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2002-09-05 - 3:49 p.m.

Several weeks ago Diva and I ventured into a four-day moving experience. What was to have been a sensible and organized project quickly deteriorated into another one of our fine messes.

Diva was moving back home and I had agreed to help with the relocation. In late June the final preparations were completed and I made a long-distance drive across the state to help. I arrived in Bolivar mid-day, and by late afternoon we were quickly skidding into calamity. Bolivar is a small suburb of Springfield. Bolivar has a few interesting antique stores. Bolivar is stiff and chaste. Bolivar is the chrome buckle on the Bible Belt.

And there Diva and I were, in a stodgy, staid community looking to scratch an itch.

After some time spent investigating antiques shops we got a case of the thirsties. According to Diva, the small town was mostly dry and had only one bar. The tavern, located on the main drag, was a ramshackle building, and after several minutes of pressing our faces to the grimy windows we could see it had not been occupied since Harry Truman had occupied the Oval Office. Diva, somewhat embarrassed we were in the middle of downtown with our faces plastered to a derelict building, again made the point: "This town doesn't have bars, fool!"

We had a dilemma!

Some quick thinking by Diva hatched a plan. A small town 10 miles south was known to be rowdy. Rowdy, in our bantam brains, meant saloon! We wisecracked a bit about the advisability of driving 10 miles for a beer, but wisdom has never been our strong suit and we headed south. During the drive to Fair Play, Diva pointed out various spots along the route: that's Tina's cousin's farm; that's the vet where we took Augie; hmmm, that's a new used car lot.

Fair Play did indeed have a bar, the #281 Viking Club, and by the time we got there we weren't concerned about membership, we were going to drink a cold beer! We yanked on two locked doors before we found the open door and tripped into a darkened foyer. I, being the more aggressive and brave of our Laurel and Hardy team, peeked around the corner. An overweight, heavily painted, bleached blond barmaid and an old cowboy with a purple veined cob nose were locking lips at the bar. The amorous duo didn't deter me, I barged in, announced I wasn't a member, but I sure would like to order a cold Bud Light. Turns out the Viking wasn't a trendy men's club after all. We got the cold drafts. We also got the cowboy!

One beer was soon four beers and the jukebox rocked with Patsy Cline, Conway Twitty and Willie, Waylon and The Boys, compliments of cowboy Kenny. Try as we might, Diva and I were unable to coax Kenny back to his passionate encounter with the now lonely barmaid. On our final beer we told Kenny we had driven 10 miles for a cool drink because Bolivar lacked watering holes. Wrong, says Kenny. Bolivar had two bars, one of which we had driven by on our way to Fair Play. The new used car lot, according to the well-informed Diva! One mile from her duplex! And old Kenny was bitin at the bit to take us up there and show us a good ole time!

I scowled at Diva and let fly a torrent of insults regarding her mentally challenged condition. Not only were we 10 miles from home carrying a four-beer load, we had also acquired a drunken cowboy! But the poop had yet to hit the fan! When we thanked Kenny for the beer and explained we had to move along, he turned to Diva and said: "Why, honey, it was a pleasure to buy fer you and yer Mom!"

The 10-mile drive back to Bolivar was a duet of diva's wild laughter and my yelping and fuming! We cooled off by pulling into the used car lot for one last beer. The place was packed with old folks drinking double martinis! Right, Diva, Bolivar was full of God fearing non-drinkers! Although the pub was serving sandwiches, we opted to try Kenny's recommended pub and grill for great bar-b-que---another Bolivar saloon with some cowboy moniker I've since forgotten.

The gin mill was a mile across town--still very close to Diva's home--and empty except for two young pool hustlers and an elderly woman tending bar. The hucksters, apparently trying to assist the weary bartender, asked what we would like. Food and two Bud Lights.

“Hey, MA!!” one hustler yells. “Bring these ladies two beers, a pickle and a wienie!”

Two wienies in a pickle was befitting our moving adventure.

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