Memories of a Place

August 6, 2001

Erin Rhodes

I’m not a regular anywhere. The only place I’m a regular is my house. However, I like to go places—more than once if I like them. Take the Beehive in Oakland. I was an occasional visitor who admired the regulars for their dedication and loyalty to the place. It’s gone now—not the building itself—but the heart and soul of it. The people and the pictures on the walls only remain in our collective memories. I’m 24 now, but when I was in high school, I was intimidated by The Beehive. It looked old and murky—like a forbidden castle at the top of a hill—and I didn’t think I could fit in with the clientele. By the clientele, I mean the black-clad, purple-haired, dog-chain-wearing crowd. So until one fateful day in college, I remained a stranger to this place, a place that I eventually found welcomed even me.

My college friends and I wanted to see The Kama Sutra. It was playing at the Beehive. This Indian film, based upon the infamous book of sexual positions, screamed loud and clear to all of us horny college freshman. We needed this film. I remember walking through the smoke-filled entrance past the bar towards the back room where the movie theatre was. It was like entering into some sort of abyss. I didn’t know what was ahead of me. As we took our seats in the back room, I realized that this was not your traditional movie theatre. The experience felt so communal. There was nothing stopping anyone from jumping in my lap and requesting position #12 from me.

Then there was the time I lost my Rocky Horror Picture Show virginity. I went with some tried and true Rocky Horror fans. I had seen the movie a couple of times in the privacy of my own home, but I was aware of the long-standing reputation of the live production. I was also painfully aware of the initiation in which all of the first-timers have to stand on stage before the show begins. I was told to be prepared for everything. “Oh yeah, you’ll probably have to strip down to your underwear. ” Or “You’ll probably have to moon the audience. ” Now if I had some tequila in me, this kind of behavior would not pose a threat to me, but being I was sober, I was scared. Needless to say, I didn’t have to do much of anything. I can only recall standing up there and shaking my ass. The rest of the show kind of sucked for me. I ended up leaving before the movie ended. The Rocky enthusiasts were bothering me with their antics, especially that of throwing their food at the screen while yelling incessantly at Barry Bostwick. So with popcorn in my hair and my feet sticking to the soda-drenched floor, I left the Beehive, knowing that I would return again someday.

The Beehive proved to be much more than a place where friends get together to be annoying. It was also a place of making great discoveries. For instance, I went on a first date there with a frat boy who I will call Biff. He actually was a very nice person, which is why I agreed to the date in the first place. To my delight, Biff said he wanted to see the movie The Big Lebowski, a Coen brothers’ film about a lazy guy. As we sat in those swivel chairs before the movie began, we, of course, talked. I talked about the things I enjoyed: theatre, music, books, movies. And Biff talked about the thing he enjoyed: sports. Luckily, the movie started, and when it ended, I knew that our “relationship” would, as well... which is okay, because I still enjoyed the movie. The claw-like seat enveloped me as I watched someone lazier than me get into heaps of trouble without giving a shit. That always makes me happy... to see someone who is worse off than me and doesn’t let it bother him. It makes me relax a little.

I wouldn’t return to the Beehive until years later. I was out of college; Biff was a faint memory; but I was still horny as hell. This time, I was on assignment to write about coffee shops. I decided to write a rant: a comparison of different coffee shops, which would only prove how similar they all are. Basically, I wanted to state the case that coffee shops are only for pretentious people who talk about Sartre and post-modernism. However, my endeavor failed, because I realized my obsession with coffee shops exists because I love them, not because I hate them. But anyway, this little adventure in coffee shops brought me back to the ’hive. I was addicted to its bitter honey... what can I say?

I walk in, surprised to see a fairly large white, wolf-like dog, blocking my path to the bar. Her name is Jazzy. The décor is an amalgam of knick-knacks. It’s like a ginger-bread house. Gothic, glass chandeliers, cigarette machines, Ms. Pac-man. Jazzy acts as the guard to this castle, protecting it from evil-doers. I sit down at a table across from a large man who is talking loud intentionally, as if performing for me. I certainly don’t mind, because I’m writing down everything he says...

On why his ex threw him out: “She couldn’t stand living with a crazy junkie.” Now it’s starting to get interesting. He’s got this perplexing combo of gray and purple hair, a silver, sequined scarf, and a large, gothic cross hanging from his neck. But more precious to him than any of these is the young blonde awkwardly sitting next to him—it’s sort of like a photo of a scared tike sitting on Santa’s lap.

As I look at Jazzy, I think this dog would not fit in at a Starbucks. A woman walks in. “Will that dog bite? ” she asks. The owner says no. Then the woman says of the dog, “She’s pure white... just like coke. ” Okay. So maybe the clientele knows more about drugs than Sartre. It doesn’t bother me. I’ve read Sartre, but I’ve never done coke, so I’d rather learn about coke.

The coffee bar turns into a real bar after 3 o’clock, so I have to show my I.D. Just like other bars, there’s a television, but nobody is watching it. People are talking at the bar in pairs. Good conversation, it seems. Two pairs are a man and a woman. The third is two men. I don’t think they came together. They’re simply enjoying each other’s company.

The large man and his girlfriend are strange. I don’t get their deal. She’s young—in college, perhaps. He’s the middle-aged fat man to her Lolita. He tells her he loves her. She nervously grins. He talks about his ex-girlfriend, then shifts to a declaration of love: “I can’t imagine my life without you.” Something tells me she likes to imagine her life without him.

The music is rock. Not a hard rock, but a slow, acoustic rock. It actually seems too calm for here, but I like it very much. I would bet that most of the people here are regulars. They sit in their stools as if they were in their own living rooms. They are home amidst the unique smell of smoke, patchouli, coffee, beer, and one white wolf-like dog. I watch the people at the bar from afar, and I want to know what they’re talking about. They are all engrossed, smiling, laughing.

I’m alone, waiting for the large guy to return from his jaunt to the bathroom. I can’t imagine what he will say next to this lost, gothic, doe of a girl. She watches me write. I wonder, does she have any idea I’m writing about her?

There are framed movie posters on the wall. Another Day in Paradise with James Woods and Melanie Griffith. Kurt and Courtney. “Frankie Capri—Pittsburgh’s #1 Night-club Act.” I feel trapped in a moment that I wish could be illustrated in a painting rather than in my cumbersome writing. In some months, all of this will be gone. The posters will be packed up. The people will find another place to hang only to complain about how they can’t hang here anymore. This place can’t be contained. What it all means and feels like—that can only float around in people’s heads and in what serves as our memories. The man and his Lolita will go on to some other place to talk about their future will never come. Jazzy will spend her days in a most-likely less unique environment where her fur won’t be compared to cocaine. And me? Well, I’ll always hope to be a regular somewhere, but instead, I’ll just peek my head in places every now and then to check for changes in the scenery.