An Old Cop's Place

Many, many years ago, I was part of one of the best municipal police pistol teams in the country. I was not the best shot, but I could hold my own well enough to compete at the National Police Pistol Championships a few times. I even won a few awards at smaller competitions. The best I ever did at the nationals was not embarrass myself.

These trips were not field trips, training trips, or anything of that nature. They were focused on shooting and encouraged officers at all levels to be their best when it came to handguns. Accordingly, we seldom strayed far from our lodging or the pistol range at the Nationals. However, on one trip, a buddy and I decided to get away from the team and have a cold beer. The problem was that we did not know the area well, and this was long before Siri and smartphones.

The smart move would have been to ask someone where the nearest nice bar was. Instead, we headed into town on the street in front of the motel. After all, it was a main street leading into the city. There must be a place to relax and have an adult beverage.

After driving for over thirty minutes and seeing only closed businesses and large warehouses, we decided we were wasting our time. So, we turned around and headed back toward the motel.

As luck would have it, we caught a red light within a few blocks, and something caught our eye. There was a flashing red sign on the side of a building. It was visible from where we were and read “BEER.” Somehow, we’d missed it when we went through that intersection earlier.

We were happy campers until we drove to the building with the flashing sign. The sign hung over the only door in a long brick wall. Except for the sign and a light over the door, the place looked as closed as everything else we passed. There were no windows at ground level, and the ones higher up were dark.

A couple of cars were parked across the street. Those vehicles and the flashing signs were the only indications of possible human activity. To say the place appeared uninviting would be an understatement. Still, we decided to continue our quest.

Stepping through the door was like stepping into an old Western movie. You know, the scene where two strangers step through the saloon door, and time stands still. Today, forty-plus years later, I remember standing there waiting for someone to say something or make a move.

The place was almost empty. Two guys were at a pool table in the back corner of the room. Another guy was standing at the bar talking to the bartender, and someone who could have been cast for the role of the town bad girl was sitting there with a drink in her hand. Everyone stopped, looked over at us, and froze. 

We were one step inside the bar, and the silence was deafening. No one said a word. The people in the bar just stared at us as if they were waiting for our next move. We glanced at each other, looked back at them, and backed out the door.

Then we drove to the highway, stopped at a convenience store, bought a six-pack, and returned to our room wondering what might have happened if we’d stayed. Those folks were not expecting two strangers to walk in and were not thrilled when we did.

To this day, I wonder what was behind the door near the pool table—a warehouse, storage room, or stairs leading up to the darkened windows on the upper levels—darkened because no one was supposed to see what was happening inside.

© oneoldcop.com 2024

*Friday Follies was a series of blogs where I shared weird, funny, or downright crazy stories. The real world interfered with my writing for a time, but I am now trying to get back on track. I originally posted this story in 2023 as “Friday Follies: Stranger Danger?” This is a rewrite to clean up some grammar and remove some wordiness.