Butt Darts

There’s a marina named Hole in the Wall not too far from here, maybe a mile north on the Tongass highway. It’s in our kayak books. I think there’s some sort of Coast Guard affiliation there, maybe in the summer. But in the winter, since we moved here, it’s been pretty desolate.

Which is too bad, because in this marina is a bar. A bar named Hole in the Wall, as the hand painted sign in the parking lot turnoff will tell you. The one nailed to a tree. The bar also has been closed since we moved there, its florescent beer signs dark in the early onslaught of wintered nights.

We saw the lights on once, awhile ago, but didn’t go in. We should have, I mean, it is our closest watering hole, our neighborly hangout. And a darkened unlit bar is such a sad thing, so many good times gone unknown. So on St. Patty’s day, we once again saw its signs lit and decided to check it out.

Well, the first thing you have to understand about Alaska bars, or at least the ones in Ketchup-can that we’ve been to, is they are fairly inhospitable. People will glance your way, float a dismissive sneer across their piss-colored lager and return to whatever sorrowful memory they’re attempting to forget. Very little conversation, no eye contact, keep it moving. I think we may have found an exception to the rule.

Hole in the Wall is tiny. A single room maybe fifteen feet by twenty-five feet with a bar in one corner, a wood stove in the other and a pool table, with just barely enough room to play. The bartenders name is Gail; we come to find out later that she is the sister of the owner. We found this out when the owners thirty-something year old daughter rushed into the bar in a I’m-gonna-get-me-a-good-man-this-time booby shirt and made herself a stiff drink for the road before heading into town. And I do mean for the road, she took it with her, glass and all.

The owner we actually know, he was once married to my boss’, and Carries for that matter, kind of, current partner. But that’s another story, a good one too; it involves a Chinese junk and some seafaring woe. Anyway Gail, the bartender, is quiet but very nice. We sat down at the end of the bar next to a mother and her daughter. Gail asked us our names and where we live and then we do what one does in bars. Namely order a drink, try not to look at your reflection in the mirror, talk to whoever your with and evesdrop.

Pretty soon everyone begins talking and they find out we’re locals and Harley comes inside and there’s talk of this and that, a couple of native guys are playing pool and one of them actually hops the ball up on the edge of the table and it roles down and drops back on the table like magic. The mother next to us, who has Yorkies, two of them, and who is visibly intoxicated says we should play a game. She asks everyone if they want to play butt darts. Incredulity, amazement, what is this? A bar game, you say, that you play with your ass? Do tell us more.
“So what you do,” she explains, “is put a shot glass on the floor” (she’s laughing so loud at this point, and really for the rest of the evening, that her dentures are about to fall out of her mouth) “and you take a quarter,” she demonstrates by holding one between her thumb and index finger up in front of her face, “and then you shove it up your ass,” which she did.

The rest of the game involves waddling forward from a designated line in the floor with you butt pinched tight on this quarter and then releasing with the utmost timing into, Wah La!, the shot glass. Who ever wins gets all the soiled winnings.
Now a few answers to your unspoken questions: Yes, pants on. About four feet. And what is that? Oh yes, it is great fun.

We played twice with almost everyone in the bar; even Jan who’s every other word would make the Mother Theresa blush. And get this, the first time I won. I know, immense control, perfect timing. I was then known as the best asshole in the bar. The next time Carrie won. Amazing buns that girl. We cashed out about fifteen clams, all thanks to our dexterous derrieres.

Carrie also got to ring the bell that buys the house a round, a first for her, and we got to eat some apple pie that Steve brought. I played a game of pool; Harley jumped up on the bar twice in all the excitement and made many new friends. We drank something that had Dramboujie in it, which Jan’s wife, this crazy haired gypsy lady that always knocked three times before coming in the bar called Drambou-zie. And she was right, it does make you laugh.

Our stomachs hurt the next day from all the laughing, and my head hurt from all the drinking – for two days. Such is the penance for being hung-over when over thirty. But I must say, given the night, it was worth it.