Bar Days Flashback
Before I ever owned a bar, I was living in them. Daily. The bar scene was my playground, my office, my social club, and my battlefield. I wasn’t just drinking—I was dealing, picking up ladies, and fighting more than I probably should’ve.
I wasn’t a shit disturber, but I wasn’t walking away either. If something popped off, I was in it. A couple of bar owners started using me as a kind of unofficial doorman—not the guy standing at the entrance checking IDs, but the guy who handled problems when they got loud, messy, or dangerous. If a fight broke out, I was the one helping get people out or calming things down. Sometimes I’d just walk a guy out with a hand on his shoulder. Other times, it took more than that.
I didn’t get paid for it. I got free drinks. But I didn’t need free drinks—I was out for fun. I didn’t need notoriety either. I wasn’t trying to be the center of attention. I just liked the action. The energy. The rhythm of the night.
One thing I learned through all that? Ladies like a nice-looking tough guy. And I liked ladies. So we’ll call that a win-win.
When I went to the bar, my goal was simple: leave with a lady. That was the mission. Everything else—drinks, fights, deals—was just background noise. I was young, wild, and living like every night was a movie.
I wasn’t losing fights by this time in my life. I’d taken enough hits to know how to stand my ground. But I also learned something important: real tough guys don’t start shit. They don’t need to. They walk in calm, handle what needs handling, and walk out with their head high.
I’m writing these chapters and the memories keep flooding back. The laughs, the chaos, the adrenaline. The nights that started with a drink and ended with a story. The friendships forged in smoke-filled rooms and the respect earned one punch at a time.
Those bar days shaped me. They taught me how to read a room, how to handle pressure, and how to carry myself. They were wild, reckless, and unforgettable.
And they were just the beginning.
I didn’t realize it at the time, but all those years hanging around bars, playing softball, taking bets—I was building something. A network. A reputation. A following. When I finally opened my own bar, I wasn’t starting from scratch. The place already had decent business, and I had a little crowd of my own. Between the regulars, the gamblers, the ballplayers, and the girls—I had momentum.
I was hoping that would be enough to make it.
But here’s the truth: I didn’t know what I didn’t know. I had no clue what it really took to run a bar—especially one with a kitchen. This wasn’t just a dive with a jukebox and a few taps. This was a neighborhood bar with a full menu, and it sat right down the street from a massive commercial site packed with businesses. That meant lunch rushes, happy hours, catering requests, and a whole new level of expectations.
You don’t realize how much you need—how many people, how much support, how much knowledge—until you’re in it. I was learning more and more every day. Sometimes the hard way.
Like taxes.
I thought you paid taxes once a year. You know—April 15th, write a check, move on. WRONG.
Payroll tax is due the 15th of every month. And if you don’t get that money to the bank by 2PM? You’re hit with a 25% fine. Let’s say you owe a thousand bucks—miss the deadline, and you’re out $1,250. That lesson cost me real money. You better believe I was never late again. LOL.
The odds weren’t in my favor. They say only 25% of businesses make it. And out of that 25%, maybe 5% are actually profitable. Not great odds. Not comforting stats.
But I wasn’t in it for comfort. I was in it for the challenge. For the pride. For the chance to turn all those bar nights and street deals into something real. Something mine.
I was still the same guy—still hustling, still collecting, still chasing the thrill. But now I had a bar. A business. A responsibility. And every day, I was learning what it meant to be the boss.
“FLASHBACK” So my first year in business, the St. Louis Blues made it to the third round of the hockey playoffs. This was around 1987, and back then, not every bar could show the games. You needed one of those giant satellites—the kind that looked like a spaceship parked behind the building. Big, clunky, and expensive. But I had one.
And that satellite? It turned my bar into playoff central.
Every game night, the place was packed. Shoulder to shoulder. People yelling at the screen, pounding beers, throwing high-fives. The energy was electric. I had regulars, new faces, gamblers, ballplayers, and girls—all crammed into my bar like it was the only place in town. And for those few weeks, it kind of was.
The income from those playoff games was insane. I made enough to pay back the $45,000 I owed to the mobsters. Just like that, half the bar was paid off. No more debt hanging over my head. No more quiet pressure. No more wondering if I’d get a knock on the door.
Times were looking good.
I wasn’t afraid anymore. In fact, I might’ve gotten a little cocky after that. I’d pulled it off. I’d taken the risk, made the leap, and landed on my feet. That feeling—walking into the bar knowing I’d paid off the crew—was something else. Pride. Relief. Swagger.
I’d walk through the crowd, nodding at familiar faces, pouring drinks, cracking jokes. I wasn’t just the owner—I was the guy who made it happen. The guy who turned a debt into a business. The guy who turned a bar into a destination.
And I knew one thing for sure: I wasn’t done yet.
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