Remembering The Green Onion

(Please click on the title for a reading aloud by the author.)

The Green Onion, which sadly is no more was in the truest sense of the word, a dive. It was a bar. I loved the place. The low slung cement block building had no windows, and was painted a garish chrome yellow with a Kelly green belt line and trim. The flat roof was dominated by a huge satellite dish with a giant three leaf clover painted on it. Not a four leaf.

Walking in the door was walking into another realm; dark, cool, and remote. The air was permeated with the smells of stale beer, oily smoke from the Fryolator and urine. Sports paraphernalia was screwed to the walls and the carpet may have squished underfoot. Brown vinyl upholstery on the bar stools and chairs was sticky and padding bulged from rips. If these seats could talk, you’d rather they kept it to themselves.

The place was without pretense or apology and so in its genuineness had charm. There was always a collection of hard worn alcoholics sitting at the bar, sharing the stories and perspectives of drunks. The waitresses, rough edged and sassy were nonetheless on the ball. The music was never too loud. This was not the outside world, but a haven of low key, especially welcome on a hot afternoon. The beer on tap, never anything fancy, just Bud, Miller and Coors was cheap and cold. The food, so long as you never saw the kitchen was… ok, in the long run it was good for your immune system. Jalapeño poppers were always a hit and they grilled up a pretty good burger. The back room had a wide screen and so became the “sports” bar.

Out on the town one evening with friend Beemer, visiting from Wyoming or Florida depending on which direction he was headed in, I asked him what his preference was in watering holes.

“I like a good dive once in a while.” He said.

“I know just the place.” I responded.

We walked in the door. Beemer stopped in his tracks, and surveyed the surroundings. When you’ve been around you know you need to stop and get the vibe of a place like this before you go any further. He turned to me and with a lurid grin said, “This is nasty. I love it!”

And so we parked ourselves in a booth and had a couple cold ones.

A young and attractive and very dolled up woman was having difficulty getting the juke box to go. She came over and asked me, me!, imagine that! in a very coquettish way if I could help. Chivalry is not dead, so of course I was at the ready to assist the damsel in distress. I leaped up and went over with her to the blinking, bubbling machine. Before I knew it, Beemer was by our sides, and before we all knew it, her rather large and unattractive boyfriend was there asking her if everything was all right.

“Oh Rico… no worries, hun.” She said. Rico looked us over, not particularly happy and stalked away. The woman gave my shoulder the lightest little touch, with just her fingertips. She smiled and rolled her eyes, then thanked us for the help and sauntered back to her group. Her pure white, skin tight pants…

Oh, the mating rituals. Oh, the survival of the fittest.

Back at our booth, Beemer leaned toward me conspiratorially and hissed, “She’s wearing a thong! Here kitt-tee… kitt-tee!” He clawed his fingers in the air. I was just glad Rico kept cool. Sometimes these situations can go from bad to worse in a hurry.

We got back into our beers and talking about bikes and life, and eavesdropped on the bar talk.

Gordon Bunker