Audio By Carbonatix
It was Friday night, and Big & Rich’s “Save a Horse (Ride a
Cowboy)” echoed deep in my ears as I sipped a raspberry daiquiri and
relaxed at Scandals Saloon with some of Wilton Manors’ finest
gentlemen. As the Friday-night liquor-drenched festivity unfolded
around me, I found myself mesmerized by Bob. Gray-haired and
spindly-legged, Bob wore a carelessly unbuttoned striped shirt that
fluttered and curled as he moved. In black ankle boots and a ball cap,
he swept across the light-soaked dance floor while disco balls twirled
overhead and country music pulsed through the air. The crowd that
gathered on the outskirts of the dance floor sipped booze and clapped
as Bob and a handful of other dancers dipped, stepped, turned, and spun
in perfect synchronicity. Bob may have been sharing the floor with
dozens of toe-tapping Texan wannabes, but this unassuming dude
definitely stood out as Lord of the Line Dance. And somehow, I’d
managed to wrangle a front-row bar stool to watch some killer line
dancing at the best — only — damned country-western bar
within the city limits.
Ambiance: Scandals is a cowboy-themed gay bar cozily
situated in Wilton Manors. Friday night, the venue buzzed with a combo
of Garth Brooks tunes, witty banter, slaps on the back, stiff drinks,
and weekend anticipation. The place is set up like this: There’s a bar
at the center, a pool room with a popcorn machine and crane game to the
right, a shiny polished dance floor to the left, and, out back, a
breezy patio area and outdoor bar. Steer skulls, cowboy hats, and
photos of well-muscled, clothing-deficient cowboys grace the green
walls. Just beyond one wall that’s plastered with bumper stickers of
varying naughtiness (from “Party With the Best — Party With a
Bear” to “First Tell Me How Big It Is”) hangs a shelf with various
country trinkets, including an adorable miniature horse and covered
wagon.
Drinks: When I arrived, Howard, the general manager,
emerged from his office to give me a quick peek around the place and
jump-start my eventual drunkenness with a $5 megasized raspberry
daiquiri.
“People thought it was crazy to open a country-themed bar in the
middle of South Florida, but people love it,” said Howard —
white-haired, mustached, and clad in a blue plaid shirt. He was
sugar-sweet to me, but I’d bet money he could sure wrangle some cattle
(or rowdy patrons) if necessary.
“There’s just something about cowboy boots,” I said.
“Yeah, my partner is a redneck,” he said, laughing. “He drives a big
ol’ truck and wears cowboy boots.”
“Marks of a good man,” I said. “So, who comes to this bar? Age
range?”
“We get about age 35 to death,” Howard joked. “Well, mid-50s or so,
I guess. But everyone’s welcome, and we’re friendly to all.” He
introduced me to his staff, including Pooch, the “oldest bartender in
the world.”
“The whole world,” emphasized Pooch, who sported a goatee and a
rock-solid upper body. “I’ve been bartending for over 30 years.”
“Since he was 4,” Howard said.
“How old are you?” I asked. Pooch blatantly averted the
question.
“I couldn’t even get him to put his birth date on a job
application,” Howard teased. “He just left it blank.”
Howard then propelled me toward the dance floor, which was empty. He
motioned for the DJ to turn the lights on, and when the switch was
flipped, the reflected light glimmered off the disco balls, reflected
in the mirrors, and snaked across the floor. I took a sip of my
daiquiri.
“What’s that?” I asked suddenly, pointing up at the most specialized
disco ball ever. It was shaped like four back-to-back cowboy boots, all
covered in tiny pieces of shiny glass.
“A bartender made that,” Howard said. “It’s made out of real cowboy
boots; he glued all the bottle pieces onto them.”
“Now, you just wait until 9:30 or so,” Howard said promisingly.
“Things will really get busy then.” I responded with an enthusiastic
slurp of my daiquiri.
Patrons: Howard left me with Jim, a loyal customer who wore a
low-necked shirt and gold necklace, at the small bar parallel to the
dance floor. Jim had shaggy hair and a steady, earnest face. He told me
that the bar owners give back to the community and that they really
care about their customers. I believed him, of course, but at this
point, I was a slave to the daiquiri, and the daiquiri did not care
about its community. I also found out that Jim had just broken it off
with his boyfriend, so I tried to offer my (slightly slurred)
condolences.
“If there’s no love connection, you have to let it go,” Jim said.
“Sometime after my wife died, I dated a guy for 17 years. Eventually we
just drifted apart. That love connection is most important.”
I nodded (or, my head wobbled drunkenly) in what I thought was an
appropriately understanding manner. Being a soulless robot, my circuits
start frying at the first mention of gooey emotions like
“love.”
“I wanted him to be my husband,” Jim comically gestured at
Michael, a slight, goateed fellow on the bar stool beside us. “But he
was already married to someone.” Michael offered a sheepish grin and
pleasant laugh.
When I emptied my daiquiri, Jim — truly a sweetheart —
graciously journeyed to the outdoor bar to procure me another. To repay
him for his kindness, I stole his seat.
Line dance: Around 9 p.m., people crawled in from the outdoor
bar and folks stormed the dance floor, squaring off in neat little
lines. Several rows of dancers formed, most in thick-heeled cowboy
boots and broad-brimmed cowboy hats. When the catchy country music came
blastin’ from the DJ booth, they all sprang into synchronized motion.
Bob, the gray-haired superstar I mentioned earlier, was smack-dab in
the center, spinning with a coy little smile. A tall woman in tight
jeans also dipped with the best of them; nearby, a wiry guy in a black
hat gave a good show, and a paunchy, olive-complexioned gentleman
proved himself to be surprisingly limber. Bald heads bobbed, boots
stomped, and I stared in awe.
I turned to Michael. “Are you gonna dance?”
“I can’t do that,” he said wistfully.
“Can’t, or can’t without more booze?” I asked. “Or, shouldn’t
because it would be a serious debacle of epic proportions?”
He studied his drink. “Maybe with more booze,” he said.
When Jim came back with my drink, he introduced me to Scott. Scott
wore shorts and black sneakers. He showed off his shirt, which read
“Bad to the Bone.”
“Which bone?” Jim quipped.
“Oh, be good,” Scott said.
I pointed to Bob as he pirouetted all over the floor and asked
Scott, “Can you do that?”
“Oh, I can’t hold a candle to that old man,” Scott said. “That guy
comes in here, line-dances, and only drinks water.”
Bob: When the line dance was over and the two-step began (the
DJ alternated dances), Bob went to the quiet, outside front porch to
guzzle water — and read the newspaper.
“Sir, I saw you dancin’ out there,” I said. “You’ve got moves!”
“Well, if you’d taken as many dance classes as I have, you would
too,” he said, smiling. “I’ve taken hundreds of them. I’m turning 84
soon — I’m a World War II vet. I’ve been dancing long before you
were born.”
“You only drink water?” I asked.
“Alcohol’s not great for dancing,” he said with a fleeting look of
reproach. I hate it when older people really do know best. Damn their
decades of experience! I saluted Bob for his groove-bustin’ ability and
slipped back into the bar.
Once inside, I was handed a Cowboy Cocksucker shot by Ken, the bar’s
dark-haired co-owner. We toasted to ourselves, threw back our heads,
and swigged down the sweet nectar. Once finished, he serenely observed
his cowboy kingdom with a slight smile. I watched an adorable couple
two-step gracefully to a sloppy-sweet country song and felt the shot
work its way into my bloodstream. I knew I wouldn’t be leaving my bar
stool anytime soon — not without being roped and wrangled
first.
