Allans Bar

 The old bar sign was faded and hanging from rusted chains. The glass windows were yellowed and cracked, like the old man going through his everyday tasks behind the bar his father built decades ago in a once-thriving lumber port. His name was Allan, as was the bar that once filled the place with hardworking men who would stop in on their way home for a cold mug of beer and conversation. Today, like most others, the place is empty except for old Rudy, Allan's best friend of sixty years, if you can imagine that. Rudy would be dropped off by a friend who gave him rides here and there, reminding him he'd be back at six o'clock to take him back to the place he was forced to live so his children didn't have to take care of him.

Rudy and Allan didn't speak much anymore. After all, what could be said that hasn't already been said?

Allan was eighty-seven years old, and let it be known, he had no intentions of retiring and selling the bar. He had several offers, but he waved them away, telling them the bar was his home and, in his case it was as he had an apartment upstairs that he had lived in for sixty years. He stumbled up those stairs back in the day more times than he could remember after a night of fun among his many patrons and friends.

Walking into Allans Bar, the first thing you encountered was the smell of old wood and stale beer. The walls were filled with pictures of the olden days, showing workers at the lumber plant as hardworking men who made a decent wage enough to spend a few dollars at their favorite establishment.

When I started going to Allan's place, I was drawn in by the history of the building itself, an actual work of art built by some of the best woodworkers of their time. Carved railings and the bar itself, a forty-foot piece of red maple sanded a dozen times and varnished to perfection, were the highlights. The wall in the back of the bar contained small wooden pigeon holes that each held a bottle of booze lit up with soft lighting. There was a brass foot rail that Allan polished every day and twenty-four wooden stools, with many having to be replaced over time as some were thrown in anger at someone who disagreed with the day's politics and others that just wore out.

My dad would sometimes bring me with him after a Saturday haircut, sitting me on a stool so I couldn't touch the floor and getting me an orange crush that would keep me busy for a few minutes. I loved talking to the old guys, who always had a story to tell me, and slipping me a quarter to play the old jukebox Allan had put in at the request of many customers. As I became a man and could leagaly drink Id go to the bar and help out by changing taps and putting the empty kegs in the back to be picked up by the brewery. Sometimes, I tended the bar and let Allan have a well-deserved rest while he and Rudy did a couple of shots and tried to think of something to say.

One time, I went to the bar. A sign was on the door saying the bar would be closed in memory of Rudy, who passed away sitting on his favorite stool with his lifelong friend Allan by his side. Allan changed after that like a lost puppy. He went on with daily chores and made sure the brass rail was polished and the woodwork shined, but his heart wasn't in it anymore. And one year to the day, Allan fell asleep in his upstairs apartment and never woke up.

The bar he loved so much went up for auction, attracting people from miles around to bid on the contents he had saved for almost seventy years. Nearly everything was bought in the end, leaving the bar empty and cold. I drove past the old place and saw a for-sale sign had been put up, so I called the broker, who told me the place needed a lot of work and could be purchased fairly cheaply. It didn't take me long to buy it.

I honored Allan by refurbishing, not tearing down, and did this with the help of the old woodworkers' sons, who learned the trade from their fathers and grandfathers. When completed, it was like walking into Allan's bar on the first day he opened so many years ago.

Well, as for me, I live upstairs now and sometimes swear I hear his voice thanking me for saving the bar he loved so much. Today, it's a busy place most days, and it's me telling the stories of Allans Bar to tourists and locals, all curious about its history. The story I love to tell revolves around the two stools roped off so nobody can sit in them. They were the stools Allan and Rudy had sat in for sixty years, talking about everything under the sun like best friends do.

Mike 2025