I walked into the bar like I do almost every night when I’m coaxed by a coworker or a sweet boy into going out. The doors of The Stag are old and wooden. They’re smooth and shiny and impossible to pass through without looking awkward to someone who’s not accustomed to people squeezing between two tiny doors that are too stubborn to open all of the way. The doorman usually waves me in, and I get a nod from the bartender, Tim. I found out just recently that he hasn’t shaved his bushy red beard in twenty-seven years with the exception of a charity event when he shaved it to raise money. There are shuffle board players trying to squeeze past each other in order to get to the end of the table where they are sandwiched between the game and a protruding beer sign that faces the street. I never get nervous if the friends I’m supposed to meet aren’t there when I arrive because there are people who are like fixtures at the bar. There are always the cooks from the dinner rush who sit closest to the darkened kitchen. There are the hipsters who walk Main Street and come into Stag for the Black and Tans and a game of darts. There’s always the boy hoping that I might show up, and there are always the musicians, ready at any moment to hop on stage to fill in the gaps for a jam session.
Now, the bar itself is decades old and the history of its construction, destruction, and restoration can be found on the back of their menus. The barstools are old and clunky, but they still spin smoothly despite the wobble in the legs. It’s awkward to sit on the stools, facing the bartenders because your knees knock up against the front unless you’re able to spread you legs wide enough to accommodate. There are multi-colored mints and boxes of matches for everyone who wants fresh breath after they smoke. Old trinkets and pictures decorate the register, and a countdown to St. Patty’s day is always posted somewhere. If it’s not, just ask the bartender, and they’ll let you know.
Though you can find Tim bartending almost every night of the week, there are others. Patty, the day bartender, is in her sixties as far as I can tell and has shaggy short hair with a rat tail that hangs down her back. She’s an avid White Sox fan, but she’ll give the Cardinals their dues any day. She is drinking Jameson by noon and serves anyone in the vicinity of the bar with a good sense of humor the same drink after they’ve finished their Bloody Marys. Brad is another night bartender. He stands about 6’6” and is usually sporting braided pigtails and cut-off jean shorts. He has a good sense of humor with a smile to match, and you can find him there with his hair down on the nights that he’s not working. Janet is the cute bartender that all the boys flirt with and pray that they can take home, but she’s a good girl and can drink them all under the table. There are a few others, like the girl who seems bitter about everything and angry to have to pour you a drink, and there’s the other guy who can stack up to fifteen rocks glasses on top of each other and carry them around the bar without breaking a sweat.
The college kids who have moved here from out of town sometimes don’t understand the beat of Stagger. Everyone from town knows that you go there to have a good time, listen to some good tunes, trade small stories, and drink. You don’t fight, you don’t get too loud, you don’t wave down a bartender, and you don’t get sloppy. There are other places in town for that.
