A Requiem for the Bars
It’s just a bar.
Bars are for sinners.
I’m sorry for the owners, but bars are at the bottom of the list of things to save.
There are bigger problems.
We don’t need bars.
The details of COVID restrictions vary from state to state and even city to city, but one constant is the between-a-rock-and-a-hard-place location of bars. Here in North Carolina, restaurants with bars and bars-cum-breweries are able to open within certain lower-capacity guidelines. Bars with outdoor seating were recently allowed to open at low capacity for outdoor service only — in the middle of winter. A few weeks ago to-go mixed drinks became a reality — it’s great as a supplement to business, but not worth it as an entire business.
Left in the wake is the traditional bar. The type of place that has to operate in NC as a “private club” because they don’t sell food. The Moe-Szyslak-behind-the-counter sort of establishment. The bar that doesn’t try to overextend itself, but rather exists just to be what it is: a place to gather and have a drink.
The bar-is-a-bar-is-a-bar sort of bars were eligible for the same small business relief as other shops in town. But unlike most businesses, many bars have not been able to reopen at all since last March. Where a quick – but far from easy or adequate – infusion of money may have helped bridge a gap for many businesses, for bars, it was just a pair of half-inflated arm floaties in a hurricane. There is no way to reach the other side of the gap other than to wait out the storm — and they’ve been waiting for almost a year and counting.
Businesses in downtown areas that are unable to open also face the looming Downtown Rent Prices. Especially in places like Durham that have built a name for themselves on the backs of a quirky downtown feel.
Despite the twist TV news outlets love to put on things, many bar owners are not asking to reopen right now. They recognize the harsh fact that active bars serve COVID-air-soup and would be responsible for superspreader events. They don’t want to cause harm but they do need a bigger boat.
Bars are, of course, not the only businesses in this situation. More help is needed across the board. But for this moment, I want to focus on the legitimacy of bars as community centers, rather than simple dens of iniquity where people get drunk and breathe all over each other while making terrible life choices.
The first time I stepped through the door at The Atomic Fern, I was running from.
I was running from the endless days of a crumbling marriage. I was running from the incessant noise of two small children. I was running from the anxiety that was crawling over my skin if I stayed in my house for another minute. I just wanted to go sit on a couch, have a beer, write, and escape my life for an hour or two. The problem is that it was noon on a Sunday. I asked around, and someone suggested that The Atomic Fern in downtown Durham might be exactly what I wanted.
Once I left my marriage, it became a bit of refuge on my kidless evenings. It’s a nice walk from my work, so at 5 pm on Monday or Tuesday evening, I would stroll through downtown and arrive at The Fern soon after they opened. Usually, I was the first person there – occasionally startling the bartender – and I grabbed my spot in the corner of the couch to read or write while I sipped a beer. When it was time to break the seal, I’d go read the graffiti on the bathroom walls. My favorite said, “I miss my hurricane.” I always wanted to add, “This Tornado Loves You,” but I never did.
My happiness depends on itMy sanity depends on itMy worthiness depends on this soft cover crowd scene– The Nields
The Fern is where I learned to stand on my wobbly post-separation legs. Soon, instead of running from, I felt like I was walking towards. Towards the person I would become in this new period of after. The Fern gave me the space to figure it out. I went on my first post-separation date at The Fern. We sat on the couch while I babbled nervously and word vomited every personal horror story I could think of. First dates at The Fern became sort of my thing. Knowing I was safe there let me become.
I cannot even count the number of friends I’ve shared a beer and a laugh with on that sketchy couch. The dim lights, low music, and lack of TVs made it the perfect place for a conversation.
Sometimes, when my mood felt fragile, I didn’t want to risk the feelings of rejection that would stir if I tried to invite people over but found everyone busy. On those lonely, fragile evenings, I knew I could walk the mile from my house and sit among friends and strangers, or wallflower myself on the couch and just be. For my introverted brain, it was a space to push myself. After a beer or two, I would place a delivery order for way too much food and share it around — which is how I made new friends. I got to know the bartenders — Danny would see me come in on a hot day and slide a glass of water across the bar before he even asked what beer I wanted. Milo played Rhiannon on the stereo before I realized he even knew my name (credit card has my name on it, of course).
Some folks loved the wall of board games — they would gather to play on game nights. I know some of those people are sober — but there was no expectation to purchase alcohol. Other nights, people might seek out strangers to play a game.
Soon came the Pandemic. No longer just a board game.
The owner, Kevin, keeps the community going by filming Facebook live videos twice a week where they would teach the audience how to mix up a specific cocktail for the day. Usually, it’s just Kevin, a bartender, and a guest or two (depending on what the current inside gathering rules are). My last indoor-outing was in May, on my birthday, when he invited me to be a guest. So, I did — masked up, hiding in a corner booth, and drinking beer out of a straw.
This summer the kids and I were downtown for a BLM rally. Suddenly, Rowan exclaimed, “I have to poop!!!” At that point, I figured I had maybe two minutes, so we ran towards the car. On the way, I texted Danny and Kevin to ask if they were at the rally. They were, and they unlocked the bar for me so I wouldn’t have to leave the event early to take Rowan all the way back home to use the bathroom – or end up with a messy car seat issue.
The beauty of the bar is the spontaneity, the community, and the randomness. Plenty of people at the Fern were just vague acquaintances. Or one-act players in my orbit. The bar itself is the home of this community — it’s bigger than the specific people, the types of beer on tap, or my adventures in dating. The bar is a benevolent shape-shifting entity of its own.
But with no money coming in, expensive downtown rent, and limited government relief, The Fern fell behind on rent. The landlord recently terminated the lease and changed the locks. The view through gaps in the curtains remains the same for now: the couch of many fluids, the glossy bar, the stacks upon stacks of board games. A TARDIS sticker still greets you at the door and inside there’s still more geek paraphernalia than you’d find at Comic-Con.
A Requiem For a Bar
But for how long? There are still a couple of hail-mary passes to be thrown, but it seems likely that this community, like so many other bars around the country, is dissolving into just an empty storefront with a For Lease sign in the window.
I know a bar is just a bar. But it’s not just a place for overindulgence and shame.
Sometimes, it’s also a community for people who need one.
When we are on the far side of this pandemic, what will we have lost? There are the obvious, tragic losses: people, education, childhood, and livelihoods. But what about the heart and soul of our cities?
