Vigilante Justice at the IHOP- part two of the Bloomington IL experience
Authors note: this wraps up the story of our karaoke night out in Illinois. It's a longer one, just about six pages, but it served as one of the top three most memorable moments from nearly two months on the road.
A few other memorable moments at Pheasant Lanes Bowling Alley:
Michelle, my documentarian (not actually a word) for the evening. Once she heard I was writing a book, in her friendly, casual manner, she started interviewing patrons. One girl said she remembered growing up and singing with her family by the piano. They would all gather Sunday nights, and mom would pull out the old song book, and they would joyously sing until they couldn’t sing any longer. She said her brother hated it.
Dance moves. This is another bizarre phenomenon, dancing to karaoke. It sounds a little strange (and feels a little stranger when you’re doing it), but it’s the highest compliment to a karaoke singer, even better than applause. This evening had two surprises to offer in this department, and let me tell you, there wasn’t that much room for dancing, maybe a little strip of carpet five feet by fifteen.
The back flip, performed by a short, latino-looking guy wearing a homemade sleeveless tee-shirt revealing half-a-dozen tattoos, was impressive indeed, but the second act brought the house down. I had already noticed the younger group in the bar. Mid-twenties, big-city alternative look, tattoos much fresher than the backflipper. They didn’t look like they quite fit in Bloomington, and my first guess was college. Now there’s something to be said for being in the wrong place at the wrong time, but there’s something even better about being in the right place, or possibly just looking in the right direction. Just as I took a sip from my beer, I noticed one of the guys, tall, skinny, dyed black hair and tattooed sleeves to the elbow. One of his friends was singing and he had positioned himself at the opposite end of the room. Suddenly he charged at one of the many banquet style folding tables set up in the lounge. Next thing I knew, it was Super Party Time, and he slid the length of possibly two of the tables with a loud whoop and crashing of bottles.
Here’s the best part. The bartender issued him a stern warning, but let him stay and drink. Not long after, I took up Michelle’s position (I think at the time, she was “investigating” why one of the other women patrons was being so rude) and decided to talk with the perpetrator of the table-slide, rock star style. I caught up with him at the bar and put his next drink on my tab. When the bartender was out of earshot, I congratulated him on the ballsy move. He told me his name was Josh. His group was visiting from Oakland, but he said he grew up in Bloomington.
“You can take the boy out of the country,” he told me, “but you can’t take the country out of the boy.”
The final memorable moment at Pheasant Lanes set the stage for the second act of the evening. It marked two firsts for me. The DJ chose me to perform the final song of the evening, and I chose to perform Charlie Daniel’s “Uneasy Rider” for the first time. A story song, with a definite quick pace, I had debated whether or not to attempt it, but Tyler talked me into it. For a quick sample…
I was takin' a trip out to L.A.
Toolin' along in my Chevrolet,
Tokin' on a number and diggin' on the radio.
Just as I crossed the Mississippi line,
I heard that highway start to whine,
And I knew that left rear tire was about to go.
Well, the spare was flat and I got uptight,
'Cause there wasn't a fillin' station in sight.
So I just limped on down the shoulder on the rim.
I went as far as I could and when I stopped the car
It was right in front of this little bar,
Kind of redneck lookin' joint, called the Dew Drop Inn.
Well, I stuffed my hair up under my hat
And told the bartender that I had a flat,
And would he be kind enough to give me change for a one.
There was one thing I was sure proud to see,
There wasn't a soul in the place, 'cept for him and me
And he just looked disgusted and pointed toward the telephone.
I called up the station down the road a ways,
And he said he wasn't very busy today,
And he could have somebody there in just 'bout ten minutes or so.
He said now you just stay right where you're at,
And I didn't bother tellin' the durn fool that
I sure as hell didn't have anyplace else to go.
I just ordered up a beer and sat down at the bar,
When some guy walked in and said; "Who owns this car?
With the peace sign, the mag wheels and four on the floor?
"Well, he looked at me and I damn near died,
And I decided that I'd just wait outside
So I layed a dollar on the bar and headed for the door.
Just when I thought I'd get outta there with my skin
These five big dudes come strollin' in,
With this one old drunk chick and some fella with green teeth.
And I was almost to the door when the biggest one
Said "You tip your hat to this lady, son."
And when I did all that hair fell out from underneath.
Almost five and a half minutes of that without a break, refrain or solo. I’ve performed it one other time since (in Missoula, MT near the end of my summer karaoke adventure) with a little better results, but I’m proud to say I probably kept up with at least 85 percent of the lyrics for my first attempt, any missing lines hopefully easily reconciled by my impression of Charlie Daniels.
With the last song sung, we all settled up with the bartender (which probably turned out to be more money in tips than the actual bill) and rambled out into the parking lot. Sans any sort of vehicle we decided to walk to the IHOP for a late-night feeding before catching a cab back to our respective places of passing out. At least that’s what I recall. There might’ve been some other debate involving walking or where to go, but I was on vacation and therefore submitted to the majority will, using the discussion time to instead take in my surroundings.
For whatever reason, we stumbled into IHOP just shy of three a.m., I believe. With smokers in our midst (myself possibly being one of them at that time), the hostess put us in the corner of the restaurant glassed off from the rest of the customers… the smoker’s aquarium. Surely you’ve seen these in various airports around the country. However, while they seem generally bleak in airports, they’re usually the only place to be in a restaurant afterhours, even if you don’t smoke. It’s often like grownup romper room, a box full of ravenous ex-bar patrons. Inevitably, you’ll see someone slip out of their chair or simply fall asleep waiting for their food. A comedian will be present, often more than one, and they’ll usually be located at the loudest table.
This particular evening, that turned out to be our table. Holding the majority of the IHOP population, the smoker’s aquarium had three other tables of customers in addition to our party of five. Two tables held college-aged couples. The third was occupied by two older couples, friends of family or family friends or maybe just family, again of Michelle’s, who wandered in shortly after we did, and seemed a little more tipsy than our group but more restrained.
The stage was set, and things were going as I expected, with a few amusing surprises. The best of these occurred when Steve, a former chef who was currently embarrassed by the childish antics of his friends, pre-tipped the waitress five bucks. I believe he hoped it would be insurance against the spitting wrath he was convinced our food would incur. Probably a very good idea, but at the time, bearing witness to possibly the first pre-tipping of an IHOP waitress in restaurant history was enough to break the rest of us into hysterical laughter, which of course only irritated Steve more.
With the pre-tipping and ordering out of the way, the atmosphere settled down slightly at our table, only to be stirred up again with the arrival of two other guys, one of them easily three hundred plus pounds, and the other not more than a buck fifty. Apparently, the skinny one knew somebody in Michelle’s acquaintance’s party. The volume rose in the glass room, as the waitress entered to attempt to take the third table’s order. In my memory, things really escalated here. Being clownish, the skinny guy walked over behind the waitress and started talking over her, interrupting while the others tried to place their orders. Control was slipping away in the room. The people sitting were telling him to be quiet, the waitress squirmed to maintain, and the skinny guy just kept up laughing and slurring stupidity. Davey finally shattered the pandemonium.
“Just shut the fuck up!” he shouted at the skinny guy.
“Whoa, Davey… take it easy… it’s okay, Davey…” Glances from our table towards the kitchen, other customers outside the aquarium now looking in.
Now the skinny guy must’ve really been drunk, because he comes over and starts clapping Davey on the shoulder (keeping in mind how huge Davey is) and saying things like “Oh yeah, big boy, you got something to say? Maybe we should just take it outside,” all the while, those of us at the table keeping up the steady torrent of calming phrases in Davey’s direction. “Don’t get up, Davey… it’s okay… let it go… No, don’t stand up…”
I was informed later that night of Davey’s rough high school years, and how it was an amazing display of self-control that he didn’t jump up and pummel the skinny guy into the floor like some cartoon nail. Later, we were proud of Davey, but in the moment, we were mostly relieved when he remained seated, and a moment later, a group of people including the manager were escorting the lucky-to-be-alive guy out of the IHOP.
Well, it couldn’t have been ten seconds later that one of the younger girls at the table by the window stood up. “He just knocked down some woman in the parking lot,” she said.
Shit, I thought, as Davey jumped up, then Steve, and Tyler. They were already on their way out when I finally stood. “Shit.” I looked through the plate glass windows into the parking lot, and will never forget the image I saw.
I related this event to my friend, Mike Guild in Minneapolis, also a former resident of Rock Creek, Montana, and he loved this part of the story. He made me tell the whole thing to two other groups of people, but before I could start, he would preface by saying, “Now, you have to know Steve Carr. One of the nicest guys around, if there’s one thing you don’t do, you don’t ever hit a woman.”
Steve may not have been the first one out of the restaurant, but when I looked out the window, I saw him leading the group, rushing towards the edge of the parking lot where it turned to grass, his arm swinging around in a wide right hook. Like slow motion in my mind’s eye.
“Michelle,” I said. “We need to go outside. Now.” I started around the corner, passing the hostess at the front station, on the phone. I only caught a couple words, but I knew the police would be arriving shortly. Time to pacify the situation.
The first car arrived within five minutes, the second shortly after. With the skinny guy locked in one of the patrol cars, one of the officers approached our group.
“What happened here?” he asked, and looked at Davey, who by this point looked like he had just caught the game winning pass, but had been called back by an off-sides penalty. “Well that guy came in the restaurant,” Davey sputtered out, his face red and sweaty, “and he was being loud and--”
That’s when I stepped in. “I can tell you,” I said. “My friends just a little excited.” And then I relayed the details I felt relevant to the law. The officer still had Davey fill out the official report later, but hopefully he stuck with the same basics.
“He came into the restaurant and was being disruptive, causing trouble. He got obnoxious, and the management had him escorted out. Then one of the other customers said they saw him knock over some woman in the parking lot. We came out here to detain him before he could run off, in case he needed to be held liable for any injuries to this woman.”
Some of you reading this have already heard the story between the lines, but for the rest of you, it’s a story better told over a beer. Or you can wait until all of this is published in book form. Either way, a few teasers until then…
a missing knife? While I didn’t see her leave the restaurant in the commotion of the skinny guy’s ejection, it turned out to be the relative of Michelle’s knocked down in the parking lot.
a random tow-truck driver on the scene who had served time in one of Illinois’s meaner prisons on charges of hate crimes.
Also the extended story includes these lines of dialogue.
“I just lost a shoe, and my pants are falling down,” he said as they dragged him across the grass like a passed-out drunkard.
“I don’t give a shit about your shoes, or your pants.”
As it turns, out the guy had several warrants out for his arrest, and had we simply recognized him in the restaurant and called the police, we could’ve been up for a reward. Unfortunately, the way everything went down, we didn’t even get our meal comped. Oh well.
Again as in Madison, there were lots of nice, family-oriented things about the Bloomington experience. Lots of good food and friends, staying at Tyler’s house, spending time with Angie and Colton, driving around the countryside, reminiscing with Steve, etc… but those stories will also have to wait for the book. Next stop, Virginia.
A few other memorable moments at Pheasant Lanes Bowling Alley:
Michelle, my documentarian (not actually a word) for the evening. Once she heard I was writing a book, in her friendly, casual manner, she started interviewing patrons. One girl said she remembered growing up and singing with her family by the piano. They would all gather Sunday nights, and mom would pull out the old song book, and they would joyously sing until they couldn’t sing any longer. She said her brother hated it.
Dance moves. This is another bizarre phenomenon, dancing to karaoke. It sounds a little strange (and feels a little stranger when you’re doing it), but it’s the highest compliment to a karaoke singer, even better than applause. This evening had two surprises to offer in this department, and let me tell you, there wasn’t that much room for dancing, maybe a little strip of carpet five feet by fifteen.
The back flip, performed by a short, latino-looking guy wearing a homemade sleeveless tee-shirt revealing half-a-dozen tattoos, was impressive indeed, but the second act brought the house down. I had already noticed the younger group in the bar. Mid-twenties, big-city alternative look, tattoos much fresher than the backflipper. They didn’t look like they quite fit in Bloomington, and my first guess was college. Now there’s something to be said for being in the wrong place at the wrong time, but there’s something even better about being in the right place, or possibly just looking in the right direction. Just as I took a sip from my beer, I noticed one of the guys, tall, skinny, dyed black hair and tattooed sleeves to the elbow. One of his friends was singing and he had positioned himself at the opposite end of the room. Suddenly he charged at one of the many banquet style folding tables set up in the lounge. Next thing I knew, it was Super Party Time, and he slid the length of possibly two of the tables with a loud whoop and crashing of bottles.
Here’s the best part. The bartender issued him a stern warning, but let him stay and drink. Not long after, I took up Michelle’s position (I think at the time, she was “investigating” why one of the other women patrons was being so rude) and decided to talk with the perpetrator of the table-slide, rock star style. I caught up with him at the bar and put his next drink on my tab. When the bartender was out of earshot, I congratulated him on the ballsy move. He told me his name was Josh. His group was visiting from Oakland, but he said he grew up in Bloomington.
“You can take the boy out of the country,” he told me, “but you can’t take the country out of the boy.”
The final memorable moment at Pheasant Lanes set the stage for the second act of the evening. It marked two firsts for me. The DJ chose me to perform the final song of the evening, and I chose to perform Charlie Daniel’s “Uneasy Rider” for the first time. A story song, with a definite quick pace, I had debated whether or not to attempt it, but Tyler talked me into it. For a quick sample…
I was takin' a trip out to L.A.
Toolin' along in my Chevrolet,
Tokin' on a number and diggin' on the radio.
Just as I crossed the Mississippi line,
I heard that highway start to whine,
And I knew that left rear tire was about to go.
Well, the spare was flat and I got uptight,
'Cause there wasn't a fillin' station in sight.
So I just limped on down the shoulder on the rim.
I went as far as I could and when I stopped the car
It was right in front of this little bar,
Kind of redneck lookin' joint, called the Dew Drop Inn.
Well, I stuffed my hair up under my hat
And told the bartender that I had a flat,
And would he be kind enough to give me change for a one.
There was one thing I was sure proud to see,
There wasn't a soul in the place, 'cept for him and me
And he just looked disgusted and pointed toward the telephone.
I called up the station down the road a ways,
And he said he wasn't very busy today,
And he could have somebody there in just 'bout ten minutes or so.
He said now you just stay right where you're at,
And I didn't bother tellin' the durn fool that
I sure as hell didn't have anyplace else to go.
I just ordered up a beer and sat down at the bar,
When some guy walked in and said; "Who owns this car?
With the peace sign, the mag wheels and four on the floor?
"Well, he looked at me and I damn near died,
And I decided that I'd just wait outside
So I layed a dollar on the bar and headed for the door.
Just when I thought I'd get outta there with my skin
These five big dudes come strollin' in,
With this one old drunk chick and some fella with green teeth.
And I was almost to the door when the biggest one
Said "You tip your hat to this lady, son."
And when I did all that hair fell out from underneath.
Almost five and a half minutes of that without a break, refrain or solo. I’ve performed it one other time since (in Missoula, MT near the end of my summer karaoke adventure) with a little better results, but I’m proud to say I probably kept up with at least 85 percent of the lyrics for my first attempt, any missing lines hopefully easily reconciled by my impression of Charlie Daniels.
With the last song sung, we all settled up with the bartender (which probably turned out to be more money in tips than the actual bill) and rambled out into the parking lot. Sans any sort of vehicle we decided to walk to the IHOP for a late-night feeding before catching a cab back to our respective places of passing out. At least that’s what I recall. There might’ve been some other debate involving walking or where to go, but I was on vacation and therefore submitted to the majority will, using the discussion time to instead take in my surroundings.
For whatever reason, we stumbled into IHOP just shy of three a.m., I believe. With smokers in our midst (myself possibly being one of them at that time), the hostess put us in the corner of the restaurant glassed off from the rest of the customers… the smoker’s aquarium. Surely you’ve seen these in various airports around the country. However, while they seem generally bleak in airports, they’re usually the only place to be in a restaurant afterhours, even if you don’t smoke. It’s often like grownup romper room, a box full of ravenous ex-bar patrons. Inevitably, you’ll see someone slip out of their chair or simply fall asleep waiting for their food. A comedian will be present, often more than one, and they’ll usually be located at the loudest table.
This particular evening, that turned out to be our table. Holding the majority of the IHOP population, the smoker’s aquarium had three other tables of customers in addition to our party of five. Two tables held college-aged couples. The third was occupied by two older couples, friends of family or family friends or maybe just family, again of Michelle’s, who wandered in shortly after we did, and seemed a little more tipsy than our group but more restrained.
The stage was set, and things were going as I expected, with a few amusing surprises. The best of these occurred when Steve, a former chef who was currently embarrassed by the childish antics of his friends, pre-tipped the waitress five bucks. I believe he hoped it would be insurance against the spitting wrath he was convinced our food would incur. Probably a very good idea, but at the time, bearing witness to possibly the first pre-tipping of an IHOP waitress in restaurant history was enough to break the rest of us into hysterical laughter, which of course only irritated Steve more.
With the pre-tipping and ordering out of the way, the atmosphere settled down slightly at our table, only to be stirred up again with the arrival of two other guys, one of them easily three hundred plus pounds, and the other not more than a buck fifty. Apparently, the skinny one knew somebody in Michelle’s acquaintance’s party. The volume rose in the glass room, as the waitress entered to attempt to take the third table’s order. In my memory, things really escalated here. Being clownish, the skinny guy walked over behind the waitress and started talking over her, interrupting while the others tried to place their orders. Control was slipping away in the room. The people sitting were telling him to be quiet, the waitress squirmed to maintain, and the skinny guy just kept up laughing and slurring stupidity. Davey finally shattered the pandemonium.
“Just shut the fuck up!” he shouted at the skinny guy.
“Whoa, Davey… take it easy… it’s okay, Davey…” Glances from our table towards the kitchen, other customers outside the aquarium now looking in.
Now the skinny guy must’ve really been drunk, because he comes over and starts clapping Davey on the shoulder (keeping in mind how huge Davey is) and saying things like “Oh yeah, big boy, you got something to say? Maybe we should just take it outside,” all the while, those of us at the table keeping up the steady torrent of calming phrases in Davey’s direction. “Don’t get up, Davey… it’s okay… let it go… No, don’t stand up…”
I was informed later that night of Davey’s rough high school years, and how it was an amazing display of self-control that he didn’t jump up and pummel the skinny guy into the floor like some cartoon nail. Later, we were proud of Davey, but in the moment, we were mostly relieved when he remained seated, and a moment later, a group of people including the manager were escorting the lucky-to-be-alive guy out of the IHOP.
Well, it couldn’t have been ten seconds later that one of the younger girls at the table by the window stood up. “He just knocked down some woman in the parking lot,” she said.
Shit, I thought, as Davey jumped up, then Steve, and Tyler. They were already on their way out when I finally stood. “Shit.” I looked through the plate glass windows into the parking lot, and will never forget the image I saw.
I related this event to my friend, Mike Guild in Minneapolis, also a former resident of Rock Creek, Montana, and he loved this part of the story. He made me tell the whole thing to two other groups of people, but before I could start, he would preface by saying, “Now, you have to know Steve Carr. One of the nicest guys around, if there’s one thing you don’t do, you don’t ever hit a woman.”
Steve may not have been the first one out of the restaurant, but when I looked out the window, I saw him leading the group, rushing towards the edge of the parking lot where it turned to grass, his arm swinging around in a wide right hook. Like slow motion in my mind’s eye.
“Michelle,” I said. “We need to go outside. Now.” I started around the corner, passing the hostess at the front station, on the phone. I only caught a couple words, but I knew the police would be arriving shortly. Time to pacify the situation.
The first car arrived within five minutes, the second shortly after. With the skinny guy locked in one of the patrol cars, one of the officers approached our group.
“What happened here?” he asked, and looked at Davey, who by this point looked like he had just caught the game winning pass, but had been called back by an off-sides penalty. “Well that guy came in the restaurant,” Davey sputtered out, his face red and sweaty, “and he was being loud and--”
That’s when I stepped in. “I can tell you,” I said. “My friends just a little excited.” And then I relayed the details I felt relevant to the law. The officer still had Davey fill out the official report later, but hopefully he stuck with the same basics.
“He came into the restaurant and was being disruptive, causing trouble. He got obnoxious, and the management had him escorted out. Then one of the other customers said they saw him knock over some woman in the parking lot. We came out here to detain him before he could run off, in case he needed to be held liable for any injuries to this woman.”
Some of you reading this have already heard the story between the lines, but for the rest of you, it’s a story better told over a beer. Or you can wait until all of this is published in book form. Either way, a few teasers until then…
a missing knife? While I didn’t see her leave the restaurant in the commotion of the skinny guy’s ejection, it turned out to be the relative of Michelle’s knocked down in the parking lot.
a random tow-truck driver on the scene who had served time in one of Illinois’s meaner prisons on charges of hate crimes.
Also the extended story includes these lines of dialogue.
“I just lost a shoe, and my pants are falling down,” he said as they dragged him across the grass like a passed-out drunkard.
“I don’t give a shit about your shoes, or your pants.”
As it turns, out the guy had several warrants out for his arrest, and had we simply recognized him in the restaurant and called the police, we could’ve been up for a reward. Unfortunately, the way everything went down, we didn’t even get our meal comped. Oh well.
Again as in Madison, there were lots of nice, family-oriented things about the Bloomington experience. Lots of good food and friends, staying at Tyler’s house, spending time with Angie and Colton, driving around the countryside, reminiscing with Steve, etc… but those stories will also have to wait for the book. Next stop, Virginia.
posted by A Man without a Band at 4:00 PM
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