I could have easily gone the rest of my life without ever returning to the Green Parrot Pub on N. Dale Mabry. But my buddy Buckman called just as I was leaving the office on a Friday. Buckman was with a couple other guys — Jay and Casey — that I've known for years, so I agreed to return to my old stomping grounds.
The old stomping grounds meaning the place we used to frequent a decade ago when were all about 19 years old with IDs that said we were 24. It was our nightly destination then, a place where we would get silly drunk on cheap beer and act like assholes. We were underage, but we fit in just fine.
So there we were, the other Friday, the four of us sitting at the Parrot emptying bottles of Miller Light. We drank fast. I credit the bartender for that. If our beers got three-quarters empty, she brought fresh ones.
"I'm gonna keep bringin' 'em like that," she said, "until y'all tell me to stop."
We had no objections.
My friend Jay works for Miller and is very pleased when his friends order a Miller product. Truth be told, I couldn't care less. Miller, Bud, Coors — all those domestic suds pretty much taste the same to me. But when I'm with Jay, I order Miller.
"That a boy," Jay said after I ordered. And then he patted me on the back like I'd just told him he was the greatest man on planet earth. He also picked up the tab. Like I said, Miller Lite is a damn fine product.
Eventually, Jay and Casey wandered over to the row of video games to play some virtual bowling. At some point, Buckman's wife called. He answered his phone outside. I think he might've told her he was still working. Not that he would fib to his wife, but … y'know.
I was momentarily all by my lonesome. That's when The Asshole said, "What time is O'Brien's open?" At that point in time, I was eyeing a rather attractive bartender with — what's that, a baby bump? I still thought she was cute. I hoped the mysterious Asshole wasn't talking to me.
Now, I have no idea if the Asshole was sitting there the entire time I was talking with my friends. But it seemed like he just appeared out of thin air, like a bar wraith dead set on ruining my relaxing evening.
"O'Brien's," the Asshole repeated. "When's it open?" He was talking to me.
"It's probably open by now," I said.
It was 5:30 p.m. on a Friday. Every bar in North America is open then.
"You ever been there?" he slurred.
"Yeah," I said. "I used to go there and here quite a bit when I lived around here."
"Where you live now?" he asked.
"South Tampa," I said.
And that's when I had a pretty good idea he was starting some shit. He took another gulp from his whiskey glass. Even though he looked to be in his mid-to-late 30s, he had dark circles under his eyes that nearly drooped down to his nose. The Asshole was on a bender that had probably started the previous weekend. He grinned like a demon with an ax to grind.
"So, you think, you think all them Hyde Park bars are better than this, don't ya?"
Well, well, well. This dude was definitely fucking with me. For no reason.
I looked at The Asshole and laughed. "No, that's not what I'm saying, partner."
"You sure," he said. "You sure you ain't saying all them Hyde Park places ain't better than this place here?"
"No, that's not what I'm saying," I sighed.
"What about the Chatterbox," he continued. "You ever go there?
"No," I snapped, figuring if The Asshole was dead set on a ruckus then that's what he'd get.
"How about the Hydeaway?"
"Look, man," I said. "Neither of those bars are open any more."
The asshole smirked and took another drink.
Buckman returned. The Asshole turned to him and said: "Man, your friend's making me feel old; he ain't never been to the Chatterbox."
"That's because that place has been closed for about six years," Buckman said.
"Oh, man, that place was great," the Asshole continued.
"No," Buckman said. "The Chatterbox was a shithole."
Buckman and The Asshole eyed each other. The Asshole's friend with the shaved head looked over. I was pretty sure a fight was seconds away. Casey and Jay were too busy bowling to notice, but if chairs started flying, I was sure they'd lend a hand. I'm a big fan of fair fighting, but I'm an even bigger fan of having an unfair advantage.
The Asshole started yapping again. Ozzy Osbourne poured out of the jukebox.
"Look, man, I can't hear ya with this shit blasting in my ears," Buckman shouted. "If you want to talk to me, come over here and do it."
At this point, I was thinking about where I was going to set my glasses so they wouldn't get broken when things got ugly. Just then, out of nowhere comes The Asshole's girlfriend. We'll call her Ms. Asshole. Ms. Asshole had a mullet and looked old enough to be The Asshole's mother. Mr. and Ms. Asshole started making out right there at the bar. It was the most disgusting thing I have seen in recent memory. Ms. Asshole dropped a wad of cash on the counter and escorted Mr. Asshole out the door.
"What an asshole," Buckman said.
Green Parrot Pub, 11759 N. Dale Mabry, Tampa, 813-962-2954.
This article appears in Jul 18-24, 2007.