Dean is in his most natural position: butt on a warm barstool, hand on a cold beer. And his leg is shaking, vibrating at about 180 beats a minute. This is an even more familiar sight to me. I can remember him doing that when he sat next to me in fourth grade, back in Chicago. Nonstop. If teachers knew what ADD was in 1973, this would have been documented as a symptom.
So this isn't the signal that Dean is uneasy tonight. That would be this: After telling a stranger at the bar that we've known each other a long, long time, Dean can't remember how long. He turns to me and asks, "How long have we known each other? I honestly don't remember."
Dean's the guy who remembers my birth date, while I can barely remember his birth month. Dean's the guy who had a sixth-grade math book in that fourth-grade class. Dean's the guy who's some international legend on the marimba, who has ascended to associate dean of UNLV's College of Fine Arts and—how fast can that leg pump?—went to law school, passed the bar exam (no relation to this one) and became a lawyer on the side. Ah, the things you can do with a nervous system like that.
Also, Dean doesn't have four kids like me (my excuse for a faulty memory and single, mediocre career), and if there was ever an urge for fatherhood, it was stopped by a plastic arrow shot off of his forehead by my oldest son several years ago.
I forgive him for not remembering mostly because he's not in his element. While Dean is in a bar, I've coaxed him away from his favorite bar, The Play of the Day on Flamingo just east of Maryland, to see how he'd like my favorite bar, the Roadrunner Saloon on Eastern and Pebble. An adjustment period is needed.
"Since second grade," I reply. "Thirty-three years."
The guy next door is impressed. "Now that's friendship!"
Well, not 33 years in a row. We've had gaps so wide we weren't even sure where the other one lived—even while in the same city. You get older. You get busy. You fall for different bars.
Play of the Day is near campus, and not too far from Downtown, where the legal action is. It's one of those combo joints—part restaurant, part sports bar, part retreat for a family of regulars. For Dean, it's also part 6-foot blonde who pours a heavy Jack Daniel's on the rocks.
Normally the Roadrunner can compete on the blonde front—it's rare that one of their servers or tenders isn't a knockout—but tonight we've got a buck behind the bar. He's friendly and efficient, but like most chain bars, liberal pours and the occasional "This one's on me" went out the door with pickled eggs. After a couple of Fat Tire ales, I suggest to the bartender that Dean's ready for his Precious, the mega-tumbler of Jack. As I order Dean a double, I mention he's away from home, where his Play of the Day girl makes those Jacks extra special. The bartender smiles, pours a no-nonsense double on the rocks and delivers the glass. I know the Dean Jack on the rocks; this is no Dean Jack on the rocks.
"Want me to have him put another shot in there?" I ask.
"No, man, it's still good. This is good."
Other than by-the-book operations and no happy hours, the Roadrunner is all good. I love the building, with its steel, wood and stone, and its wide-open spaces. (Is there a bar and grill around with a better patio?) It's one of the few in Las Vegas that looks indigenous—like the roadrunner itself. I think of it as "21st Century Vegas Ranch." While boldly advertising COWBOY, it does so with a wink—the interior looks as if Lyle Lovett designed it. And somehow it all works to draw as varied an audience as you could imagine. Including me, often.
But does my old friend feel it?
We end up talking about bars with the bartender, and Dean brings up the POD. "Yeah, that's a college bar," the guys says. Dean keeps quiet while the bartender bursts into a soliloquy on college bars, how they get worn out quickly by the crowd, all that abuse, the puking ...
"I pay extra for that!" Dean interjects, diffusing the issue. "I like that! I like a little bit of that on me."
Thirty-three years and I still can't tell when Dean's kidding.
When the bartender moves on, I ask what he thinks of this place. He likes the Fat Tire, and he's enjoyed "the scenery," not to mention the place's layout and patio—seems he recently had breakfast out there one Sunday after church.
I cut right to it: "So, do you like this place as much as yours?"
He hesitates, but the leg doesn't. "It's emotional. Mine feels right. It's home."
That leaves me jealous. While the Roadrunner's my favorite, it's not really home. Maybe that's the result of having four kids needing me at home. Maybe it's something lacking on Roadrunner's part. Or maybe I haven't found The Place yet.
We leave. It's summer twilight's last gleaming.
"Where to next time?" I ask. "Here again? It's pretty much between my house and yours."
Dean looks around the parking lot, then up at the place. "Yeah, let's come here again."
Maybe that's a start.
Phil Hagen studies bars the way other men, like Dean, study the law, but with tastier results. E-mail him at
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