en heyworth

Most of my friends from this place scoff at the local establishments. And for the most part I don’t blame them. The “Family Restaurant” (refered to as “res-turnt” by most of my family) presumes that a Greek Salad should include bacon. The grocery store carries no veggie burgers and only Boone’s Farm Wine Products in the alcohol section. And Bell’s Lawn and Video, the only known store this side of the Mississippi where you can browse the video rental library while waiting for diagnostics on your riding mower, closed years ago. But one thing I do appreciate, in spite of it all, is the bar scene.

Once upon a time, before I was old enough to really be aware of such things, the American Legion was the only place in town serving booze. Then, I believe during my jr. high days, the owner of the Irish Circle bar, in the next town over, decided the market was gaping and opened up Circle II (the logo to which is a branding iron style circle with the II emblazoned in the middle). And then finally, sometime when I was off at college in Chicago a real “Chicago style” bar opened. Yes, in the building that had been vacant since 1982, when the historic Hickory House Saloon shut down, Pit Row opened its doors. Now the place does have a nice wooden bar. It has a well kept pool table and a long row of electronic poker games along the back. The ceiling is high and they do actually enforce the now ubiquitous Illinois smoking ban, unlike the bartender only known as “Smokey” over at II. But after having spent the better part of 6 years in Chicago, I have yet to find a NASCAR themed bar there. So while I find the paintings of a racetrack crowd on the walls, the racecar hanging upside down from the ceiling, and the cardboard cutouts of Dale and Dale Jr. in the corner endearing, I would not exactly call this place a Chicago bar.

But despite the Dales, despite the smoke, despite the implicit proliferation of militarization in small town United States, I love these places. And I rather enjoy checking in on them during my infrequent trips to heytown. I suppose because you always run into someone interesting. And by interesting I do not necessarily mean someone who is leading a fascinating life (though its happened on occasion). Mostly I mean someone unexpected from the past.

So my most recent trip to heytown happened to fall during the NCAA tournament, and for the final game, Mama H, Papa H, and I decided that since none of us really cared who won, it might be more interesting at the Row. Papa H, in his sage-like way, predicted I would run into a young man who I hadn’t seen in 3-6 years. I agreed saying, “who will it be? Someone who will induce crying, like CT? a old flame like MN? Or maybe just someone silly dancing by himself in the corner like JC?”

And so, we all took the 5 minute walk to the Row, and plopped down at the bar. It was slow on a Monday night, and when we arrived was only populated by the bartender, the owner’s wife, and an older gentleman waiting for a to-go order of the night’s special, chicken wings.

But was we watched the game, JC came in and ordere more to-go food. MN came in with his home-wrecking new(ish) lady-friend. And the predictions came true. Two out of three ain’t bad. And to top it all off (despite the lack of a CT appearance), LM, the current mayor wandered by and said hello to Mama and Papa H as if they were best friends.

There have been times I’ve been creeped out a bit by the close knittedness of heytown. I don’t like knowing that gassing up on my way into town sets in motion a series of text messages which results in a former classmate calling my parents’ home to talk to me. But the flip side is, its comforting. People know you and care about you, and in a pinch would surely take care of you. They may not be family, or even friends. But there’s a trust and knowledge that develops just seeing people in the IGA that you can’t replicate in larger communities. And as much as I curse it at times, sometimes you want to go where everybody knows your name.