Beer Joints

It was near the end of summer in 1965. The beginning of school hung over me like a dark shadow. What’s worse, before it even began, I had to take a trip to the ACIPCO medical center to get up to date on all my shots. After two sticks in the arm without shedding one tear, mom awarded my bravery by walking me over to dad’s office. If the timing was right, I got to hang around until quitting time and ride home with him. It also almost certainly meant a trip to Dean’s Den. 

Dean’s Den was a beer joint. My dad and my uncle stopped there regularly to knock back a couple before they headed home. And if I was with him, I got to knock back my drink of choice, an ice cold Grapico. 

A beer joint may be hard to describe, but you’ll know when you see one. And Dean’s was one.  A squatty concrete block building, with faded white paint and a gravel parking lot sat on a corner of Main Street in Tarrant City - a blue collar suburb of Birmingham.  

Dean’s Den was small and looked rough around the edges. However, once you stepped inside, it became a dark, cozy world. There was old pine paneling, a small bar with a few stools bolted to the floor, and a well used pool table. I’m not sure if there was a TV, but they had a dart board.  Naturally, there were several colorful neon signs promoting the primary beverage sold there: beer. I recall everyone drinking brews right out of the bottle.  Asking for a frosted mug would’ve got you the same looks you would get if you ordered pork ribs at a restaurant in Tel Aviv. And there were several bottles of brown liquor behind the counter;  I suppose that was reserved for people who had a particularly bad day at the plant.  A small cloud of cigarette smoke always seemed to be hanging just below the ceiling tiles - there was no Surgeon General’s warning yet, and it wouldn’t have mattered if there was. Dean’s Den was a working man’s bar.

Places like this had unspoken, yet definite social mores, depending on it’s location.  Since it flanked a nearby neighborhood, Dean’s was always sprinkled with locals who were accepting of any newbys who dropped by the place. 

 

However, that wasn’t true everywhere. Dad once told me of an experience he had at a little country beer joint called The Rock House. Once he decided to stop there for a Budweiser on the way home. When he opened the door, he said he felt like the black sheriff riding into town in Blazing Saddles. Dad minded his own business, sat down at the bar, and ordered a cold one. That’s when a large man, who appeared to be  a refugee from Hee Haw, sat down beside him. He was wearing a worn pair of overalls - that’s all. If he lost one hand of strip poker, he’d be naked. No shirt, no socks, no shoes, no deodorant, no education, no teeth, and probably no underwear. He didn’t say a word - just watched dad drink. 

 

“What did you do”, I asked my father. 

“I chugged it down and got out of there.  It was a rough place, and I was being told I didn’t belong.”

My guess is they saw his car,  which was an old VW bug. 

Later, we learned  that the Rock House was home to all kind of nefarious activities. Fights, drug deals, even a few knifings and shootings. It was finally torn down to make way for a grocery store. I only hope they salted the earth first. 

Please understand that a beer joint is not a tavern, a barbecue joint or a burger joint; although some will occasionally have a pretty good hamburger or  barbecue sandwich. You’ll have to ask, though - because there’s never a menu. 

Still confused?  I can give you a great example. Years ago, there was a little spot on US 11 near Trussville, Alabama called Velma’s Place -  that my friends, was a beer joint. My buddies went there to drink a few, and perhaps smoke cigars. After a few decades it closed, and now years later, someone resurrected it. The new Velma’s is nice, but it has things beer joints just don’t have. Too much foo foo, not enough grit. They have menus, and karaoke, and such.  I even think the parking lot is paved. I have a name for places like this one, it’s a JINO - Joint In Name Only. 

Hey, I’m not judging. I enjoy going in places like that. I’ve even done karaoke. But this is about what’s a beer joint and what ain’t - and this ain’t. 

Even if one of the guys doing karaoke was wearing nothing but overalls.