Sharkey’s Pub Will Make You Feel OK, I guarantee it.

 

            “I’m just gonna warn you,” the bartender says as I plop down on a comfy, padded-backed black stool.

Oh god, I think. She knows. I don’t belong here.

            “There is a couple sitting here. You don’t have to move right now or anything… they’re smoking.”

            I smile and say I’ll see her on the other side of the bar. She stands in the middle of an island. The bar wraps around a wide area, where cash registers, hard alcohol, pint glasses, TV’s lottery tickets, and a Jagermeister shot machine lay on various tables and cabinets. I walk over to face the seat I almost stole from the invisible couple.

            “Alright, what can I get you?” the bartender asks. Her long, blonde hair has a few artificial curls left at the ends, and she wears a black pinstriped dress accented with pink roses.

            “I need a second,” I say. My brain is still shaky from a seven hour shift running fancy food to semi-fancy people.

            “All right, I’m just gonna go flip a burger,” she says. She strides back to the kitchen and I can’t help but notice how tight her dress is. As she goes to flip the burger, I watch her arm jiggle slightly. Her white skin is tinged red, and she cooks without a smile. She returns, and I order a whiskey ginger, unadventurously.

            “Okay. I have seven up and bitters for ginger ale, is that okay?” she asks. I have to repeat the question to fully understand.

            “Yeah!” I say, somehow turning my shock into unabashed enthusiasm. It takes her less than sixty seconds to place the ice cold drink in front of me. It tastes like a whiskey ginger, if I wasn’t thinking about how the ingredients have nothing to do with ginger.

            Outside, Sharkey’s pub advertises that they have the “Best burger in Lane County”. They are hidden in a small strip mall deep in Springfield, OR. On the mall’s directory sign underneath Payday Loans, theirs reads (picture of shark) SPORTS BAR.

            “I was planning on double fisting all night,” says a bald, heavily tattoed man who’s just sat down a few seats next to me. Another mustached man in a grey T-shirt has just ordered a pitcher, and is trying to decide between Pabst, Coors Light, and Bud Light.

            “Well, I brought you a pie,” the bartender says.

            “You know where I live,” the tattooed man says. “You can just drop me off on my porch.”

            The two men decide on Coors Light, the tattooed man on a bloody mary for the other fist. It’s hard to figure out what to pay attention to. Everything is medium-well lit, and three different TVs have sound going. Two people have come up to the bar in the last ten minutes with winning lottery numbers. The bartender has to count out their winnings in ones.

            Sharky’s is hardly tropical-themed except for the few sharks hanging from the ceiling and a few surf boards on the wall. They look like they came free in a promotional shipment from KONA brewing company. There’s a huge map of Hawaii framed on one wall, again emblazoned with the KONA logo. Dispersed between the corporate signs for breweries (Hop Valley to Corona Extra to PBR), are a few vestiges of somebody’s almost realized genuine sense of humor.

            “Free beer! Tomorrow” one sign reads. Another says “Show off your rod. FISH NAKED.” I would never pay attention to these signs if I weren’t trying to get the full experience of this bar. It reflects a philosophical sense that a bar is a place to be when you need one of the following: a place to relax after work, a place to drink your sorrows away, a place to bet on some small sense of hope you have in totally random chance, a place to see a girl that you know, a place to watch videos on your iPhone, a place to build a habit.

            At 11:47pm on a Wednesday August 6th, three people trickle away from the video lottery machines, leaving just two lonely players. One wears a white t-shirt and khaki pants that indicate his profession is something in construction, or something close to the dirt. The only others in the bar are the two with a ¾ full pitcher of Coors, and the bartender.

            “Lets play some John Mayer, like we did the day before,” says tattooed bald man.

            “Shut up,” the bartender says. It’s weird that she’s not drunk, and the guys drinking next to me seem to be able to drink consistently and still engage her in a conversation she seems fine to be involved in.

             A mere two minutes later, faster than I can keep up with, the tattooed man is talking about watching someone shoot himself in the head (a video, not real life). But, it’s someone from the bartender’s hometown, or at least something “close to home”. Suddenly, all sound is silent. It’s intimate time. The jams are about to be chosen from the juke box in the corner, and I have no idea what closing time is. I have never felt more accepted at a bar in my life.

            Jackie (I’ve learned the bartender’s name, now) definitely just snuck a Red Bull from the fridge, and chugged it in the back. I ask her for the WiFi password. It’s their phone number.

            “Can I get you anything else, before I step outside?” she asks.

            “Nope,” I say, with a smile. She’s going to go smoke outside and leave me with the lottery players unattended?

            This bar is too tight. I am so confused.

Sharkey’s pub is open every single fucking day until 2:30 AM. Show them some love – 4221 Main St. Springfield OR 97478.