Take A Dive: Drunk cowboys and ‘Screaming Idiots’

At the Dirty Knuckle, you’re family (especially if you’re from California)

It’s karaoke night at the Dirty Knuckle and a drunk, bearded cowboy who just butchered a Garth Brooks tune keeps eyeballing my lady friend. Several times I catch the Cowboy’s lascivious gaze; his eyes wander away from his wife, who wears a shitfaced scowl over a bottomless domestic beer and eternally lit cigarette, across the bar and onto my friend. The drunken staring feels benign, but his shamelessness is making me laugh. My friend, aware of the attention she’s receiving, keeps casting me sheepish glances. The Cowboy’s wife is aware, too. I watch her watch him watch my friend. It’s awkward.

The rowdy bar currently occupying the long-running drinking space at 10th Street and Sheridan  Ave. (formerly Kenny’s sports bar and a swingers club, among others) entertains a crowd of gregarious, roughneck drinkers — cowboys, bikers, manual laborers — who take turns belting out classic rock anthems and ‘90s country hits between games of pool and foosball. The atmosphere is lively and jovial, the décor an epileptic feast of colored lights, holiday flourishes, mismatched oddities and assorted curios. Several giant stuffed animals lord over a nearly empty vending machine.

The Cowboy sizes up my friend again, looks past her to me, and for a brief, uncomfortable moment he and I make eye contact. He averts his stare and returns his attention to his agitated wife. My friend and I return to our conversation as a burly, long-haired biker takes the karaoke stage and delivers a passionate rendition of Lynyrd Skynyrd’s “Simple Man.”  A few minutes pass and the Cowboy makes a new appearance. He’s moved over a seat and is now right next to my friend. But his demeanor has changed and he’s looking past her, squarely at me.

“I got four DUI’s,” he volunteers with no prompting. 

“Really?” I’m not sure I believe him.

“Yes sir.” And then he reaches across the bar, shot in hand. I hold my beer up and try to “cheers” him, but he shakes his head. The shot is for me, and it feels like an apology. I accept and nod a thank you to him. “What is it?” I ask.

“That’s a Screaming Idiot,” he slurs. “Rumple, Goldschlager and 151.”

Oh. I mumble another meek “thanks,” and toss the minty, high-octane poison down the hatch. My post-shot facial contortions make the Cowboy howl. “That there will make your sticker peck out,” he whoops.

We all laugh except for the Cowboy’s wife, who rolls her eyes and glares at no one in particular.

Drunk Cowboy notices Wife’s glare and decides to include her. He directs our attention to her and another man at the bar and makes a half-assed introduction. “This is my wife, and that’s my brother.”

At this, his wife speaks up. “Fuck you! He’s my brother, not yours.” She doesn’t seem angry, just exasperated. The Cowboy laughs. His wife looks at us and deadpans, “My family disowned me because I married him twice.”

Later in the night, my friend ambles onto the stage and sings “Son of a Preacher Man” for the 20 or so people in the bar. As she finishes, she has a quick exchange with the karaoke master and then returns to her seat, looking slightly embarrassed. She tells me there was a misunderstanding: the karaoke master got it in his head that she’s visiting from California and possibly famous.

The bartender, a friendly, tattooed woman I recognize from her previous stint at Mercury Lounge, introduces us to the owner, who insists on buying us a round. Word of visitors from California has spread throughout the bar and we’re approached by several more people. Perhaps due to our BAC, we decide to roll with the misunderstanding. We’re having too much and fun and everyone is warm and inviting. As we tab out, an unusually affable bouncer approaches us and launches into his own welcome speech.

“I hear you guys are from California,” He says. My friend and I exchange a guilty glance and then nod to him.

“I am, as well!” he continues. “Welcome. Anything you guys need, let me know. We’re a very family-oriented bar. You guys keep coming in here, you’ll be a part of the Knuckle family, too.”