When I walked into Steve's Tavern, The Village People's "Y.M.C.A." was blaring.
Better known as Steve's Tav on the Ave., it's a little hole in the wall in downtown St. Pete on Central Avenue, by MLK.
"Good song, Boomer," cracked the beefy guy at the end of the bar. He was wearing a black T-shirt with the sleeves hacked off. A bearish rug of black and gray hair covered the back of his arms and neck. He mockingly raised his one-liter stein full of beer. "Good song," he repeated sarcastically.
Boomer — a round-faced guy in his early 30s wearing a striped, collared shirt, khaki shorts and sandals — chalked his cue stick and surveyed the billiards table. The eight ball was a long way from the corner pocket. His female opponent smiled at the song's refrain. Theresa, the brunette bartender, raised her arms and mimed the letters: Y-M-C-A.
"My songs haven't even played yet," Boomer responded before barely missing the shot.
I settled onto my barstool. It was the comfortable kind with a back for leaning. I wiped the sweat from my forehead and ordered a bottle of Budweiser ($2.50) from Theresa. I had the flushed face of someone who had just taken a long walk across concrete and asphalt in the summer. My Saturday afternoon stroll had taken me past police headquarters, Ferg's, a joint called The Kizmet and what appeared to be a haunted hotel named the Shirley Ann. The lobby door was open, but the clock on the wall was dead, and weird noises emanated from the staircase. Out of some morbid curiosity, I went in for a second, then bolted the moment I heard what sounded like the ghost of some transvestite hooker. My next stop after Shirley's was Steve's. My hangover might not have dissipated, but it was time for a drink.
I hit the Tav last Saturday around 5:30 p.m. with a fog still in my head. The night before had found me at a blues club called Ace's Lounge in Bradenton watching my brother play guitar and getting loaded with a bunch of former co-workers and drinking pals. It had been my first trip south of the Skyway since I left nearly six months ago after spending three years in Bradenton.
It took me quite a few rum and cokes to get acclimated again, and I paid the price the next day — spending the bulk of the afternoon at my bro's place in downtown St. Pete, on the sofa, watching The Bodyguard on TV in its entirety. I actually got into it while my stomach slowly settled.
The camaraderie at Steve's reminded me of the Bradenton bar scene: Everybody knows everybody, and a night of cheap drinks, crude jokes and pool is as about as good as life gets. I took my first sip of beer just as "Y.M.C.A." gave way to Stevie Ray Vaughan's version of "The Sky is Crying." The jukebox is the kind hooked up to some online source and has about a billion choices. The machine is on your right after entering the door. There are also darts and a Golden Tee along with the single pool table. The room's long and narrow, with the bar occupying an entire side.
Across the bar, which features a nice blonde wood counter, is a shelf lined with liquor bottles. On the back wall, a long mirror runs the length of the place. The flat-screen TV closest to me showed the Mets playing the Phillies. I buried my head in a newspaper. I'm a big fan of stopping in a bar to drink a beer and read the paper. People read newspapers at cafes and restaurants but rarely at bars. I've never understood that. The guys next to me mostly drank their draft beer in silence, barely keeping an eye on the game, thinking about who knows what.
"Picture," by Kid Rock and Sheryl Crow came on and I cringed.
"I like this song," said a man with a natural mullet — white hair, bald on top, long in the back. He told some newcomer who spoke broken English that Steve's is a "good place."
"I've been here every day for the past week," he said proudly.
Theresa told me Steve's has been around for 17 years under its current moniker and that the clientele are mostly people who live within walking distance. Considering how many businesses in the area formerly known as the Dome District have failed, it's nice to see a little dive with cheap drinks and friendly service survive. Of course, the characters that frequent such places are part of the charm.
"I'm in no condition to walk," announced the beefy guy in the sleeveless shirt.
The fellow next to him voiced concern. After all, the man had downed about three pitchers in the time I had consumed three bottles.
"No need to worry," the big guy said with a chuckle. "My wife'll come pick me up. She drops me off here and then she picks me up. That's how we do it."
Steve's Tavern on the Ave., 933 Central Ave., St. Petersburg.
This article appears in Jul 4-10, 2007.