More nights at the Ha-Ra

There’s just something about the Ha-Ra that I truly love.  It’s hard to explain what it is other than that it makes me feel completely at ease and welcome.  I suppose that’s why it’s the glorious Tenderloin dive that it is, a real barfly bar.  All the sad drunks can slip in quietly to hide in the dark corners and attend to the serious business of their drinking.  The weight of all their lives hangs heavy in the air and you feel it the minute you walk in the door.  It wraps around you in an oddly comforting way, like a thick blanket that you crawl beneath to block out the world.  And somehow the decrepitude of the place seems to sparkle.  I’d been there a few times before I noticed that the arabesque designs on the walls were just glue marks that remained after most of the rotting wallpaper had been ripped off.  The bar is dark and shadowy, the jukebox casts an eerie glow across the backs of the patrons huddled around the bar and its sad songs moan softly underneath the intermittent buzz of their conversations. 

The person who is usually talking the most is the bartender.  He does his job slowly and calmly, like he’s pouring a drink for a friend in his own home.  He’s probably in his late 60’s, although he seems much older, has a voluminous drinker’s belly, no front teeth, a lurch in his step, the unhealthy pallor of an alcoholic, and total charisma.  The minute you step in the door you want to be his friend.  Maybe that’s just the effect the place has and it wouldn’t matter who was behind the bar, you’d want to wrap your arms around them and hang on for dear life. 

Last night we started talking about the lack of places in the city to drink after 2am.  He said he knew a couple of joints in North Beach, but he wouldn’t say where – that’s their business, he’s not saying nuthin’, but he walked in at the stroke of 6am when they opened their doors and there were already 10 people at the bar with drinks in front of them.  And 4 of them were police in uniform.  But not so many places these days, there used to be more.  He used to get off work at 2am and go to Chinatown where he’d drink whiskey from little cups and play cards until the bars opened again at 6.  And of course in New York there were definitely more. 

“That was my life, 6 nights a week.  I work in the bar ‘til 2, drinkin’ the whole time and then I go to Chinatown there too and cards and whiskey ‘til 9 in the morning.  I’m going home at 9 with the heat on and everyone else is going to work and I sleep all day.  I was living at the New York Athletic Club and I’d sleep all day, get up at 4 or 4:30 and go to the steam room, get in the pool, back to the steam room, that was my day, see?  And then I’d go to work and start all over again, drinking all night, whiskey and cards in Chinatown, 6 days a week.  And on the 7th day I’d go out to the bars and see what was happening.  I did that for 3 years.  Then I came here.  I had to get outta New York or I was gonna’ kill myself.  And I ain’t even talkin’ ‘bout the drugs and other stuff I did…”

“You see, that was before the days of ATM’s and there was no such thing as banks being open on Saturday’s, so I had this problem.  I could never get to the bank to deposit my paychecks.  I was making good tips, I lived off that, and I’d get my paycheck, take it home and stick it in the drawer and they’d just pile up, ya’ know?  I couldn’t deposit ‘em.  So one day the bookkeeper says, ‘Hey, whadda’ ya’ doin’?  You’re screwin’ up my books.  It’s taken me months to figure out that it’s you.’  So he makes me give him my paychecks and I sign ‘em over and he deposits ‘em for me.  ‘Cuz I couldn’t ever get to the bank when it was open.  Not living like that.   You can’t go to the bank at 9 in the morning with the heat on.”

He shook his head and grimaced at me through the gaping hole in his teeth as he poured himself another drink.