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I was once in a union.
It got me an extra twenty-five cents an hour on top of minimum wage
and all the soda and popcorn I could eat at break time. Between the
dues (which, after being adjusted to the extra quarter brought me
below minimum wage of $4.25) and the rat poop in the kernels, my one
union experience was not as stellar as you'd think it might be. A
teamster I was not. As ambivalent as I was to my union experience,
I couldn't be sunnier about Local 138 and its faux union theme (a
play on the address, obviously, and not like the bartender's or smelter's
union) wrapped in the skin of a good old fashion dive bar. I immediately
warmed to its oddball, wood paneled interior as The Smiths swelled
from bar's speakers and the low key crowd talked in small groups and
the bartender (who was actually a dude!) served us inexpensive domestics
at one of the few stools at the small-ish bar. With its jutting corners,
unfortunate cheap mirror placement and overall choppy aesthetic, it
does elicit the feeling of being in a fraternity basement or VFW rec
room—albeit a very dark one with good music. This place certainly
ain’t a rip-roarin’ time, but one could certainly do worse than hangin’
with a couple friends, listening to some 80’s college rock and drinking
a cold Bud without douchey crooked hat kids, a Euro DJ spinning ambient
acid jazz or Jersey shore-lookin’ assholes doing Woo Woo shots out
of the bartender’s navel getting in your way of a pleasant night.
[MF]
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