Bogie's Bar

I grew up in a little town called Bittersville, Kentucky. Bittersville sits on the banks of the Ohio River. Bittersville was little more than a wide spot in the road. It had a gas station, a few churches, an elementary school, and a mom and pop grocery store.

Many of the houses in town were empty. People were constantly leaving Bittersville. Mostly, they headed up to Tecumseh, Ohio. There was a factory up there that manufactured break pads and jobs were plentiful. Some men moved to Eastern Kentucky or West Virginia looking for coal mine work. When a young person graduated from Solomon County High School in town, they left, too. They would go to college, trade school, or the military mostly. A lot of them headed east or north like their fathers before them.

I kidded my friend Richie that he was the only guy that I knew who moved to Bittersville. He and his family moved there when I was 12 or 13. Mrs. Holcomb, my 8^th grade homeroom teacher, assigned Richie the seat behind me. Richie talked nonstop during homeroom and, before long, I knew all about him. We had almost nothing in common. I was a straight A student while Richie barely passed any of his classes. Please don’t think of him as dumb-he just didn’t like being confined in a school all day and did just enough schoolwork to get by. I came from a devout Christian family. I could quote dozens of Bible verses and my parents had me in church every time the doors were open. Richie’s parents didn’t go to church and Richie said that he wasn’t even sure that God existed. At my house, our record collection was stuff like the Kingsmen Quartet, the Inspirations, and the Happy Goodmans. Richie listened to rock and country. And he knew the lyrics to almost every song. Part of his non-stop chatter was quoting lyrics of the latest hit songs. He couldn’t sing and he knew it, so he he would just quote lyrics.

In spite of him being so different, or maybe because we were so different, we became the best of friends. Proximity played a role, too. I could walk to his house from mine in about five minutes and he had a basketball goal on his garage. We would spend hours imitating Magic Johnson and Larry Bird at his house. Honestly, we were lousy. We were both short and we made up for it by being slow.

Another one of Richie’s interests was exploring Bittersville. He liked taking long walks around town and “exploring”-that was his word for it. I really didn’t care for the little town. It was dirty and depressing. Nothing never really happened there and when there was an occurrence, it was a crime. I couldn’t wait until the day that I got my diploma and headed for greener pastures.

One day, after school, I headed over to Richie’s house. He was sitting on his front porch, putting in a dip of Copenhagen when I arrived. Snuff was yet another thing we didn’t share.

“Hey, what’s going on?” I asked.

“Let’s go exploring,”he responded.

“Where?” I asked.

“Across the railroad track. Over there where Bonnie Craig lives. She says there’s some abandoned buildings down the road from where she lives. Know anything about that?”

“Yeah, this used to be a bigger town. There was a factory where they made ammo for the military back in World War II over in Hattonsburg and most of the workers lived here in this town. When the war ended, the factory shut down, and everybody moved away. A bunch of businesses shut down. That’s what Bonnie’s talking about.”

I left out the part about Dad telling me that all of that was private property and I would get in big trouble for snooping around over there. I had been eight years old and had began to read Hardy Boys books. I think that he was worried about me playing detective.

Oh, well, that had been a long time ago. If the folks found out, I could act like I had forgotten and probably get away with it!

As we walked toward the train tracks, I couldn’t help contrasting Richie and me. I had blonde hair and my parents made sure that it was always short and neat. Richie had black hair that came down on his neck and always looked like he had rolled out of bed. I was wearing a green golf shirt and a pair of khaki shorts. The shorts were a cause of friction between my parents. Mom thought shorts were sinful, but Dad thought they were OK. They had compromised-I could wear shorts if they were knee length. Richie wore a Molly Hatchet T shirt and a grungy, faded pair of jeans.

As we crossed the train tracks, Richie began quoting lyrics:

Some people see through the eyes of the old

Before they ever get a look at the young

I'm only willing to hear you cry

Because I am an innocent man

I am an innocent man

Oh yes I am

Later, when I actually heard that song on the radio, I was grateful that Richie had only spoken the lyric and hadn’t attempted the high notes.

Bonnie Craig’s house fronted the railroad tracks. She was sitting on the front porch. She was an 8^th grader, but looked more like she was 16 years old. Tall and blonde, she was by far the prettiest girl in our school. She was sitting on the front porch swing and we were treated to a good view of her long, tanned legs.

Richie let out a long, high pitched whistle.

“Will ya look at them legs!” he said loud enough so she could hear.

That was another thing we didn’t have in common. He had no problem talking to girls and he flirted like it came naturally for him. On the other hand, I was a nervous wreck around pretty girls.

Bonnie blushed and blew a kiss at Richie. Now, I was jealous!

The street was in really bad shape once we got past Bonnie’s house. Potholes and cracks pockmarked the surface and we skipped around like schoolgirls playing hopscotch to avoid them.

The first of the abandoned buildings was a building that looked like an old country store. There was a sign on the front of the building. It read BOGIE’S BAR in faded, red letters and underneath, in smaller letters it read ”Beer! Mixed Drinks! Hot Food! Cowboy Singer on Saturday Nights!”.

The only front door was a screen door. Richie walked up onto the front porch and opened the door.

“Hey, let’s go in!” he said.

I could hear Dad’s voice, “It’s private property, boy! You could get in some serious trouble if you go poking around over there!”

I was a goofy kid, what can I say?

I followed Richie into the barroom. The room was empty. There were some pictures left on the wall. Mostly of women in bathing suits or lingerie. There was a bandstand in one corner of the room and a bar dominated one wall.

“Welcome to Bogie’s Bar!” Richie said, talking like a carnival barker. “The cowboy singer will be singing all of your favorite tunes, starting at midnight! Come on up to the bar! Lemme pour you a drink!”

Richie made his way behind the bar.

“OK, pick yer poison!” he said. Then, “Oh, crap, look at this!”

The tone of his voice scared me. I ran behind the bar. It took a second for my eyes to adjust to the darkness. Then, I saw what Richie had seen.

There was a man lying on the floor behind the bar. He was a tall, skinny black man, dressed in a jogging suit. There was a hole in the middle of his forehead. His face and the front of his tracksuit was blood covered.

“Do you know who he is?” Richie asked, his hands were trembling. He looked like he was on the verge of tears.

“No, he can’t be from around here!”

Back then, everybody in our county was white!

“We better git outta here!” I yelled.

And that’s what we did. We ran all the way back to Richie’s house. When we got there, we both sat down on Richie’s porch. We were breathing heavily.

“Waht are we gonna do?” I asked. My chest was heaving and my legs and lungs felt like they were on fire.

Richie took a deep breath. Then, he started talking a mile a minute.

“I know how to handles this. Something like this happened to my cousin up in Cleveland a while back. I’ll do what he did! Come on in the house!”

Richie’s parents both worked at the grocery store in town, so they weren’t there. Richie ran into the kitchen, grabbed a phone book, and looked up a number. He dialed the phone. I was standing right behind him and could hear the ring on the other end.

When there was an answer, Richie spoke using his Ronald Reagan impression. It didn’t sound anything like Reagan, but it didn’t sound like Richie either.

“I need to report a death. I’ve just seen a dead body over here in Bittersville!”

I was amazed at how calm he was being.

“Over across the train tracks. There’s a place called Bogie’s Bar. It’s shut down. There’s a dead body behind the bar inside the place. That’s all that I can tell you! Please send somebody! Good bye”

Richie hung up.

“OK, that should take care of it!” Richie said. He was back to his normal voice.

When, the newspaper came out the next week, the dead man was identified as Rodney Warren. Turns out that the owners of the private property were a bunch of mobsters from Indianapolis. They had been running drugs out of those abandoned buildings for years. Rodney had been working undercover for the DEA and had gotten shot when one of the dealers figured out what he was doing.

In case, you are wondering, I did get out of Bittersville. I got a college degree and I’m living in Louisville and doing great. How dothe kids say it, I’m living my best life.

I always swore that I’d never go back. I was wrong. We make it back a few times a year. By we, I mean my long legged wife Bonnie and me. WE go back to see my folks. And in spite of the traumatic memory, we always make a trip across the tracks to Bogie’s Bar. Only now, it’s completely renovated and houses the Bittersville Baptist Church. The pastor is Richard Sharpe, my old buddy Richie.

Funny how things turn out, isn’t it?