BIZARRE BAR NIGHTMARE: Boozed-Up Couple Keeps Drinking While Their Car Becomes a Bonfire
Thirty years ago, I worked at Jock’s Tavern, a half-hearted sports bar owned by the perpetually drunk “Jock” Jakowski. Working there meant doing just about everything—serving drinks, cooking, cleaning—while Jock sampled far too much of his own stock. Or someone else’s. He wasn’t picky about where he drank, though other bars made him pay.
I loved it all—the dart boards, the jukebox, the pinball machine. I even loved the pay phone, a clunky piece of junk with a little red screen that displayed the number you were calling. This was useful, since it rarely matched the number you actually dialed. You’d press six and get a three. Press nine, and it would dial two. Completely random. And I loved the customers.
Bob and Ginger were a married couple. Andy was a mechanic with a uniquely creative approach to fixing cars—if he’d been an accountant instead, he probably would’ve tried to write off roaches as dependents. I was fairly certain Jock’s actual accountant had done that once, and he drank there, too. Then there was Marty, the best dart player in town. He looked like he couldn’t run half a block without risking a heart attack, but he never missed a shot. Gandalf was our vending machine guy, who somehow kept the jukebox and games running as if by magic. Todd, a local reporter, started showing up after his divorce. As best as I can remember, they were all there the night the car caught fire.
It was a pretty busy night, the kind I loved. I was pouring drinks non-stop for a mostly beer crowd. Bob had been dropped off by Ginger, who was out running errands, and he was deep in a debate with Andy about who was smarter—Andy or the rat in Andy’s house that kept stealing his peanut butter. Everyone’s money was on the rat.
Ginger arrived to pick up Bob, leaving the car idling in the parking lot. Earlier that day, it had been in Andy’s repair shop, and he’d warned her not to turn it off unless absolutely necessary—it might not start again. Bob told her he’d leave once he’d finished his beer.
“Well then, give me one while I wait,” Ginger said. I poured her a beer. Ginger was one of those rare women who could make a single beer last for hours—something most of our customers never managed. Bob, for instance, couldn’t. If Ginger had just stood there without a drink, they’d have been out the door in three minutes. But when Bob glanced over and saw that she still had most of her beer left, he ordered another round, figuring he’d better have something in front of him while she took her time.
“Ginger,” offered Jock, “maybe you should just give me your keys and let me turn off your car.”
“Nah, we’ll be leaving right after I finish this,” said Ginger. I’m not sure how many beers Bob had while Ginger finished her first, but he was just beginning another when she was done. Seeing that he’d started a fresh one, Ginger ordered a second beer. She could have tried waiting thirty seconds, but the logic of that eluded them both. Three hours and what felt like an infinite number of beers later, Jock tried again.
“Ginger, gimme your keys and let me turn off your car.”
“Oh, all right,” agreed Ginger, handing him the keys.
Jock walked out to the parking lot. Ginger’s car wasn’t hard to find—it was the one with black smoke and flames curling up from under the hood. Without a word, Jock turned around, went back inside, and set Ginger’s keys on the bar. Then he started rummaging in the storage closet.
“What’re you looking for in there, Jock?” asked Bob. “Oh, nothing,” Jock said casually, pulling out a fire extinguisher and heading for the door.
Bob screamed and bolted outside, followed by pretty much everyone else in the place. When I describe the chaos that followed, you might think I’m exaggerating for laughs—but believe me, I’m playing it down.
Everyone had their own bright idea.
“Throw drinks on it!”
“Throw snow on it!”
“Drive it away from the building!”
Someone shouted that we should call the fire department, and that bit of logic finally clicked for Jock. He heroically ran back inside, tripped, and knocked himself out cold on a chair.
I figured I’d better call the fire department myself. I picked up the phone, dialed 911—and hit the buttons. Nine… one… six. Nine… four… four… one. Nine… three… eight. The whole ordeal took about ten minutes.
The firefighters arrived and put out the blaze, but the car was a total loss. “Here, Ginger,” I said. “Have one of my specialty drinks.” I set down a bright orange concoction I’d just invented. “I call it a Flaming Ford.”
She glared at me. “Don’t call it that.” The next morning, I answered the phone for my usual reminder call—part of my job was to remind Jock what he’d done the night before. I told him about the fire and why there were sooty footprints all over the bar. He hung up, made himself a Bloody Mary, and headed for Andy’s. Andy was working in his garage when Jock arrived. He tripped over a few random car parts on his way in.
“Hey, Andy,” Jock called. “What’s all this crap?”
Andy looked at the scattered pieces and shrugged.
“Oh, that,” he said. “That’s just some stuff I couldn’t fit back in Ginger’s car yesterday.”
- Lou Bernard is a writer and paranormal investigator from Lock Haven, Pennsylvania. He lives with his wife, son, and two dogs. He can be reached at loulhpa@gmail.com.