"You're awfully quiet," the man said. He had his ball cap pulled down low, wore an old T-shirt, tattered khaki shorts and flip-flops. His skin was tan and leathery from hours spent working in the unforgiving Florida sun.
"Nothing to say, I guess," I answered. Knowing I sounded like a smart-ass, I followed with a polite grin. The last thing I wanted to do was come across as a prick. After all, I was in a dive bar full of wiry men who worked with their hands for a living, who all appeared to know each other and who probably were not exactly thrilled to find some pretty boy in eyeglasses sitting in their bar scribbling notes onto an ancient newspaper he plucked from the rack in the corner.
"What? You never been here before, or something?" the man asked.
"First time," I answered.
The man — who later gave his name as Lambert — rubbed his well-trimmed goatee and leaned back on his stool until his back rested comfortably against the wall. We were at neighboring tables a few feet from the bar counter. Lambert spoke to me without ever making eye contact. In fact, his eyes wandered around wildly when he talked, making me initially wonder if he were blind. Lambert was fidgety, spoke in a low grumble, like he was out of breath. During our conversation, he sipped slowly from a bottle of Busch. He said he had been going to Blondie's for decades.
"Back when you was probably just a pup," Lambert cracked.
Blondie's sits at 1735 W. Hillsborough Ave. in Tampa, less than a mile east of the steel drawbridge that spans the river. From the outside, it looks like the kind of squatty cinderblock shack used to house migrant workers. The building is painted yellow, the color of a sweat-stained T-shirt. Or an old white tablecloth that's been repeatedly doused with spilled beer.
The parking lot is unpaved. When I pulled in Friday around 6 p.m., I spotted a motorcycle, the hulking red cab of a big-rig, a couple late-model sedans and several pickups. A black truck with an extended cab had a bumper sticker plastered to the passenger window. It read: "Pizza's like sex. When it's good, it's really good. When it's bad, it's still pretty good."
Blondie's has a single inconspicuous door facing the dusty parking lot. Tonight it also bore a handwritten sign: "Cookout Sunday covered dish welcome."
I took a deep breath and reached for the doorknob. The room was full of shadows, smoke, the sound of clacking billiard balls and the smell of cigarettes and body lotion — just like a strip club. A guy with a straggly beard, seated closest to the door, gave me a friendly "hello" as I walked past him. I went to the bar and ordered a draft beer. It cost one dollar. The bartender had a cute figure and a friendly way about her. But countless hours spent working in the small, one-window room populated by chain smokers had taken its toll on her skin. A rich sugar daddy could give her a big-money makeover, and she'd probably turn heads in places like SoHo. But that didn't appear to be in the cards for her at Blondie's, a beer-and-wine joint populated by blue-collar types just looking to unwind after a hard day of labor.
I sat down at one of the three tables. The bar has about 10 stools — some have backs, some don't. The billiard table occupies about a quarter of the room. Track lights illuminate it.
Blondie's also has one of those fancy jukeboxes that are hooked up to the Internet. The mostly 40ish-looking white fellas who filled the room played an odd mix of Steve Miller, Creed, Talking Heads and Brooks & Dunn. Elvis Presley's "Only Fools Rush In" got played by one of the regulars at the request of the day bartender, who had just finished her shift. She wore a hot pink blouse, drank Michelob Light and chain-smoked Marlboro Lights. When The King crooned, she closed her eyes and swayed her head. "My daddy," she told her friend. "This song reminds me of my daddy."
After quickly going through two mugs of beer, I opted for a half-pitcher ($3) of the same thing. A sign behind the bar read: "SMILE! 24 HR. VIDEO SURVEILANCE." Another sign read "Practice safe sex: go fuck yourself." And another: "I still miss my ex …But my aim is improving." Blondie's reminded me of being back in Bradenton, where I spent a couple years frequenting bars where gruff dudes drank draft beer and talked about racing, fishing and the weather — the kind of joints where late-night fistfights were rather common.
"What's the craziest shit you've seen go down here?" I asked Lambert.
"Oh, I don't know," he said. "I don't spend much time thinking about those kind of things."
This article appears in May 30 – Jun 5, 2007.