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Photograph by Thomas Crone
Here is proof. Pop's was closed. CLOSED!
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Photograph by Thomas Crone
Above: end of the night at last year's Juggalo Bash at Pop's. In the early hours of this morning, last call really was last call—there was not even a flat Faygo soda to be found. (But there are happier vibes in store this weekend when Insane Clown Posse stops through for the Big Ballas Christmas Party; woop-woop!)
There are a few truisms to life in St. Louis, certainties that allow us to wake up as a region with at least some sense of daily order. Being St. Louis, let’s assume a drinking posture.
Truth #1: You can walk into any bar in town and get into a highly technical conversation about who should be starting at second base for the Cardinals; for that matter, you can even talk backups. (“We got any Breyvic Valera fans in the house?”)
Truth #2: You can walk into any bar in town and start a fast, emotional argument about City/County unification. (Just expect that things will get awkward within 75 to 90 seconds.)
Truth #3: You can walk into any bar in town in town knowing that you can walk out of that bar and right into another bar, there for 24 Hour Party People today, tomorrow and always. (Here, of course, we speak of the Monolith of Sauget, Pop’s.)
And, yet, last night introduced something new and, yes, a bit terrifying to our world: Pop’s was closed.
Walking up to Pop’s at 11:42 on a Monday night, your hungry reporter and his starving accomplice had left Off Broadway in search of some french fries at the Philly Wagon, the on-site food truck of Pop’s. Not only was the Philly Wagon closed, a yellow sign on the main door of Pop’s gave this simple, sickening message: “CLOSED PRIVATE PARTY 6PM-MIDNIGHT.” The all-caps approach meant this was serious, so we did what anyone would do in that situation, which is to take a quick drive around the surrounding towns, heading south through Cahokia, Dupo, and Columbia.
Back at Pop’s just after midnight, still dreaming of those fries, the second shoe dropped. Out of the bar poured two dyed-blonde women, each pickled in their own brine. They mentioned that the bar was, in fact, closed; and wouldn’t, in fact, be opening again on this night. They suggested this plan: “Go in and just tell them you’ve been getting drunk on Route 3, and wanna come in.” This seemed a reasonable idea, and we wandered through the unguarded doors to see and hear and witness the unthinkable.
With the curtains to the main stage area drawn, the side stage featured a melange of sadness, in the forms of an abandoned DJ rig, saggy balloons and a dipping, silvery “Merry Christmas” message that hinted at the night’s earlier, private fest. Though most of the congregants were peaceably taking leave of the venue, several others begged and pleaded for a last round, their voices crying out for that which could not be. The bartender, driving the final nails into our coffin of fun, insisted that the bar was closing for the night, but would be opening in the morning. Falling onto disbelieving ears, these words were greeted by another round “just one more, just one!”
And here came the scene’s crescendo.
Invoking the great closing line of all last calls everywhere, the bartender said that he couldn’t offer that final round as “We’ve shut it all down already.” Of course, he meant the cash register or point-of-sale system; thus, he had no ability to ring anything into said system; thus, no more drinks would be poured. Finality. “I don’t make up the rules, I just work here,” he added, though he didn’t need to. His last message was enough. Boom.
“We’ve shut it all down already.”
“We’ve SHUT IT ALL down already.”
“WE’VE SHUT IT ALL DOWN ALREADY.”
These six words rolled through my brain, in cartoon-like waves. They were delivered literally: the club was closing for the evening, aka it had been “shut down.” But the message also represented a tear in the space/time continuum of St. Louis. Pop’s, people, Pop’s was “shut down.”
Driving off of that angled parking lot, watching nearby industries belch white fumes into the wintry sky, something had broken within me: a sense of surety, perhaps. If this can happen at Pop’s, it can happen anywhere, for any reason, at any time.
Pop’s, my old friend, I’ll be back. (Maybe even as early as this Friday, when the Insane Clown Posse stops through for the Big Ballas Christmas Party; woop-woop!) I’ll be back, alright, slowly unpacking last night’s emotions and feelings. Hoping, of course, to never know this particular, undefinable feeling ever again.
