Column: The bar that time almost forgot

Top’s was a run-down bar run by a run-down old man on a wildly winding road between Hollsopple and Hooversville. It sat at the top of a half-mile hill, about 20 yards down rickety steps off the right side of the road for easy-miss privacy. It was forever and basically only frequented by two sets of regulars: the retired coal miners who seemed about 80, but us being 19 probably added 10 years. There was Shrock, a combative, little Sluggo-looking character, Cookie, a grossly obese, alternatingly giggling/ranting old gal and old, old Cy, Cookie’s father. They both sported thick, Coke-bottle glasses. Then there were the underage stoners on bar stools close enough to the geriatric carnival people to eavesdrop on the priceless chatter. The undisputed leader was giant, Hells Angel-looking Frank McVicker from a family of party brawlers whose brother Skip was married to my good-girl sister Wanda.

“Fat Fingers” Frank (everyone back there had been punched by a drunk Frank at least once and I mean to tell ya, it hurts!) had a loyal entourage led by No. 1 flunky, hairy Kenny King, Muskie “Skin-Tight” Spiecher and the older, super-complex Oogie Lucas. In fact, the first time Dave and I drank there, I remember Oogie approach the bar and say, “Hey Tops, gimme a glass of King’s Wine.” Now, Tops was pushing 90 if he was a day, and parroted with barely moving lips: “Hings hine ...” as he began his search.

Literally shuffling like an old Tim Conway skit, his skeleton hand ran lightly across the shelves to a series of “No Tops, King’s. Down one shelf and to your left. No Tops, now go right; blue label right by the ...” Five minutes later Oogie had his wine and politely chirped “Thanks Topsy.” You often had to wipe blood from the rim of the dingy little glasses, but nobody cared much.

The crusty coal miner crowd had their usual booth where you’d hear grumbles and cackles intertwined with piercing coughs. One conversation we rubbernecked was ornery Shrock growling, “What say we go over to Cookie’s and have us a tongue-wrestling party?”

Cy had heard enough and barked, “That’s my daughter you’re talking about, G...D... (yes, “Galldang”) it!” Cookie slams her doughy fist on the table and bellows, “Keep religion out of the G...D... barroom!!!”

Oh gosh, look at the time and word count and I’m still on a character study. I do believe we got us a convoy, good buddy. Over and out for now.