Have you ever said something worthy of a strong punctuation? Have you ever spoken a line of thought inside your skull only to hear a resounding tone roaring after a period? Yesterday, I found an establishment whose name did this inside my mind. I saw a yellow sign with a duck slouched while drinking a cup of foaming brew. The sign belongs to a place known as THE DIRTY DUCK. (doooommmmmmmeeee) With a name as provocative as THE DIRTY DUCK (DOOOOOOOMMMMMEEE), I had no choice but to stop and discover what kind of terror lurked inside the small dark-brick building.
When I ventured into the joint, it was three o’clock post meridian or as I like to refer to the afternoon—postmortem—because this is the time of day those who are dead on the inside decide to start to rise into the foggy realm with a building thirst for a new thrill. It is fitting to use postmortem when discussing the night terror THE DIRTY DUCK (Bwaaappmff bwah bwaaahhhhhh) presents to oneself but more on that shortly. Three o’clock in the afternoon is too early for most of the monsters of this planet to already be trouncing the world and this fact left the duck short on patrons when I first shuffled into the establishment.
A few hardened youths met my gaze as I passed the dividing line between the decency of the rest of the world and THE DIRTY DUCK. (booooooom) I felt a strange sense of satisfaction, though, as the few rough looking youngsters took hold of my presence. I knew I had interrupted a routine day by interjecting myself into the mixture of the bar and I wasn’t alone. I was accompanied by a particularly fiendish individual by the name of Jonny D. Jonny has a particular eye for the nasty side of life, an eye I find comforting because it tends to visualize the world as I do. After the visual comb over by the regulars, a perfectly pitched female voice wavered into my ears and I heard a few lines from Meatloaf’s I’d Do Anything for Love (But I Won’t Do That). What exactly Meatloaf won’t do for love continues to be a mystery to fools, much like the purpose behind the presence of a pretty buxom blonde in a place where dirty ducks hole up. The blond was the bartender. Meatloaf won’t cheat on his morals by going around and banging a bunch of floozies just because his lover left him. Two mysteries solved in the blink of an eye.
Jonny and I slumped into a deformed green colored bar booth. The pretty blond waltzed seductively over to our table and between singing and shooting the breeze, took our order. We ordered a pitcher of Bud Light which at the Duck is always set at an affordable $6.50. Then the blond swung away, toward the wooden bar at the front of the dirty place, purposefully leaning against several patrons before finding her way to the booze. Within a few moments, the blonde bartender sung her way back to the bar booth where I sat with my evil friend. The blond deposited the pitcher of beer, took my debit card and swirled back toward the bar, swooning over a few more patrons as she moved.
Jon and I decided to move since the bar booth, where Jon and I first rested, was broken causing the table to jab into my ribcage. The next booth we plopped down into had a power strip cozily sitting on the bar booth seat. I noticed the power strip but I didn’t think much of power strip’s presence. Jon, on the other hand, as I would find out later, was dutifully formulating a theory on THE DIRTY DUCK (BOOOOM) and collecting evidence to further his position—the power strip being a part of his collection of evidence.
For some foolish reason, Jon and I moved closer to the juke box which was still blaring Meatloaf. We couldn’t talk to each other since the noise level was far too high. Jon suggested we play a game of pool and I agreed. We walked into the adjoining room, out of the main room, away from the sodden youth and buxom bartender with pipes as big as her personality. Within two interactions with the bartender, Jon and I knew she was originally from Florida, that she liked to sing, that she had a good singing voice, and that she was equal parts obnoxious and flirtatious. Jon and I chose a high table with two bar stools in the corner of the pool room. There were two old blue-collar gentlemen in the room with Jon and me but they didn’t speak to us nor look at us.
After Jon and I started throwing sticks, the barkeep moseyed up to Jon and me and asked if we needed anything. I asked her for a menu because I wanted to sample some of the cuisine. The blond laughed a little bit and then pointed at a poster on the wall behind me. The menu was posted there, in conjunction with an advertisement for some sort of horrible looking vodka. The blond could tell I was a bit shocked to discover such a simple menu so she politely excused herself, granting me a few moments to recover from my mental paralysis.
There are five items on the menu: hamburgers, cheeseburgers, pizza, hot sausage links, and spicy pickled eggs. I’ve been searching for a bar for a very long time that offers pickled eggs. I was ecstatic to find this item on the menu. I knew I had no choice but to indulge in this delicacy.
After some time the barkeep returned to take Jon’s and my order. Jon and I ordered a cheeseburger, a deluxe pizza and two spicy pickled eggs. The food took around fifteen minutes to arrive and when it did I was not impressed with either the cheeseburger or the pizza. Both items were frozen and the pizza was the size of a $1.00 Totino’s frozen pizza. To make matters worse, THE DIRTY DUCK (Wahhhh wah wahhhh) charged me $7 for the miniscule pizza. Jon and I ate half of the pizza before we decided it wasn’t worth finishing. The cheeseburger was less disappointing. It was small but was fulfilling enough to justify the $3.50 price. The pickled eggs smelled like spiced rot which, I am told, is common. The appearance of the pickled reek was equally compelling. Despite the drawbacks, the pickled eggs possess the bold taste of something beyond this realm of possibility. I was enamored and the eggs only cost a buck a piece. It is also important to note that a jar of twenty-four pickled eggs can be purchased for only $20.
After eating, I needed a shot to wash away the buyer’s remorse for purchasing the pizza. Once the bartender decided to return to our table, I asked if Jameson was available. It was and I already knew THE DIRTY DUCK (dooooome) had Guiness on draft since this fact is mentioned on the Duck’s website. I asked the damage for an Irish car bomb and the buxom blond floored me with a revelation—Irish car bombs only cost $4.50 at THE DIRTY DUCK (BOOOOOOOOOOM).
I was starting to posit a theory of my own on the Duck. The website for the Duck showcases cheap Jagermeister. A shot can be bought for $3.50 at any time other than happy hour when a shot of Jager costs only $2.75. There were a few liquor posters littering the walls of the bar advertising various shots, all costing less than four dollars. And there was some scribbling on a black board behind the bar, listing three drinks all for less than $3.50. One of the drinks listed was the infamous Cape Cod, which, at the time, could be purchased for a measly $2.50. I thought to myself, everything seems to be on special and at all times of the day.
I ordered two Irish car bombs and the bartender bounced into the main room. Then I turned to Jon and asked him about his thoughts on THE DIRTY DUCK (doooome). Jon shrugged and smiled. Then he said, “It’s a bar that stands up to its’ name: there are ducks and it’s dirty.” I laughed and shook my head in agreement with the first half of his statement. The bar boasts a vast array of duck images profiling the walls of the establishment as well as the bar. However, I wasn’t sold on the second conclusion. The Duck wasn’t littered with filth. In fact, it seemed rather clean for a place that calls itself dirty. I asked Jon to provide me with some evidence for his position. He mentioned the power strip and the broken bar booth. He also mentioned the way the walls were painted—black with a moody red. Another point Jon postured was the riff raff patronage. I understood Jon wasn’t only commenting on the appearance of the bar but also a metaphoric usage of the term dirty. I agree with Jon. The bar was painted in a way to draw out a dangerous mood. In fact the whole place seemed to be filled with a seedy element. Also, the paint on the walls of the Duck makes the place feel sticky.
After Jon and I chugged our Irish car bombs we decided to leave. Before we did, we acquired some additional knowledge about THE DIRTY DUCK (BOOM). I harassed the bartender for the typical busiest night. She told me Saturdays tend to be extremely busy but that Fridays also tend to be a roaring good time. I decided I wasn’t finished with The Duck. I wanted to come back and witness the late night mayhem…
Continued in part two
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