The sun will soon set on my favorite neighborhood bar of the last eight years, better known as the Buena Vista Lounge. The tearing down of my beloved watering hole to make room for a new apartment complex now seems inevitable, and I have begun my own process of healing from the grief. I'm at the point in that process where every time I leave to go home from the Buena, I think, "Screw this place, maaan. I don't need it." But I know that isn't true. More than likely, I'll be back there for every Dollar Beer Monday until they lock the doors one last time. The place has a lot of good memories, a few sad ones, and more than a handful of foggy ones.
This may sound strange, but my favorite memory of the Buena Vista was in February of 2003 when I sat at the bar, did my all my taxes (long form), read On The Razor's Edge (cover to cover), and knocked down about a dozen screwdrivers in a matter of about six hours on a Saturday while keeping track of college basketball scores. That might be the only day in my life when I reached my full potential as a man. I thank the Buena for that brief moment of perfection. No one bothered me and as soon as one glass sat empty, another one, full of rail vodka, orange juice, and ice would appear. I need to live that efficient on daily basis.
Also, I've never vomited there. I can't say that about every bar. But I have my favorite vomiting moment while sitting at the Buena. Once, a guy at the table behind me took one too many shots of tequila, immediately stood up and puked onto the floor. The impressive part was that just as quickly as the man spewed, he darted for the janitor closet, filled the mop bucket up and cleaned up his mess. And like all great endings, ordered himself another round. The drinker did this task with such great efficiency that the only people to see him do it were the bartender and me. Once again, I thank the unique atmosphere of the Buena Vista for that. You make a mess, you clean it up, and you sit back down like nothing ever happened.
Once it's gone, I'll miss those long rectangular windows over looking Lake Superior from the top of the Central Hillside the most. Countless numbers of my columns began as drunken scribblings on bar napkins while sitting next to those windows. Degas had his ballerinas, Hemmingway had his bulls, and I had those windows. Well, that sounds overtly pretentious. Let's say instead that Jessica Simpson had her large print coloring books, and I had my Buena Vista windows (which means "grand view" in Italian, in case your were wondering).
And, for a little while anyway, I still have my Buena Vista Lounge. Part of the healing process for me will be filling the next few installments of Working Blue with stories about my time there; a solitary drinker and his neighborhood bar soon to be torn down. Two weeks from now: A Brief History of the Buena Vista Lounge.
