In '93-94, Tory and I ran a Cantina in
the barrio of South Tucson. I was Robert Weaver then. Roberto. As unlikely as it seems that a couple of
blond kids from Indiana would be fronting a joint like that, it gets
crazier. The bar was called Flannigan's.
It was owned by a family of that name
from Evansville. South Tucson is a LONG way from Evansville. First of
all, if you haven't been there, South Tucson isn't just a geographic
reference to the southern portion of Tucson. Its a city all of it's
self right in the middle of Tucson, surrounded by Tucson.
South Tucson is a 1.2 square mile city
with a population of almost 6,000 people. It exceeds the national
average of theft and violent crimes by a factor of 4X. Its a Hispanic
community, boasting a Latino population of more than 80%. That
heritage is reflected in the many murals and authentic
Mexican restaurants. I have not found better Mexican food
anywhere, including Mexico. In spite of the cultural amenities,
its a fucking rough town.
The Long-Arm-of-the-Law claims to have
cleaned up the area somewhat, in large part due to “vigorous
enforcement of liquor laws”. According to that standard,
Flannigan's is no more. Tory and I were the last proprietors. Truth
be told, the cops wouldn't set foot in the place for fear of their
lives. At best, they would sit across the street and watch, after
being called, to see how we handled things; ready to zoom in and lay
cover for emergency services should there be any shooting.
One Friday night, a thirteen year old
Mexican kid came in and demanded I serve him a shot and a beer. When
I refused, he produced a gold plated .32 caliber revolver and placed
it on the bar. He repeated his request. I picked up the gun and put
it under the counter and told him to get the fuck out. Tory called
the cops from the kitchen. They pulled in to the gas station across
the street and watched from a safe distance.
An hour later, a woman in her fifties
came in and told me her son had been there earlier and she had come
to claim his pistol. I laughed at her and sent her away. She seemed
to not understand, and threatened to have me arrested for theft.
Right, like SHE could get the cops to cross the street or get out of
their safe, air conditioned cars.
Tory and I, and the Flannigans, were
the only English speakers and the Flannigans were never there after dark. We did a lot of business
by pointing and pantomime. Most of our service, outside of the food,
was Budweiser, Bud Light, and Margaritas. We had an old guy named Elio who came in during the day and made our Asada and Rojo Pork and such. We just served it up. It was awesome. The clientele was 75%
Mexican, 20% Native American, and 5% old guys from the V.A. down the
street (and THEY never stayed past 4pm).
Ever try and take a beer from a drunk
Indian? Yeah, I know, its not terribly PC to say such a thing, but
FUCK! Shit gets ugly quick. Indians can take a head shot like nothing
and then what do you do? We learned quick to have Tory cut them off
while I stayed behind the bar. They're less likely to come up
swinging on a pretty girl. “Are you going to hide behind your
woman?” they would yell. Hell yeah. I'm not stupid. Not anymore.
Not after the first time.
There was a guy named Geronimo who
shot pool in there on weekends. One night he saw how Tory and I
struggled to maintain order with the Apache and Tohono O'odam, and
offered his assistance. He told us if we would look the other way
while he sold grass in the pool room, then whenever we needed to cut
one of his brothers off he would handle it for us and have his people get them safely
home. I was good with that. I told him not to let me see anything
change hands and we had a deal.It worked beautifully.
The Jukebox was all in Spanish. I
could sing along with most of the songs, but knew the meaning of few
of the lyrics. There was one song, “Corazon Bandito” that usually
brought everybody to their feet or voice. I loved the music.
This wasn't a typical group of Latinos
and Native Americans. I love the Mexican people and the
semi-indigenous folk of the Southwest. I'm not making a
generalization here. I've been to white bread and mayonnaise places just as scary in Dayton, Ohio. But this was South Fucking Tucson and I was out of my element. It was a rough
crowd. When it got really rowdy, I would pull the plug on the jukebox, crank up the lights, throw everybody out and lock the doors. We would take a break and I would pull a few bongs. Then we'd clean up a little and reopen an hour later to a new crowd. They called me Loco Puta and Opie. I never had to shut down twice in one night.
I still wonder how we survived that
shit. I was young and had balls like steel goose eggs and pushed back
just as hard as I was pushed. We tolerated no bullshit, and never
backed down no matter how bad it got. The Flannigans backed me up and
supported me, no matter how adverse the situation got or how
threatening things became. Even with the uncooperative police. I
would have stuck around and been playing roadhouse to this day, but
the Feds got on my trail and we had to split.