”
I became sober instantly. I asked for another drink. I should have asked for another bottle. This explained everything.
Exactly a year later, The Plank closed down. Someone had mentioned it was going to become a Pizza Place. I made a promise to myself never to purchase a slice there under any condition. I knew that who ever did would have nightmares for months for what they had consumed. No offense against the Pizza Place. They serve good stuff. But that has got to be one damn haunted slice.
Sincerely,
TBK.
