Upper Deck, 17 February 2007
Something about a 30-year-old blonde waitress
sporting pig-tails, loop earrings, and hanging out
after her shift is over. Mick’s far away eyes zoom
in, penetrate any man strong enough to make a play.
Rochester ramblings yield to thumb rings, cigarette
packing, and lean-in kisses: the Upper Deck
twists and lurches toward winter’s eve. Two thirds
of the inhabitants are in on the action. It revolves
around solid butt smacks, who’s-with-who versus
who’s gonna get sucked in. Darts and suds, it’s a
sports bra, leave your rings at the door, musicians
mingle with choppers type of place. It’s a bastion,
a regular oasis in the midst of Disney-carved Cary:
“Containment Area for Relocated Yankees” and
sure enough, the barkeep is a former executive chef
who escaped Kodak, Scottsville and six month snows
to open a pool-infested, smoke dominated, rock blaring
leather cultured hang out. Old school in the middle of
a North Carolina new school town. Yup, it’s full of
your colorblind, hold’em playing, hoops fans, and the
men who tag along with them. Amazing they’re not
playing cribbage at the bar, or euchre at the tables.
Nah, that’d be too yankee. Dang smart of this guy
Ted to open a place of automatic reunions built on
place, another place, a place where people can still
meet up, unwind and let loose other than church.
Copyright, Doug Stuber, 2007. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given, and with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.