I'm at the Reservoir Bar on a rainy Saturday night feeling drained and a little bit down. Billed as "the finest hole-in-the-hall in town," the joint sits on Seventh Avenue in Ybor City. It serves as a grungy refuge from the nightclub hubbub and plastic party people that crowd the street. There are two pool tables in the front and a pair of dartboards in the back. Movie stills from Quentin Tarantino's Reservoir Dogs and a fake Tommy gun hang behind the bar. There's a sticker that reads: "Girls lie too."
It's around 10:30. I've just finished covering a packed all-ages show at a nearby concert venue and need a place to unwind in peace. The Reservoir Bar fits the bill. The attendees are mostly 30somethings who relax over Jager shots and cans of PBR. It's a low-key, funky dive where people converse rather than shout at each other. I dig it — even if my thoughts keep slipping to the dark side.
I find an empty stool, order another bottled beer and light my 10th — 15th (?) — smoke of the night. It's Easter Eve, and I'm thinking of the grandma in Pennsylvania I haven't called in too long, the brother I miss who's moved to New Orleans, the sister I miss who's in Colorado and the parents and other sister living across the Howard Frankland from me in St. Pete who I don't make time to see often enough.
The dismal weather and my blue disposition also have me thinking of an ex. She called just the other day. I was too drunk to really talk. She tried to hide her disappointment and said, "Yeah, well, it was good talking to you, anyway."
"No matter what bar you go to, there's always someone selling roses," says the guy next to me as a sad woman walks by peddling her wares. The drink isn't taking, but I order another. It beats going home to an empty apartment.
A beautiful, rotund gal shuffles out from behind the bar and offers goodbye hugs to a group of grateful regulars. She's not my bartender, but I watch her closely all the same. The patrons affectionately call her "Miss Carol," and she reminds me of the gal in that Harry Chapin number "A Better Place to Be." It's a story song — my favorite kind on evenings like this — about a lonely midnight watchman and the "big old friendly girl" serving him whiskey. The little fellow tells the bartender a tale of lost love, and she comforts him with drink — and then companionship. I wonder if Miss Carol has ever been in a similar situation.
Miss Carol carries cash and a lighter in her ample cleavage, puffs heavily on Marlboro Red 100s, flashes the customers broad smiles and — most importantly — provides them with a sympathetic audience. The woman next to me has come to catch up with Miss Carol, who she's apparently known for years through other local watering holes. Miss Carol runs down a long list of kids and mentions what they're up to. "They're all growing the hell up," she says with a laugh. "Only got two left at home."
Bars can be depressing. Most aren't Cheers — at least not in my experience. Sometimes, though, if the establishment has the right servers, who in turn often dictate the clientele, a pub can bring a sense of belonging to even the loneliest of folks. Miss Carol appears to be that bartender who customers come to see, to share drink and stories with when maybe no one else is around to listen. The long hours of the service industry aren't conducive for relationships or family life. Bartenders typically have firsthand knowledge of how lowdown life can be. I'd rather confess my sins to them than to a priest.
I take another long pull from my beer and watch Miss Carol effortlessly produce a round of flaming Jager-bombs. A fellow near me at the bar observes in awe. "Miss Carol is not new to this game," he says — then explains that even though bartenders are no longer allowed to ignite shots, the ones she made are flammable; a difficult task. "You have to layer the different liquors just right," he says. "She made it look easy, but it isn't."
Miss Carol and her friend, the one sitting next to me, return to their conversation. They discuss asshole exes and memories of wild nights at The Castle, an Ybor club where Miss Carol apparently worked previously. She grins when talking about her current man. "He calms my ass down," Miss Carol says. "I'm a happy, happy girl."
I never actually spoke with Miss Carol during my time at Reservoir Bar. All the same, there was something about her presence that lifted my spirits. Cheers, Miss C!
Reservoir Bar, 1518 E. Seventh Ave., Ybor City, 813-248-1442 or resbar.com.
This article appears in Mar 26 – Apr 1, 2008.