From outside the bar looked like someone's forgotten garage. Plonked in the middle of a derelict lot, serving as a car park, the windowless prefab looks like it could date from anywhere between 1950 and 1970. It was once blue, maybe even electric blue, but now just a ghost of colour clings to a handful of planks like a watercolour wash. Once blazing, now fading, on the front wall the word 'Sputnik' flickers and stutters in reds and yellows, its neon glory muffled by grease and dust. It looks closed, abandoned even, but following Brandi inside I realise that is probably just the 'pace of the south'.
Inside the air is flavoured with cigarette smoke and sweat. We are the only people in there but for the ancient barman sat watching Oprah behind the bar. Maybe 70 years old he is Tim Burton does hillbilly, all sharp chinned and gummy in a lumberjack shirt and jeans. He creaks to his feet as we wander over his only greeting a slight widening of the eyes that says 'what can I get you'. Brandi orders a PBR without Irony and I nod along to fit in. Marky throws a spanner in the works asking 'what beers do you have?'
The old man looks to be caught off guard for a moment, blinking slowly but saying nothing. He shuffles over to the cooler and peers inside.
"PBR, Bud, Bud Light…"
His voice trials off. We all wait expectantly… but thats it. Before the silence gets too awkward Marky orders a Bud Light and our two cans and a bottle are parked on the bar. A confused conversation about starting a tab ensues but its mostly between Brandi and Marky despite its intended recipient who answers only "That'll be $6.75" waiting for the cash. I press a $10 bill into his arthritic hand and my companions shuffle over to the jukebox. While our new friend makes up my change take a peek at the bar.
The floors are unfinished chipboard and it looks unlikely they ever will be finished since there is already maybe 20 years of footprints ground in there. The walls are clad in tongue and groove but mostly they are clad with shelves; shelves laden with an endless array of trophies. Hundreds of tiny golden men brandish pool cues in triumph atop pedestals and plinths or carved into shields and plates. Every award bears the same name but a different year or county, and every one of them is 'first prize'. Whoever this guy was I am guessing his sporting success might be something to do with this bar - the only furniture in here other than the bar, the juke box, and a few bar stools are the 5 pool tables dominating the bar room.
Passing back my change brings more confusion. Marky has left $3 on the bar for service and I have to explain to the old gent that they are meant for him. He reluctantly jams them in the tip jar with a shrug and a mutter and tries to make conversation. Unfortunately, we are separated almost entirely by the thickness of his accent and the foreignness of mine. I foolishly try to explain that I am Scottish, but most recently from London. He is confused for a moment but recognising the word London launches into a story about his nephew who used to live in Kent. The exchange is slow and ugly - both of us screwing up our faces in concentration to try and follow the other and I suddenly catch a glimpse of my twilight years. Excusing myself, I decide I might make morse sense over by the jukebox…
The jukebox is ace. Super ace. The next couple of hours are all Credence Clearwater Revival, Tammy Wynette, The Doors, and Hank Williams. Every few songs or so our friend behind the bar will make an approving noise and claw a dollar out of his tip jar and make a single request, offering us the other two plays if we make the long trek to the box for him. The smoking is chained, the PBR flows, and we strike up a game of pool, much to the amusement of the old geezer who watches intently and giggles at our incompetence. He warms to our awkwardness buying us a round of drinks and refusing any more tips. This is so much what I expected of the south. I feel like I am in a Chuck Norris movie. Not Chuck himself, but one of the random patrons at one of the random bars he will probably start a fight in. It's bizarrely familiar and uncomfortably foreign at the same time.
Once we are good and buzzed we decided it might be time to eat some lunch and Brandi has to go and pick up her son from school so we shake hands with the old guy and make our exit. Marky is creeped out by the clawlike grip - a product of the arthritis - but despite the run in with 'his strong hand, child' we are pretty sure he and his bar are the best thing ever. If you get to Columbus you have to go here.
just stumbled onto your blog after googling the Sputnik Bar, a bar that was across the street from the church I grew up in. I've ALWAYS wondered about the bar and what's in it. Loved your post.
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