A Weekend Trip to Tacoma, Washington
The Most Authentic City In The Pacific Northwest
I had been to Tacoma seven years ago. It was memorable, but only because of how poorly executed the visit was. Nursing a two day hangover with my friend Adam, Tacoma was one of three possible destinations we headed towards from Portland. We reached the point where we’d so fully overindulged and under slept that even simple conversations between us were frustrating and any comment the other made was aggravating. No music or podcast was appealing during the drive either. What should have been simple immediate choices, requiring no debate, were now painstaking decisions that could not be worked out with any logic.
Our indecisiveness dragged on for so long that, by the time we had made it to Tacoma and opted to stay there, we only really wanted to bitch about being there. We had no enthusiasm or will to go out and explore. Besides a quick beer and Thai food, we stayed in, watching the doldrums of summer television while complaining about nothing in particular from our matching queen size beds at the Holiday Inn. We got a coffee the next morning while we continued whining, but that was basically my Tacoma experience.
While this was not Tacoma’s fault, it stayed with me, and Tacoma had not been on my radar since then. But when Guttermouth, a favorite nostalgic band of mine, announced a one-off show there, I realized it was the perfect place to explore. And now I had a reason to be there.
Tacoma’s downtown is just a 34 mile drive on I-5 from Seattle’s city center. Both cities sit on Puget Sound and soak up similar views of Mount Rainier, but the cities themselves rarely feel alike. I was sure the tech money from Seattle had trickled down into to Tacoma, and I bet if you asked locals, many would say it has. But it certainly didn’t feel that way. Where Seattle feels new, perpetually growing, and overloaded with outsiders with new money, Tacoma feels old, modestly updated, with locals who appear to be long term residents.
With companies like Amazon, Microsoft, Smartsheets, Docusign, and Tableau calling it home, Seattle is a city challenging Silicon Valley for the crown of most shameless tech bloat. Tacoma meanwhile feels well, maybe not working class or blue collar exactly, but certainly not cutting edge. There’s no industry there so inflated that it pays even the lowest tier 22 year-olds six figures. And with that comes a lack of pretense and an intact community and humanness from the people.
Tacoma sits at that size which is too big for any cute weekend getaway, and too small for the big city adventure. So, there’s not a quaint downtown strip to explore, nor a major tourism industry that shuffles people through the designated must-see-and-do spots in the city. Instead, it’s the community which takes on that role. Wherever I went someone seemed to start up a conversation with me, and once I let them know I was traveling alone, that’s when they really opened.
I was staying on the north end of town and stepped out after arriving on Friday afternoon. Almost immediately I stumbled upon Frisko Freeze, its neon sign was magnificent in its lack of grandeur along with its large, rudimentary drawing of a not particularly good looking hamburger. With a long night of bar hopping ahead of me, I felt lucky to pass this spot so immediately. I ordered the double cheeseburger and ate as I walked. It was your classic slutty drive-in burger – a small, flat, cheesy and greasy delight, but compact and structurally sound. Basically, what a fast food burger should be and what a smash burger wants to be. And it was $6 with tip.
Hilly and overlooking the Sound, with craftsman homes and Doug Firs peppered throughout the neighborhoods, Tacoma is no doubt very Pacific Northwest. But it was already feeling different than a lot of other cities in the region. Homes, apartment buildings, and storefronts made of brick were more common, less of the typical wood or vinyl siding, and there were almost no lifeless, nondescript aluminum new-builds. These often feel like the final notice to those who’ve lived in a neighborhood for decades that they no longer belong. Whether it was a want to preserve the old places or a lack of need for new ones, the city felt older than a lot of other west coast cities.
My first stop was Parkway Tavern. It’s a bit of a franken-bar out front, you don’t know what to expect with its simple patio and an old school neon sign pointing you into a remodeled old home, turned bar. It’s sort of your neighborhood catch all, which given its 80+ year history as a North End staple, makes sense. There was a group of college kids at a high top looking entirely too fresh-faced; a man and woman in their sixties sitting at the bar with the appearance of money and ease of retirement — he trying to impress her, she maintaining a friendly but uninterested air; a well-dressed young woman looking like she would soon be somewhere more important; and other patrons scattered about.
Parkway itself had a refreshed historic look. But there was a private clubhouse feel too, which is about the last vibe I seek out. There was a noticeable cleanliness, and based on the dark paneled wood walls and tables, the leather booths, walls filled with historical photos and old alcohol memorabilia, and finally a tap handle collection hanging from the support beams, it felt inevitable that golfers would soon walk through the door. In isolation that first impression of class and kitsch made me suspicious, taking me back to childhood outings to country clubs with friends’ families. The pageant of perceived wealth in a place that had teenagers serving mediocre food always confused me, even as a 10 year old. Luckily at Parkway, the bartenders set the mood. Instead of some idiot in a button down and bow tie, every bartender was tatted up and dressed down in jeans, tee shirts, and hats.
The illusion that this might be a spot for the uptight quickly melted away. The bartenders were immediately friendly and helpful, a spot where every other person who walked in was a known regular and greeted by patrons and staff alike. The tap list was 30 deep and varied, and even better, it was a spot where you’ll get asked about another beer just before your pint is gone. That is a rarity in this world, and it’s a god damn blessing when someone knows how to keep you topped off without harassing you or putting you through a dry spell between drinks. While the food looked hearty and I was comfortable enough to tie on a serious buzz there, I moved on after my second drink.
The next stop was Magoo’s Annex a mile away. On the way, I walked through more pleasant areas dotted brick buildings, as well as some serious turn-of-the-century mansions. One in fact took up two thirds of a block and was a neoclassical behemoth. Turns out it’s known as the White House of Tacoma, owned by prominent businessman William Rust.
From the outside Magoo’s is just like an old western saloon, save for the batwing doors. It has the old wood siding and little awning creating a porch, the sign front and center on the second floor of the puzzle-piece shaped roof, and the dark windows lining the first floor. Inside it was a lively happy hour crowd, but not overly crowded. It had pool, a few tables lining the walls, and an L-shaped bar. They also had a cigarette machine which is a big green flag. It had multiple basketball trophies sitting on top of it, a decorative choice I could get behind.
While I wish bars would allow smoking, that’s a long gone era, so the cigarette machine is a nice consolation. I don’t even smoke, I just believe that a bar is better with looser rules. It is not a place for great decisions so fussing over the rules like it’s a courthouse, office, or some institution of prestige is shortsighted. It’s a place for getting people drunk. And cigarette smoke adds an authenticity that’s been scrubbed out our classic bars.
I posted up noticing again that most people knew each other. Next to me were two men in there 60s or 70s. After ordering I caught their conversation.
“Have I had three or four drinks now?”
“Oh, probably just three.”
“I think I’ve had four. I guess I should go.” Then he headed to the bathroom.
I interjected, “I guess you should have told him you thought it was his second.”
“Oh, maybe… Say, did you hear about the big news on Wall Street today?”
It’s funny how someone asking a simple question like that immediately makes me feel dumb if I don’t have an answer. Especially if I’m alone in a new place. I was sure I’d missed something in the news but couldn’t think of anything to say that might provide some semblance I was attune to the world around me. I had no idea what he was referencing and had to plead ignorance.
“No, what happened?”
“You didn’t hear??” My mind raced again, but still nothing.
“Oh, well, Victoria’s Secret merged with Smith and Wessun. The new venture is going to be called Titty Titty, Bang Bang.”
I howled. Not only at the joke but also at my insecurity. Good bars have a way of pulling back any affectation and leaving you with an honest air.
He dropped another joke on me while finishing his beer, his friend said goodbye, and then he too slowly made his way out the bar, chatting up several friends on the way. The bartender pointed at my empty glass and I asked how the IPA on tap was. He told me “People tend to like it,” as he began pouring it. He was friends with everyone, holding multiple conversations at once. He was wearing a baggy Hawaiian shirt that had two patterns divided right down the middle, the left side colored, the right black and white, and a beanie loosely draped over his head. He was the type of bartender you want steering the ship when you’re out to get a little weird. I was ready to cozy up to Magoo’s, but I had other places to see.
I made it down to 6th Ave which is one of the main drags in Central Tacoma and where the show was, but I had time to kill. While the busy section of 6th Ave has plenty to offer, it’s a wide two-lane street, not the cute and compact shopping district standard. Instead, it that still has that 90s car-first strip mall feel, with fast food, chain stores, auto shops, and parking lots breaking up the good stuff. While it’s easily walked, it doesn’t feel pedestrian friendly.
I went to the Red Hot, a beer and hot dog spot. I’d expected something small given their limited offering, instead I walked into a very loud and crowded expansive space, with high ceilings (again decked out in bar tap decor), a far reaching bar, and every one of the dozen or so tables taken. I managed to find a seat at the bar and ordered the Tacoma Dog (a classic Chicago dog) alongside the vegan version of it. The vegan dog was fine if I hadn’t had the original Tacoma dog. But I did and the sadness of the fake meat was too real.
From here I went to Jazzbones for the Guttermouth show. I’d timed it to miss the first few openers with a chance to get some beers and take in the crowd and venue. The spot had very affordable drinks and was less rigid on rules than typical clubs. While it’s an established venue, it felt like it still operated as a bar first. As is often the case in smaller cities, the punk scene seemed to be thriving in Tacoma. Guttermouth even noted how much better the Tacoma crowd was than Portland’s the previous night. I made a friend pre-show, got drunk, and had the microphone put to my lips several times only to mess up words to songs I’d sung a thousand times prior. And by 12:30 I was walking home.
I awoke to a quiet foggy morning and a substantial hangover. I felt like professional shit. I always find that show hangovers are worse because you’re not only detoxing from alcohol, you’ve also blitzed your head and ears with high decibels you’re simply not accustomed to. Jazz Bones is the first venue I’ve been to that didn’t sell ear plugs at the bar, and the bartender looked bothered that I’d asked. The tissue I jammed in my ears did in fact help, but not enough.
I made a soulless Keurig coffee and started plotting my run. The beautiful thing about running consistently for so long is that it has become second nature, there’s only rare occasions when it isn’t doable. But just as I’d make coffee, cook breakfast, watch tv, or go to brunch with a bad hangover, the run becomes an inevitable part of the day, regardless of how I feel. I hate stewing in the waste of hangover anyway, it’s always better shaking it off rather than succumbing to it.
Before going, I showered, which is always a good first step in distancing yourself from the night before, then grabbed a donut at Legendary Donuts. For whatever reason it looked like a good hole in the wall local spot. Instead, it was depressing for no definitive reason. It had the aura of a vacant chain store in a strip mall, a place no one really wants to go, but it continues a trickle of business and never ceases to exist. I immediately regretted the choice and followed it up with a coffee at Bluebeard Roasters. Their good coffee, light and airy atmosphere, and cheerful staff, leveled me out.
I finally began my run, stopping almost immediately to take pictures of a corner lot mansion that had a brick façade, neoclassical porch and balcony, Spanish tiling, and immaculately landscaped yard. A big benefit to running in a new city is the lack of concern for any run goals beyond exploring. That means I can take my time and wear my running vest, so in addition to water and nutrition, I can have my wallet and phone with me, typically an item intentionally left behind. As I admired the home, a slightly disheveled man out for a morning walk with his large orange dog, Charlie, passed by. He was heavily bearded wearing sweats, a tee, a loosely buttoned flannel, and beaten boat shoes. “Oh yeah, looking at the old Rust place, huh?” I was taken aback by his friendliness. If roles were reversed, I might have resembled him closely but I would not have bothered stopping to share any neighborhood knowledge with a stranger.
He went on to tell some of the Rust history, much of which I can’t recall beyond William Rust being a titan of Tacoma at the turn of the century (he made his fortune in the copper smelting industry). In fact, the White House of Tacoma I passed the previous night was the first Rust home. What we were standing at now was the more modest second home he built. There are rumors about the move from the White House to this one – specifically about the murder of his son at the White House. I wouldn’t have uncovered any of this on my own, but thanks to random local knowledge from a stranger, I have it. Yes, Tacoma is friendly.
My run continued through Puget Creek Natural Area, a small patch of forest in the middle of a North Tacoma neighborhood, leading to the Ruston Way Path. This path abuts Commencement Bay on the northeast side of the city. This is where I first got hit with the Aroma from Tacoma, and it is real. It’s very much sulfuric, though not a full-on, stop you in your tracks egg fart. But to be a city’s predominant smell outside of say, imperceptible scent, it’s not great. From what I can gather, there’s no single source, but likely some mix of sediment in the bay, sulfur from a paper mill, a rendering plant, and oil refinery. It’s ironic and fitting that the byproducts from human endeavors decades prior, left to rot in an otherwise immaculate and unique landscape, would offer that smell to future generations. A constant reminder of our less desirable impacts.
This path leads to Point Defiance Park, a peninsula of old growth forest that extends out towards Gig Harbor. In terms of nature in a region rich with open spaces and natural beauty, it’s small at only 760-acres, but the fact that it’s old growth in the city and includes a 4-trail system plus offshoots, makes it a special urban reprieve. The trees are all remarkable and with water sitting on three sides of it, it feels quite exotic. The downside is 5-Mile Drive, a paved road that follows the perimeter of the park. Why they opted to let cars drive through the limited remaining forest they have is beyond me. Couple that with the fact that they’ve put the zoo at the entrance to the park, it’s as if they wanted to strip the place of any solitude it offered. And yet you can still get it here, plus it’s well maintained. I saw very little trash and had decent stretches of running without foot traffic around me, which is a marvel at noon on a Saturday when the sun’s out in March.
Exiting the park, I headed south on Pearl Street for an extended period. It’s a highway through unremarkable neighborhoods. I knew at some point on this stretch I wasn’t far from the childhood home of Ted Bundy, and like all middle class millennials, I love true crime. But he’s definitely not the most interesting thing about Tacoma, and I didn’t want his creepy smirk consuming my thoughts for the remainder of the trip, so I avoided finding it. I later found out he moved as a child and spent most his teen years growing up on N. Sheridan, the very street I was staying on, albeit a different neighborhood a few miles south. I eventually zigzagged east, passing the University of Puget Sound campus and arriving back home 16.5 miles later.
Having dealt with the hangover, which required a fraction of that mileage to be exorcised, I was left drained. It’s that sort of reset which is positive but leaves me vacant. Literally, I could stare at a wall. There’s this lack of arousal and stimulation that comes with that headspace. And yet I can’t sleep or relax at this point. But with limited time and the trust that at some point, with a meal and drinks, I may again feel endorphins, setting out with a blank face is the only choice.
I went to Hob Nob, a brunch spot a short walk away. Stepping in I dreaded being seated at a table or booth, surrounded by families and kids, but as the hostess walked me through the main dining room to the adjacent one, I saw this second room contained the bar. I felt that warm embrace of the friendly countertop. At the bar, your server is right there so you can either hustle through the meal or settle into banter and bullshit about nothing with strangers.
I ordered a water and ‘The Bloody Mary,’ which arrived with a pepperoni-like cured meat the size of a baby’s fist sticking out from the rim. It left me uneasy and perplexed. How had meat taken over the tried and true art of jamming a full CSA order into the drink as garnish? The Mary herself was good but the garnish is what makes any bloody great, and for me that ain’t meat, it’s spicy beans, peppers, and olives. It’s clearly a favorite though, the couple next to me who had already had their own still felt the need to praise mine. My eggs benedict and hashbrowns were solid but the greasy spoon look of the place didn’t deliver on the expected oversized Midwest portions.
Walking East on a steep decline towards the water took me downtown, which is really all I’d seen my first time out here, but it became clear I hadn’t even scratched the surface of it then. Downtowns are an area where one might expect action but they’re often ghost towns, save for a few venues or restaurants. They’re certainly not epicenters of fun, unless the city is so sprawling it’s almost required, or the city is simply a dud. Tacoma’s downtown was no different, there were blocks I walked on Saturday afternoon that I had all to myself.
It was interesting to see a clear intention to revitalize downtown and maintain some historical preservation mixed with persistent patches of blight from decades of neglect. In a matter of three blocks I passed the restored neoclassical Elks Temple (now a McMenamin’s) overlooking the waterfront, antiques row (a stretch of longstanding antique shops covering thousands of square feet of commercial space), and some chic new restaurants. These, wedged between multiple abandoned buildings, a few covered with Instagram-able street art on one side, and on the other, windows knocked out and still un-boarded, with the broken glass appearing as a permanent fixture of the sidewalk. And all without a soul in sight.
Continuing south the same contrasts persisted with a few more faces passing by, increasing the further I went. This stretch has the Tacoma Children’s Museum, Tacoma Art Museum, Convention Center, University of Washington – Tacoma campus, and the focal point of downtown, the Museum of Glass. With its stainless steel tilted cone tower and the Chihuly Bridge of Glass, it certainly stands out. It’s now in its 20th year, built on the superfund site of the Thea Foss Waterway (reminiscent of the Gowanus in Brooklyn), and clearly a driving force in the revitalization of the area. While still relatively quiet, the cone and the east 21st bridge create an iconic fore-and-background, the site people come out to see.
The sun was out in force and there was no shade in this concrete stretch, but there were no available Lyfts either, a predictable annoyance in mid-sized cities. But what’s another mile and a half on foot when you’ve already ran for two hours, are dehydrated, operating on 6 hours of drunk sleep, and now getting sunburned during the Pacific Northwest winter?
I passed the LeMay Car Museum and the Tacoma Dome, which is one of the largest wooden domes in the world and (built using downed trees from the 1980 Mount St. Helens explosion!). The Tacoma Dome is so much simpler and sexier than the new arenas of today, am I’m thankful there’s not a pro team utilizing it. If there were, that would inevitably lead to the owners demanding a newer, “better” arena that taxpayers could foot the bill for.
The fun of the dome was quickly forgotten with the sun’s continued assault on my face and a slog uphill past McKinley Park. This park had great views of the city, but the road was just a thruway in an otherwise ugly stretch right off I-5 dotted with vinyl siding apartments. And there was something unsettling about walking past multiple abandoned cars with their windows knocked out followed by a man coming out of the bushes with a hooded trench coat and his face obscured by a possible ski mask. While it made me uneasy, I felt like I was giving off my own weird aura as I sweated through my hoodie, my head buried in it, hiding from the sun.
But upon cresting the hill I exited the no man’s land to an established neighborhood, and a block later, I saw a craftsmen home converted into a bar. You’ll see the home-turned-bar regularly in Portland, but it will be in a high trafficked shopping area . Dusty’s Hideaway appeared like the pot of gold at the end of a bleak concrete rainbow. The yard ran the distance of the block, north to south, with multiple picnic tables and umbrellas in back, along the side, and out front, finished off with a welcoming front porch with additional seating.
There was some seating inside but with the unseasonable sun, the picnic tables were the first to fill. Maybe it was just that glimpse of summer weather, but Dusty’s had magic. There were bikers fully clad in leather and bandanas slugging beers, belly laughing groups of friends drinking away the afternoon, families eating while their kids got dirty in the yard – all walks of life had a reason to be here. It was a true neighborhood hang that was so relaxed and welcoming, it had the ability to shirk whatever else was happening around it and provide an instant escape.
I settled on the porch. When you’re drinking your way through the weekend, it’s important to lie to yourself by throwing in one moderately healthy decision, as if that will right the ship from a couple dozen drinks. That’s why I ordered the veggie sandwich. It came on Texas Toast, at first a confusing choice, but it served the sandwich well. Being so spongey and thick allowed it to comply perfectly with the avocado, cucumber, tomato, onion, red pepper, lettuce, and sauce. Any harder bread would have the veggies shooting out all sides with each bite. And the tots were plentiful, crisp, and salty.
To me, this place was a case of mistaken identity. It was on my radar, but not a must see. Google and yelp had framed it much more as a restaurant catering to families than anything else. The reality is, it’s the perfect day drinking spot. There’s plenty of outdoor seating with shade and sun, good cocktails, a solid draft list, plenty of cheap cans, and of course good food to keep the engine running. I fully expect to revisit at some point and post up for the long haul. Dusty’s has certainly witnessed many a lunch beer unravel into last-call drinks.
Four blocks south on McKinley was the Top of Tacoma bar. It’s a weird occurrence in travel where a spot that felt like an afterthought can outshine the one you were really looking forward to. It could be circumstances with crowd and atmosphere, or in this case expectations and mood. The Top was alive, the drinks were strong, the draft list good, and the food looked great. I however, was not conjuring a second wind. I ordered a beer and a whiskey to take in the setting but my phone and I needed a recharge. I couldn’t really take it in. The Lyft ride home provided some great glimpses of Mt. Rainier as the sun was setting, furthering my growing love for Tacoma. I even asked the driver what cross streets we were at, thinking I might come back for the same view, but I didn’t remember what he said shortly after he told me. I fell asleep on arrival at my place.
After day drinking, awakening from an evening disco nap in a rental home is complicated. It’s dark out but not late. I’m a little hungover, still a bit buzzed, but tired and restless. Nothing feels right, everything feels off. The fog is heavy and there’s no right choice for what’s next. The best option is probably a shower with a caffeinated cocktail, a good way to recalibrate and step back out into the world. But I didn’t have the luxury of a bar at my fingertips so I fumbled around a sterile home that wasn’t mine, music playing in the background, slowly dressing, trading sips from a coffee and a stray can of Rainier.
I arrived at Bob’s Java Jive – the giant coffee pot painted red, white, and blue, on an industrial section of highway under the interstate – absolutely giddy with excitement. I think I’d marveled at pictures of it for months. Even coming into town, I switched lanes on I-5 to catch a glimpse of it as I sped over.
The history and myth is packed into this place –the surf legends the Ventures were a house act in the 60s, Bing Crosby hung out here, one of D.B. Cooper’s supposed last sightings was here, Nirvana played here, Neko Case was a bartender, Keanu Reeves visited after filming portions of Love You To Death at the Jive, he even offered to buy it later. There was even a pair of monkeys that used to greet customers. Also, it’s a giant coffee pot shaped bar!
They’re now better known for karaoke, weekly comedy, and the occasional band. And of course, that divey, tiki-bar kitsch. We’re talking cheeseburger lamps, bus seats for bar stools, a ceiling covered in signed and defaced dollar bills or doodles on napkins, Christmas lights, and fake plants galore. Even a crude Freddy Kruger painting adorns the bathroom wall.
Rolling up at 8p on a Saturday, I was ready for the goods. I walked in to see a young woman behind the bar dressed down in yoga pants and a black hoodie. A young man in a trucker hat and tee shirt was bellied up at the bar with a Heineken. I couldn’t get over how such an innocuous choice, like a beer, could stick out so blatantly. Heineken is a beer no one asks for, it only appears when they’ve bought the rights to a venue or event. There was a mutual exchange of looks between us three, all of us expecting something different when I opened the door. It was dead in there, but I took a Rainier to the back to scope it out. The coffee pot is only the front end, there’s a big extension in the back that opens to booths and the stage. But there was no action there either. I sat at a booth for about 30 seconds before returning to the bar.
“I guess I should sit with you all, not alone back there.”
“Yeah, we just recently started opening at 4p, but no one knows yet. We used to open right at 8, so everyone is still on those hours. I’ve been here for four hours and had two customers.”
I learned it was her first night at the Jive and he was visiting up from Olympia. He was also a magician. While seeing some tricks, the Rainiers kept flowing, and soon enough the owner was at the bar. I’d read about the previous longtime owners and the bar being passed down through the family for fifty or more years. But that family had just sold the bar and this guy was the new owner. He was giving tips on where to go in the city while drinking with me and reading through mail. The look on his face throughout said they were probably bills he wasn’t expecting. When the second bartender showed up, I learned he’d been at Guttermouth too. Seemingly everyone that entered was a friend.
At some point the magician Nick had handed me his card. But later, between beers, I looked up and saw another card on the bar top. This card represented the business of “Buckwheat Catapillar – Musician, Philosopher, Provocateur,” a man wearing white face paint with red lipstick, blacked out sunglasses, and a newsboy hat atop long, curly green hair. “Is this yours?” I asked. “No, it’s yours.” I took it without asking questions but it felt like a low-grade prank. That, or Nick had himself a second gig.
Inevitably karaoke came up and the bartender asked if I liked it. I told her not really but that I did have a song if I’m forced on stage. She encouraged me to sign up and I kept pussyfooting around and never sharing my song. The owner said I sounded like the girl who claims she doesn’t have sex on the first date, but inevitably does. But this time around, I wasn’t, I never even checked to see if they had my song.
There was a little action at the bar by 9:15, people trickling in, and the karaoke machine warming up. Best of all, the steady flow of Rainiers had me shaking off the disco nap and keeping the buzz modest. A man in his 60’s wearing a Trump MAGA shirt slipped in the front and sat a couple seats down from me. He was a fish out of water, seemingly unaware of it, as if he’d walked into a nondescript bar in rural Washington. There was something altogether sad about him, and I was in a cheerful mood, so I chatted with him about nothing of substance as the rest of the crowd paid no mind. He must’ve finally got a read on the room halfway through his beer because he got up unannounced and never came back.
Soon after a group of three entered and sat next to me at the bar, two guys and a gal in their early 20s. They had that hipster look, some mix of old and ill-fitting clothes, with one item that looks to be legitimately fashion forward. But there was no sense of pretense, what they owned seemed a little mismatched and just happened to look good. There was a genuine joy for the night plastered on their faces, it was clearly the big night for them. They’d come down from Seattle, the gal was their designated driver. As they described it, it was their regular weekend routine to do a big night out somewhere with a DD, usually Tacoma. This routine had my approval. She was fully accepting of the hand she drew, but not particularly happy with the long sober night staring her down from the bar. Rather than be an obstacle in drunk talk, she quickly switched seats with me to allow me and the two guys the chance to shout closer to one another’s face.
I don’t recall much of the conversation – there was plenty of small talk, explaining how we ended up at Bob’s, having magic tricks shown to us, assigning karaoke songs to one another (that were never sang), and bringing in the bartender for her opinion on any topic. Everyone kept the momentum of laughter going. But there was no one owning the conversation, everyone was getting made fun of and howling like we’d known each other since childhood. It was a perfect group of strangers. There were no expectations or stiltedness, just a welcoming of who, and what, Bob’s offered up. Being introverted in new groups I can’t tell you how much I appreciate a person, let alone a crowd, who can quickly show me their happy-go-lucky irreverence and push the biting of the tongue to the wayside.
But then around 10:30 I overthought things and followed through on my plan to check out a new spot. It’s best to never change scenery when things are going well at a particular locale, especially if you’re already drunk. There’s no rebuilding that camaraderie elsewhere and it’s not going to be there when you return. I let my new friends know I was heading to the Mule Tavern, but I’d be back. The bartender told me to check out the Church Cantina across the street, but I doubled down on my stupidity and never did.
The long bar top of the Mule was packed with people, several games of pool and pinball were being played, and tables were covered with board games and Jenga, surrounded by groups of friends. I snagged one of the remaining bar seats and ordered some chips and salsa along with my beer. In all of that action, someone walked by and asked me about the chips and salsa. At a dark bar not known for its food, who asks a stranger about the chips and salsa? I could barely even see what I was eating. The Mule seemed like a good hang, but as I suspected, there was nothing for someone arriving at 11p with a seven beer jump on the night and a room full of strangers.
I returned to Bob’s knowing the evening might’ve been shot. Walking in, the bartender was now on my side of the bar and immediately lit up, “You actually came back!” After grabbing a beer she offered me the open spot on her bus seat, two people side by side. We chatted and it felt like maybe, in fact, this night was going better than planned.
But after hanging for a while, I went outside to check on the rest of the group, though I made it clear I’d be back. I opened the patio door to, “Zach’s back!” from my friends. But the group had grown with several new faces in the circle, and one guy was controlling the conversation. The previous magic felt fleeting and any quick wit from me was fading.
Reentering, I saw the bartender now with another group, and a guy uniquely focused on her. She seemed only mildly interested in him, but he was engaged and fresh, and I was now on the outside with an army of tall boys butting heads against a hangover and 16 mile run. My charisma was slipping, it felt like I’d lost my place on both fronts, and I had no interest in trying to earn back my spot. I got a Rainier thinking maybe the tides would turn in the next ten minutes, but it was more of the same. I pulled the plug and went home at 12:30a rather than making a futile attempt at a hook-up opportunity that was available only for a fleeting moment.
I was a frustrated drunk, despite visiting a long lusted-after dive and getting the exact evening I wanted from it, albeit cut short by my own poor decision. To that group, thank you for a great night. It was a night that had more to give if I’d never left Bob’s, but I loved what I got in those few hours.
In life, there are hours long stretches where time doesn’t exist and basically nothing is done because no one has, nor is discussing, any obligations. There is no agenda, not even an agenda to go engage in a new fun activity. The activity is simply hanging out. And every conversation is filled with wild laughter. No problems or contentious topics exist. Not because people are holding back, because everyone is satisfied in that moment and living in it. Happy, relaxed, comfortable. Goals are too ambitious for these brief stretches, though if there were one, it’d be to keep the group laughing and the good time rolling. If you’re lucky, you can find these stretches every few weeks, but more than likely it’s every few months. But these brief moments of complete satisfaction, along with their elusiveness, are what make living worthwhile. For a few hours, that’s what Bob’s was for me.
I woke up the next day with an equally bad hangover. I shuffled around the house packing and drinking bad coffee. I went for another run to shake off the hangover angst and get some new neighborhood views. The nice thing about burning the candle at both ends during a short trip is that you’re usually willing to leave when the time comes. Routine and familiarity feel like the best salve for the sleep deprived. There’s not a feeling of wanting to repeat the previous days actions or to try to find relaxation in a foreign place.
I went to Bluebeard and again their atmosphere gave me resolve for the drive home. At the recommendation of the Bob’s bartender I did peek my head into Dirty Oscar’s Annex, a place she touted for brunch, but it was too busy and the lack of natural light felt suffocating. I left before speaking to the hostess and hit the road.
Tacoma is sometimes referred to as the Grit City, and while the origin of that name is shaky due to the nickname appearing throughout its history with different definitions of the word grit, I think it encompasses them all. The city is a little dirty and rough around the edges, it’s not built around new shine. But it’s also shown resolve after years of press lowlights while sitting in the shadow of Seattle.
A lot of mid-size cities are forced to prove why they’re worthy of the outsider and hope they can lure visitors in. I think Tacoma has stopped putting emphasis on such approval and just goes about its business. With it comes an authenticity that makes the place stand out. It knows the reality of its standing in many people’s minds, coupled with a firm hold on the truth; that it’s a kick ass city if you choose to know it. If not, it doesn’t seem to bother wasting much time convincing you of that fact. But if you’re looking for a Pacific Northwest city without the bullshit accoutrement, Tacoma hits hard.
Loved this. Want to go there!
A lot of the creative buzz and vitality that existed in Seattle in the 90's got pushed down to Tacoma as tech influx pushed up rents. It's a qualitatively different feel, and I love it. Great writeup Zach, you nailed it.