The Ole Ingram Social Club

No "other" place like it

Whenever I feel like I'm getting stale, having been living back in the States now for over two years, missing the excitement of the foreign and the new -- the "other" -- it's always helpful to role play.

I'm not from Houston; I don't live in Austin; I've never heard of George Strait. I'm from somewhere else, far, far away, and here I am, stuck, deep in the heart of Texas. How am I feeling about my surroundings now?

Deep in the heart of Texas

"This feels exactly like I'm in a kafana in south Serbia."

Marko was born in Belgrade, so he understands the basis for my comparison: low education levels and cigarette smoke. Lots of the latter at the Ole Ingram Social Club, the only bar in Ingram, which is the nearest actual town to Hunt, which is essentially a Texan village. Smoking indoors is a rarity in big city America these days, but not at the Social Club, just like in south Serbia.

People aren't Gucci at the Social Club

"I've always said it, dude," Marko said.

"What?"

"Serbia is really similar to Texas."

And if you were to listen to Serb nationalists paint a picture of doom, one day, Mexico will be our Kosovo.

One day after Marko and I had stopped in for that quick beer, we came back with the rest of the group.

The others were already owning the place by the time the second carload of people rolled in. They'd already filled up the juke box queue, held pool cues in their hands, knew people's names, and were just being all around social at the ole club.

Ben, the only actual foreigner in the group (as Marko is pretty much a U.S. citizen at this point, and Ben's friend Fidel is getting really good at English, really quickly), was over there "othering," as the more intellectual members of the crew put it. Ben, who is from Berlin -- "West Berlin," to be exact -- likes to convince himself that his whiteness is somehow less real than ours, since he is exotic and from Europe, where they never had slavery, and where no one ever voted for George Bush. They did start two world wars last century, but let's move past that. This allows Ben to be one with the people.

His "othering" only goes so far, though, as the pretty girl in pink, sitting there all alone, just begging with her eyes to be his Eva, can attest to.

Ich liebe dich, Ben! Ich möchte Ihnen zu zeigen, um mir zu zeigen Ihre Currywurst mit Pommes!

In fact, Shannon, the only Wisconsin native I've ever chilled with in the Hill Country, may be more "other" than Ben, even. And she's American.

Her official Ole Ingram Social Club hat, cigarette-in-mouth and badass demeanor at the pool table made Shannon lots of local "other" admirers that night

As well as non-other admirers

Though there were a few dudes who were more into "other" dudes... not that there's anything wrong with that


Unnecessary quotes are really annoying, so from now on I'm just going to stop using them with the word other.

Clint was othering, too, by the way.

"I am, ma'am."

"What IS it?"

Read that in the most Texan accent possible, and you've got it nailed. That's the question one of the other lovely Social Club regulars asked ole Matt Solomon's buddy Clint when he rolled in wearing his Texas Law School t-shirt.

"What is what?" he asked, confused.

"What is," she repeated, before pausing to enunciate, "the Texas law?"

(I would try to write the last word phonetically, as it was pronounced in Clint's impersonation, but it's not possible to do so. We don't have the technology.)

"The Texas law," Clint said, without missing a beat, "is that anyone can do whatever they want, as long as they don't hurt anybody else."

"I like that," she said, nodding in approval.

(It would have been a lot more badass had he answered with, "I am, ma'am.")




To really other, though, at the Social Club, you need to buy a hat.

I bought two of them as gifts: one for Ben, who is going home this week, and the other for Marko, who, by grace of having been to Ole Ingram Social Club the night before with me, was a regular at this point. Regulars need hats.

"I love that it has the rope thingy," someone said.

What I love even more, though, is when you look a little closer.




Stewart, Mystic, La Junta, HOH, and Vista Camps... all .... places in Texas, right? Spaced out by about 100 miles in total area ... right?

Wrong. They are all summer camps in the same freaking town.

And for some reason, the only bar in Ingram feels so connected to these summer camps that it includes them on the official cap of the only bar in Ingram.

Anyway.

"How much for the hats?" I ask to whoever may be listening. It's hard to distinguish between owner, bartender and regular at this place.

"Eleven bucks," a random guy next to me answers with authority.

"No," the woman behind the bar says, "it's $15."

"It's $20!" an intoxicated local next to the man yells right after that. She's easily the hottest local in the bar, which makes her about a 4 out of 10, about the same score I'd give her myriad tattoos on a scale of tattoo quality.

"Which one is it?" I ask, as the bartender takes one off the wall. She examines it closely, and furrows her brow. She then blows on it with sudden gusto, and clumps of dust and other particles of inertia carom into the immediate atmosphere. Not many people are buying hats these days, it seems. Not in this economy.

The 4 takes over the negotiations, walking behind the bar and taking hold of the hat.

"I was goin' say," she says flirtatiously, as she covers her boobs with the hat, doing a sort of strip tease type dance, "give me $20 and I'll" -- she drops the hat down low, showing me what I'd be seeing if she wasn't wearing her black tube top.

She continues to act like she's all sexy as I throw up a little bit in my mouth, smiling all the while as I pretend to remain interested. Just give me that hat, lady. It costs $11.

As the bartender pulls down the second one for me, the 4 asks whether or not I'm going to buy her a drink.

I decline.

-------------------------------------------------

This story, unsurprisingly, is a hit with my friends. They begin to advocate that I go back and "see if the offer is still on the table." So I do. Because it's funny.

And here is what she says:

"Hellll yeah. Twenty fo'20, nigga."

[Note: I am not black, and nor is she. And nor is anyone else who has ever been served at the Ole Ingram Social Club.]

No one really knew what the other 20 stood for.

Matt guessed, though: "Minutes?"

"Ya know what, I bet that's exactly what it is."

"I wonder if I could go ask her if three for three is available."

Stay classy, Ingram.