I spent this weekend at my friend’s lovely lake home (or “cabin” as weekend houses are quaintly called in these parts) in northern Minnesota. For her birthday we had the opportunity to go bar hopping in some nearby small towns. I grew up in a small town in Kansas, so I was not surprised that really the only difference between a bar in rural Minnesota and in rural Kansas is the latitude. Certain elements of the clientele might vary from New England to Florida to Idaho, but I’d venture that in any local watering hole, you’re going to mix and mingle with the following type of folks.
Freedom. Freedom is the townie who probably hooked you up with illegal liquor when you were in high school 25 years ago. Back then he had a pimped out Firebird with a Pioneer stereo system, but now no one knows what he drives because they’ve never seen him anywhere but on his barstool for ten years. Freedom’s wardrobe consists of t-shirts adorned with airbrushed designs of stars, stripes, and bald eagles. He is the epitome of “Murica.” He hasn’t been sober since the Reagan administration, and spends his time wandering around from table to table trying to engage in conversation. His eyes are permanently glassy, bloodshot, and half-open. When Freedom finally manages to slide his wallet back into the pocket of his Wranglers after five minutes of many unsuccessful attempts, the whole bar cheers his effort.
Divorcée. She’s a cougar on the prowl. Recently liberated and enjoying her new lifestyle, Divorcée is down to…flirt. She’s wearing low-rise dark denim with blinged out back pockets, a studded belt, and she teeters on pseudo Jimmy Choo heels. Her new boobs are pushed up high so they spill out of the top of her tight sparkly t-shirt. Big tan, big make-up, big nails, big hair. Everything about her screams high maintenance, yet the local bachelors, all of whom are wearing at least one article of blaze orange or camo clothing, flock to her while she holds court, falling all over themselves to buy her another Cosmo.
Glee. Playing Nathan Detroit in Guys and Dolls as a high school senior was the apex of Glee’s life, and he’s been trying to recapture the moment ever since. Once every few months the old ball and chain lets him out of diaper duty, and he gathers up his co-workers from the real estate office for happy hour on karaoke night. Everyone checks their phone or goes to the bathroom when he starts belting out show tunes and big band standards that no one under the age of 50 has ever heard. Then he sits down and smugly waits his turn while intoxicated frat boys home for summer break sing an off key rendition of Margaritaville clearly inferior to anything Glee is capable of.
Dancer. Dancer was probably once very pretty, but she’s been rode hard and put away wet. Her weathered skin makes her look like she could be anywhere between the age of 20 and 50. She’s wearing an ill-fitting short skirt, and that roses and barbed wire neck tattoo is dangerously close to her face. A month or two of clean living might add some meat on her bones and make her hair look less like a troll doll, but that just isn’t in the cards right now. Tonight she’s high or drunk or both, and is spending the evening grinding on any and every guy on the dance floor or at the bar. If she doesn’t hurry up and go home with someone, she’s going to get her face rearranged by a jealous girlfriend.
Rudegirl. Rudegirl is the 40-something who is part of the group from the big city that actually doesn’t get out much unless it involves neighbors and a bonfire, but a milestone birthday or reunion is being celebrated, and this bunch thinks they’re pretty awesome, especially after several rounds of brightly colored shots of alcohol. Rudegirl knows the downtown club scene is way out of her league, so she’s ready to party like a rock star in the sticks where she can lord her purported sophistication over everyone for one night before she has to return to her kids, husband, and laundry back in the cookie cutter suburbs.
© Jennifer Alys Windholz, 2014