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The Beached Whale was the quintessential American dive bar and grill.
Rustic and rundown, it stood two miles outside the city limits of Port Angeles, within a glade looking out across the dark waters of Freshwater Bay.
The gravel of the not quite empty car park crunched under the 911’s tires as I pulled off the dirt road and parked up outside the structure, near an old Ford F-150 pickup that might have been one of the first off the original line and hadn’t moved since my first visit.
Having finally figured out how to silence Britney’s caterwauling about a mile back, I killed the engine and climbed out the sports car into the cool afternoon air. The rain was holding off, and stray beams of sunlight had broken through the grey canopy. With any luck, it might help dry me out before the Porsche’s upholstery became too waterlogged.
Pocketing the fob, I turned to walk inside, and couldn’t help my grin.
Above the foyer, the green billboard that broadcasted the name of the establishment in red neon lights also sported a huge blue neon design hovering atop it. Presumably, whatever dip shit had put the rig together had thought it was a decent likeness of the bar’s name’s sake, a beached whale.
So far, only the drunkest of patrons had seen anything even slightly resembling a sea creature in the mess of blue. Personally, I thought it looked more like an inebriated hippopotamus.
The doors opened with a gust of warm air, fragrant with stale beer, fried food and cigarette smoke, and I walked right onto the set of True Blood.
With its wooden floors and walls, the Whale’s interior was about as rustic as the exterior, though thankfully not quite so run down. There was a big oak bar and stools in one corner, backed by row upon row of vintage booze and spirits, but apart from that the rest of the open floor space had been given over to a dining area made up of a mix of booths and tables. A window where the staff could pass orders through to the kitchen dominated the rear wall. Two chalk boards hung on either side, listing the menu, Wi-Fi charges, and a sign asking the diners that, as the staff didn’t eat out of their toilets, could they please not piss on the floor. That about set the tone of the place.
Off to the side, a set of swinging doors led out to a converted game room, complete with retro slot machines and a pool table. Inside, a group of guys were playing a game, loudly. I doubted anyone was likely to kick up much of a fuss, though. They were the Whale’s only patrons at the moment, besides myself, and I sure as hell wasn’t about to go back there to tell them to keep it down.
The barman -his staff badge had named him Mike- just nodded at me as I made for my usual seat, a booth halfway down the wall. I wasn’t a frequent enough visitor to be considered a regular, but I’d frequented the place enough times for the staff to recognise me. Mike signalled to Debra, the only waitress on the clock at the moment, then returned to watching the tv in the top corner of the bar where the Seahawks were playing.
Debra was already waiting by my booth.
She was a pretty thing, a curvy redhead who wore a touch too much make-up but who greeted every customer with a ready smile that ensured she always got a good tip. “Well hi there, sugar pie, we don’t often see you dropping by for the early bird special.”
I grinned and pretended not to know she called every guy that came in alone sugar pie. “Aw well, you know how it is when you’re in the neighbourhood and get a craving for something sweet.”
“I bet. So will it be your usual?” she asked with a little notebook in hand, her eyes dancing with mischief as she subtly looked me over. I must have been quite a sight, dishevelled, mud-splattered, and soaked to the skin.
“Yes please, but just a coke.”
She noted that down on the pad. “In a glass?”
“I’d better, or else it dribbles through your fingers.”
She laughed at that. “I meant, would you prefer it in a glass or the bottle?”
“Well, as long as it’s served by your fair hands, Deb, I’d drink it from Muhammad Ali’s old tapdancing shoes.”
“Aww… I swear you could turn a girl’s head.”
I smiled as she did an about-turn and sauntered over to the window to the kitchen with an inviting sway of her hips. It was a very good show.
She’d been working at the Whale since her ex-husband hightailed it out-of-town one morning when he was supposed to be going to work and never looked back, leaving her to fend for their two kids. She talked about them sometimes when it was quiet, and would often entertain me with some of little Timmy and Jackie’s adventures.
I enjoyed hearing her talk about her kids, how happy they all were, how normal her life was. It reminded me of those days long ago. When I was no older than little Timmy and Jackie and the world seemed just like a big game. Her stories made me wonder about what might have been before my world got ripped apart…
“There you are,” Debra announced cheerfully, laying a tray loaded with food down on the table
I made an appreciative hum as I took in the meal. A big fat bacon double cheeseburger with all the trimmings and a side of chips. The Beached Whale would not win any Michelin stars any time soon, but the fry cook knew what the customers wanted and delivered it.
And a good burger is one thing a kid growing up on the mean streets of New York learns to appreciate, quick.
Say what you like about dive bars. They made the best burgers. Give them a side of Aberdeen Angus, two baps, some cheese and onions, and a few king Edwards, and they’ll serve you up a gastronomic orgy, for the good old price of $4.99. Eat your heart out Ronald McDonald.
“Will there be anything else, sugar pie?” she asked, laying the glass of coke and ice on the table beside the plate.
I sighed and gave her a regretful smile. “Not now, love, we’re both on the clock.”
