My Dad once owned five taverns,
each with a different theme,
one with all kinds of stuffed and kewpie dogs;
one with white pillars like a Southern plantation;
one a Latin theme with a large
cardboard cut-out of the famous dancer
Carmen Miranda, tall and elegant
as she danced with a bowl of fruit
on her head, intact even during her exotic twirls;
one called the Little Club with no theme
but Country and Western music
where he captivated my down-home stepmother.
The one I remember the most
is the Circus Tap. Circus scenes,
clowns, elephants, a whip-flourishing ringmaster—
pictures covering the walls, the most striking
a garish painting of a lady riding a Bengal tiger,
with her flippant hand flashing
as much come-hither as her eyes.
My favorite part at the Tap—
the Wheel of Fortune.
Centered on the back wall
of the horseshoe-shaped bar,
a barkeep spun it at intervals because
each fake red leather-covered stool
had a corresponding number on it
and if the wheel stopped on your number
you got a free drink and some backslaps.
Always packed, particularly on weekends,
some patrons waiting against the wall
for a stool to open up. They spun the wheel
every fifteen minutes, giving the customers
the chance to buy more drinks
while waiting for the miracle–
there were fifty stools–
of the Wheel choosing them.
Decades later, I drove by those streets,
a memory lane trip with my brother,
our Dad mouldering in the grave.
All the bars were torn down,
the three blocks of glittering taverns
with their gambling dens and strippers
replaced by paint-faded warehouses,
the sidewalks festooned with weeds
struggling in the cracks as I
fought back memories’ tears.
Originally published in Cajun Mutt Press