2761 Washington Boulevard, Arlington, VA 22201
Today this address is home to a barbecue joint. A few years before that, a somewhat posh and pretentious restaurant that thankfully went under. But prior to 2003, for a 50 year stretch, people knew that piece of real estate as Whitey’s Restaurant.
For those unfamiliar, no this was not an Aryan compound or a neo-nazi headquarters. Alexander “Whitey” Joy bought the place in the 1950’s and put his nickname over the striped metal awning. It did have a reputation as a biker bar, but that incrementally faded as the decades passed. It eventually surrendered it’s edge and morphed into an eclectic neighborhood favorite with parents, children, blue collars, and white collars with an occasional Harley parked out front. Everyone felt welcome, and trust me, every local stumbled out of Whitey’s door at least once. For some families it was a generational rite of passage.
I first walked through Whitey’s entrance in 1994. It was a funky local sports bar/music & karaoke venue. Most importantly, it was a short two mile drunk drive home. Not that I ever partook in such reckless behavior. I gotta say shit like that in case my kids read this. Who am I kidding? They’re my only readers! Kids, don’t drink and drive. It’ll turn you into a late 50’s bald, fat, old man. I don’t really know anything more terrifying than that.
Shortly before my inaugural steps over Whitey’s threshold, Brian walked into my life. More specifically he moved into our four bedroom house. All four roommates worked together in Washington, D.C. All four of us guys were in our 20’s. All four of us were single. Well, Brian was recently single again. He needed a spot to crash that didn’t come with an ex-wife.
His marriage lasted a whole year.
Divorce was not his idea. Brian planned to stay wedded to this woman for rest of his life. His wife obviously operated on a far briefer space time continuum. In their 365 days of marital bliss, no procreation occurred, nobody banked millions of dollars, and nobody accumulated a hefty retirement package with unheralded benefits. Basically they had to divvy up the pyrex dishes, mismatched silverware, and beanbag furniture. I don’t know if they had one, but I hope Brian got the gravy boat. I never knew him to whip up some gravy, so it’s unlikely. Damn ex got the boat!
So without his wife and sauce vessel Brian needed cheering up. As a twenty something year old with little to no life experience, I decided the cure rested in alcohol. Imbibing copious amounts of cheap beer at some local establishment could only raise Brian’s spirits and entertain all who joined in our barley and hops merriment. Smartphones were non-existent and the internet was barely a thing. No Google reviews to peruse. We just said fuck it and went to Whitey’s ‘cause it was close.
As it turned out, proximity reigned as a royal decision making gem. Whitey’s kicked ass as the perfect “forget about that woman you loved and planned to grow old with” kinda joint. We shot hoops on basketball machines. We threw tight spirals through football machine portals. We shanked balls on fully functioning golf machines. We played pool. We tossed darts. We tilted pinball machines and pounded video game consoles. They even served quality bar food. And the beers rolled in whether we sat at a table or took in the games scattered about. Is this heaven? Nah, it’s an old Arlington, VA biker bar.
We even had Larry on Karaoke night. I never really knew Larry. Mostly because I never spoke to Larry and nobody ever introduced us. I knew his name was Larry because it said so on his shirt. Not all relationships actually meet the required definition of a relationship. It didn’t matter. Fucking Larry could sing with the best of them. He held no apprehension when taking the stage and belting out a Looking Glass tune. Yes, Brandy (You’re a Fine Girl), but Larry had an even finer set of pipes. I think I would have paid to hear that guy sing. At Whitey’s it was just part of the place’s quirky charm and unsophisticated appeal.
Our first Whitey’s experience occurred on a Wednesday night.
Our waitress was a twenty something year old just like us. She had this cool hair ramp on top of her head. I don’t really know how else to explain it, but I knew I liked it. Not everybody can pull off a hair ramp, but she did. And she was a solid waitress. No matter where we ventured at Whitey’s, she found us and kept us fully beered up. That skillset can’t be underestimated or ever under-appreciated. Maybe this is why we always sat in her section. Maybe.
Drinking on Wednesday nights helped us pass the work week hump. And our newly discovered Wednesday night waitress, Janet, didn’t miss a beat in pushing us over that obstacle. Yes it was her job and we tipped her well. Brian bartended and waited tables before, so he was big on taking care of the servers. And Janet never complained about too much Wednesday night tip money. I was uncertain if she liked us or liked the money. Either way, everybody won.
As it turned out, Janet worked Sunday nights at Whitey’s, too. Perfect! Warm up on Thursday night, go hard on Friday and Saturday nights – duh, Sunday night at Whitey’s, day off on Monday if no NFL game, and only someone with a drinking problem drank on Tuesday nights. This returned us to Whitey Wednesdays to start the whole process anew. It takes discipline to stick to a schedule, ya know.
Although maybe still heart-broken, Brian seemed to be getting better.
For brief while, I thought maybe it was just Larry. He really had a beautiful voice. However, it likely rested with the camaraderie. Brian and I enjoyed Whitey’s so much we invited other guys from work to join us. It’s not a hard sell to get other twenty something single young men to stop by a bar on their home to an empty apartment. We offered beer, food, and laughter. Rarely did we hear a no response.
Perhaps it was the freshness of his recent divorce, but Brian was not overly engaged in hitting on the young, attractive women at Whitey’s. We had enough fun with the fellas and the variety of sports machines and video games. And of course Larry’s singing. So it least once or twice a week several work compatriots followed the beer crumbs to Whitey’s to “cheer up” Brian while Janet did her absolute best to keep our mini-fraternity over-served.
Maybe one of us would have asked Janet out as much as we saw her. However, early on in our Whitey’s experience Janet let us know through casual conversation that she did not date her customers. Fair enough. A separation of work life and personal life created a reasonable and healthy balance. Besides it would make tipping weird. Throw more money in the pot you cheapass. I’m dating that girl! Awkward.
Even though customers were off limits, we thought it a good decision to invite her to a keg party we planned to host at our rented Arlington house. We leased it from the church that sat directly off of the backyard with the pastor and his family to our immediate right. As twenty something year olds, the church leaders next door did little to dissuade our planned festivities. Plus, we invited them over. I was hoping for a water into wine experience.
Even though she didn’t date her customers, Janet made the keg party.
She arrived fashionably late, which worked out well. My former girlfriend had just left. Brian spotted her first. I believed he told her something like “boy, somebody’s gonna be glad to see you”. Yes, I liked Janet. I always had. Too bad she didn’t date her customers. That was ok. I wasn’t emotionally prepared to break up with Whitey’s and become a former patron or miss Larry on karaoke night.
Besides, my personal conviction to cheer up Brian remained a top priority even though he seemed pretty darn content. But that could have been a facade. Relapses happen. Scary. I decided Brian was still in a fragile state. For his sake, we couldn’t risk losing Whitey’s to a relationship already barred by Janet’s personal dating doctrine. Silly waitress.
But I could still talk to her at my keg party. That’s not dating. Besides, the pastor never arrived, nullifying any potential, miraculous wine production. God, where are you? He delivered Janet, though. We sat in the kitchen and talked for hours. At one point she got cold and I gave her one of my sweatshirts. When it got later I walked her to her car and said goodnight. I thought I was the perfect gentlemen until Kim told me I was an idiot.
Kim was a longtime friend’s oldest and wildest sister. When I reentered the house she came and asked, “so, who’s the girl?” I told her and she asked when we were going out on a date. When I told Kim that I failed to ask Janet out, Kim punched me as hard as she could in the shoulder.
“What the hell?” I asked.
“She talked to you and you alone the whole time she was here and you didn’t ask her out?” I attempted to explain the “she doesn’t date her customers rule”. Kim had none of that.
“You’re the only person she talked to, you gave her your sweatshirt, and she took it home. That rule of hers clearly does not apply to you. It’s obvious, you idiot.”
“Really?” I wanted that to be true, but I was still caught up in Janet’s relationship rules. “Should I ask her out, then?”. Kim rolled her eyes into the back of head and groaned.
“Of course you should ask her out, you idiot. She gave you her number, didn’t she?”
“Well, yeah.”
“Idiot.”
After getting insulted for the third time in 30 seconds, it sank in.
This could actually, possibly, maybe have the chance of becoming a potential, sorta thing. The ambiguous certainty of the situation was crystal unclear. But call her? I’d only spoken to her face to face. I couldn’t take a chance on the telephone. Tomorrow was Sunday and I knew exactly where she’d be.
Despite her dating doctrine, I felt confident she’d say yes to a date. I had the leverage of the sweatshirt. You just can’t take a guy’s third favorite sweatshirt and not agree to go out with him at least once, right? I’m pretty sure that’s a rule, too. But this ocean of precepts was beginning to make me feel underwater. I needed to breach the surface, grab some air, and ask her out. Things would go swimmingly after that, I firmly believed.
I hate to toot my Nostradamus horn, but “beep beep”. Not only did my prediction prove true, but Richard Nixon died shortly after that date. Wait, what’s that got to do with you and Janet? Well our day jobs were spent tirelessly toiling as federal workers. The former Watergate Wonder’s worldly exit precipitated a mid-week U.S. government holiday which dovetailed into an impromptu second date at the Arlington Cinema Drafthouse. It fell into place quickly, dare I say conspiratorially. Nah, he just died and it worked out for us. Thanks Tricky Dick!
I don’t recall what we did on the third date. It doesn’t matter now. Not because Janet is a faded dating memory, but because this November will be our third decade of wedded bliss. Don’t fret. Brian got married by the beach not too long after Janet and I tied the knot, and this time it stuck. He didn’t meet wife #2 at Whitey’s, but I’d like to think that place still had something to do with it, somehow, someway.
Oh yeah. And Larry’s beautiful voice, too.