Drink tokens
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Nameless Range
Well-known member
The ancients engaged in Charon’s obol, a viaticum to make sure the dead could pay their way through the journey of the afterlife. They often did this by placing coins on the eyes or the mouth of the dead. They had it wrong though. The only legal tender in nirvana is a Slammer of beer and something fried.
Suds Hut, Helena, MT
Suds Hut, Helena, MT
4ohSick
Well-known member
I have a Crown bag full of those damn tokens, and I forget them every time I go, so the collections continues to grow.
Hem
Well-known member
My wife gave this to me, but I have to save it for the next life.
Howie
Well-known member
I think if she thought so much of you to present this, surely she would want you to redeem it.
Does anybody else have a favorite watering hole that does 321 specials? 3 shots for the price of 2 in 1 glass? During the winter the place downtown does and some guys get a little tipsy when we play poker.They don't have anything special for drink tokens. Just cheap wood tokens with their name of them.
JEL
Well-known member
same
noharleyyet
Well-known member
Undefeated...
texwest44
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- Joined
- Jan 23, 2020
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- 210
WARNING: Long story Part 1
I spent the last few years working for the state of Montana, mostly with rural and native schools/communities. In those few years, I've been to almost every town that has a school, and that includes most of the tiny little 100 people towns. Going to all of these places requires a lot of time on the road, lots of nights in little motels, and lots of suppers and beers and little bars and cafes/restaurants. If you're familiar with tiny towns and their bars, you'll know they generally have the same regular locals that make up their client base. Often they've lived there for their whole lives, and everyone knows everyone. You might also know they don't love the government in these sorts of places. So you can probably see where this is going.
Last spring, I'm in Wolf Point, MT. Not the smallest town in MT, but not big by any means. And just to frame the setting, the town is not enjoying good times, in terms of economic and cultural prosperity. Half the town is closed up, and the other half serves the local farm and ranch community, and people driving through on Highway 2. I'm familiar enough with these kinds of towns at this point, and I know to ask for recommendations from locals instead of just heading out and hoping for success. So I go to the front desk guy, who's a nice fellow from the Fort Peck reservation there. I ask him, "hey man, where's a good place to get a glass of beer and a burger of fries in Wolf Point?" He thinks for a moment. "Well, there's not much open in town," he says. I know there's not much, but I know there has to be something, so I wait a second for him to finish his thought (reservation/country thinking takes a couple of extra seconds). "But there is a place called Dad's bar a couple of blocks down the street," he finishes. I'm thinking this is perfect, because I saw that same Dad's bar on Google, and if a local is giving it a second motion, then that's enough for me.
So off I go. Down the block, and around the corner on Main street, and there's Dad's bar. It's sitting in between a closed business and a ready-to-close odds and ends shop, with plenty of parking, so I park the state vehicle, and get ready to head inside. As I put it into park, someone pulls up and parks right behind me. Big truck, headlights right in my mirrors, the works. Knowing what I do, and having my main office located in a building named in memoriam for a government employee murdered in Judith Gap, I decide to stay put in my car, and wait for the guy behind me to go where he's going. As he gets out, he's inspecting my car and myself in the driver's seat - he noticed the state plates, guaranteed. When he's done inspecting, he puts his hands in his pockets, turns around, and walks directly into the Dad's bar. Fantastic.
I wait a moment, and then make my way inside as well. If you've seen a lot of movies that involve small town bars, you've invariably sat through a scene where a non-local walks into the local bar, and several heads pivot to stare at the stranger who just walked in. Well those scenes are actually mini-documentaries, because that is exactly what happens. It's as if their heads are connected to the door through a series of pulleys and swivels, designed to turn and freeze upon the door's opening.
But I've played this game before. I keep my head down, and walk up to the bar, and have a look to see if there are beer taps. Not all small bars have beer taps, and sometimes you have to hunt to find one.
"Something you're looking for?"
I look over, and the bartender is slowly making his way to the end of the bar where I'm standing.
"Ah, well, I was wondering if maybe you have draft beer."
"No, we don't do draft here, just cans and bottles," he says, gesturing to the fridge cases behind him.
Quiet mutterings arise from the previously silent bar patrons. One of them perks his head up a bit.
"I think Elks has draft beer," he says to another. They mumble some more. "The Waterhole has draft beer, I'm pretty sure."
They return to mumbling, but this mumbling has a wary tone to it.
Finally, the bartender says, "yeah, I think the Elks might be the best bet for taps. It's just a couple blocks up the street here."
"The Waterhole is down the block to the right from the Elks," one of the bar patrons says without making eye contact.
I thank them, and leave. Looking up the street, I can see where the Elks Lodge sign is, so I make my way there. On the corner before I cross the street, I look to my right and I can see the Waterhole bar. It's on old, dilapidated sort of brick building. Looks like it hasn't been painted since the 80s, little windows so dusty you can't see through them, no lights, no sign, just WATERHOLE painted on the side. I generally know to stay away from bars like that (we have em in TX, too), and decide to stick with the Elks Lounge.
I enter the Elks Lounge, and it's empty. Not a soul. But the lights are on, and I can see there are beer taps behind the bar. It even kind of smells like food. Success, I'm thinking.
I walk to the bar, and have a seat. A few minutes go by, and a woman emerges from a room behind the bar.
"Oh! I didn't hear anyone come in. What can I get for you?"
I ask her about the draft beer - two locals and two domestics. Pretty good choice, honesty. I ask her about food. Sorry, the kitchen is closed on certain weeknights, and this is one of them. Oh, but if I want food, the Dad's bar up the street has burgers and other bar food. I tell her that's where I just came from, but will go back once I've had a beer. I get my beer, which was right tasty, and unwind from the day.
About halfway through my beer, the door slams open, and in come two kids. One's a high school looking kid, and one's maybe 7 or 8 years old. They have a seat at the bar, and following them is a woman, maybe in her 40s, who sits with them. Their mother, no doubt.
The bartending woman comes back out to greet them, and they begin to chat about their day. Friends, it seems. And this bar is probably a place where they come hang out for a bit on a lot of days, and have a drink and snack before heading home. Being interested in things like this, I slow my drinking, and listen. Turns out she's a teacher at the local high school, where there's plenty of drama.
With one big gulp left in the bottom of my glass, which I was preparing to take, the door flings open again. This time, a man enters. Wearing muddy boots, muddy jeans, and a coat while not muddy, was still very dirty. His black western hat wasn't faring much better. When asked about his day, he laments about the difficulty of the cold spring and lack of grass for his cattle. "I won't get my full half of the calves at this rate," he says. His story unfolds, and it turns out he's cow punching on contingency. The deal he negotiated has some adjustable terms, and the bad spring weather could leave him short a lot of calves and a lot money. I remember these same stories growing up in Texas. Weather, disease, predators, anthrax - there's no end to threats if you raise livestock.
I pick up my glass to take the gulp, and I notice a dirty hand jut into the periphery of my vision. "Hello, I don't think I've seen you in here before," a voice outside of my periphery says.
I reach for the hand and shake it. "I don't think I've ever seen you here before," is my reply.
We make our introductions. "Well, texwest44, what brings you all the way to Wolf Point? You don't sound like you're from around here," the dirty cowpuncher says. My accent has betrayed me again. And not one for beating around bushes, I simply tell him, "oh well I live in Helena. I work for the state, I'm in town for work."
Now, people in this part of the country are not known for antics. Or big personalities. Or big emotional responses to things. However, their dislike for the government runs deep, and it can bring out some interesting sides of people.
So immediately I'm under fire. The cowpuncher raises his arms and takes a step back, the bartender immediately rushes back over demanding my ID, and the woman with kids freezes in her seat.
Nonononoit'sokit'sokIworkwithkids, I'mnotarevenuerI'mnotarevenuer Idon'tenforceanythingIhelpkidsbecomecarpentersandelectricians
I quickly explain that I'm in town for the career fair that the high school boy just attended, and I'm just in the bar to have a beer. After telling them of working with schools and the sort of work I do, they calm down. Schools, libraries, and the fire department are the redeemable parts of the government in anti-government country, so I was lucky on that front.
Once they found out I come from a cattle family in Texas, and I was only in town for a day for a career fair, they begin to open right up. I have another beer, we exchange stories for a bit, and generally have a very nice time.
"Well I'm actually needing to get some supper before I head back to my hotel, so I'm off for the Dad's bar," I tell them, in attempt to get my bill. When no bill ever arrives, I simply ask for it.
"There's no bill. You're good to go," the woman says. I can't even believe it. What amazing people! I wish them well, and head out the door.
"Hey, wait, I'll go with you", I hear behind me. It's the cowpuncher, he's hungry too and coming with me to Dad's for supper.
I spent the last few years working for the state of Montana, mostly with rural and native schools/communities. In those few years, I've been to almost every town that has a school, and that includes most of the tiny little 100 people towns. Going to all of these places requires a lot of time on the road, lots of nights in little motels, and lots of suppers and beers and little bars and cafes/restaurants. If you're familiar with tiny towns and their bars, you'll know they generally have the same regular locals that make up their client base. Often they've lived there for their whole lives, and everyone knows everyone. You might also know they don't love the government in these sorts of places. So you can probably see where this is going.
Last spring, I'm in Wolf Point, MT. Not the smallest town in MT, but not big by any means. And just to frame the setting, the town is not enjoying good times, in terms of economic and cultural prosperity. Half the town is closed up, and the other half serves the local farm and ranch community, and people driving through on Highway 2. I'm familiar enough with these kinds of towns at this point, and I know to ask for recommendations from locals instead of just heading out and hoping for success. So I go to the front desk guy, who's a nice fellow from the Fort Peck reservation there. I ask him, "hey man, where's a good place to get a glass of beer and a burger of fries in Wolf Point?" He thinks for a moment. "Well, there's not much open in town," he says. I know there's not much, but I know there has to be something, so I wait a second for him to finish his thought (reservation/country thinking takes a couple of extra seconds). "But there is a place called Dad's bar a couple of blocks down the street," he finishes. I'm thinking this is perfect, because I saw that same Dad's bar on Google, and if a local is giving it a second motion, then that's enough for me.
So off I go. Down the block, and around the corner on Main street, and there's Dad's bar. It's sitting in between a closed business and a ready-to-close odds and ends shop, with plenty of parking, so I park the state vehicle, and get ready to head inside. As I put it into park, someone pulls up and parks right behind me. Big truck, headlights right in my mirrors, the works. Knowing what I do, and having my main office located in a building named in memoriam for a government employee murdered in Judith Gap, I decide to stay put in my car, and wait for the guy behind me to go where he's going. As he gets out, he's inspecting my car and myself in the driver's seat - he noticed the state plates, guaranteed. When he's done inspecting, he puts his hands in his pockets, turns around, and walks directly into the Dad's bar. Fantastic.
I wait a moment, and then make my way inside as well. If you've seen a lot of movies that involve small town bars, you've invariably sat through a scene where a non-local walks into the local bar, and several heads pivot to stare at the stranger who just walked in. Well those scenes are actually mini-documentaries, because that is exactly what happens. It's as if their heads are connected to the door through a series of pulleys and swivels, designed to turn and freeze upon the door's opening.
But I've played this game before. I keep my head down, and walk up to the bar, and have a look to see if there are beer taps. Not all small bars have beer taps, and sometimes you have to hunt to find one.
"Something you're looking for?"
I look over, and the bartender is slowly making his way to the end of the bar where I'm standing.
"Ah, well, I was wondering if maybe you have draft beer."
"No, we don't do draft here, just cans and bottles," he says, gesturing to the fridge cases behind him.
Quiet mutterings arise from the previously silent bar patrons. One of them perks his head up a bit.
"I think Elks has draft beer," he says to another. They mumble some more. "The Waterhole has draft beer, I'm pretty sure."
They return to mumbling, but this mumbling has a wary tone to it.
Finally, the bartender says, "yeah, I think the Elks might be the best bet for taps. It's just a couple blocks up the street here."
"The Waterhole is down the block to the right from the Elks," one of the bar patrons says without making eye contact.
I thank them, and leave. Looking up the street, I can see where the Elks Lodge sign is, so I make my way there. On the corner before I cross the street, I look to my right and I can see the Waterhole bar. It's on old, dilapidated sort of brick building. Looks like it hasn't been painted since the 80s, little windows so dusty you can't see through them, no lights, no sign, just WATERHOLE painted on the side. I generally know to stay away from bars like that (we have em in TX, too), and decide to stick with the Elks Lounge.
I enter the Elks Lounge, and it's empty. Not a soul. But the lights are on, and I can see there are beer taps behind the bar. It even kind of smells like food. Success, I'm thinking.
I walk to the bar, and have a seat. A few minutes go by, and a woman emerges from a room behind the bar.
"Oh! I didn't hear anyone come in. What can I get for you?"
I ask her about the draft beer - two locals and two domestics. Pretty good choice, honesty. I ask her about food. Sorry, the kitchen is closed on certain weeknights, and this is one of them. Oh, but if I want food, the Dad's bar up the street has burgers and other bar food. I tell her that's where I just came from, but will go back once I've had a beer. I get my beer, which was right tasty, and unwind from the day.
About halfway through my beer, the door slams open, and in come two kids. One's a high school looking kid, and one's maybe 7 or 8 years old. They have a seat at the bar, and following them is a woman, maybe in her 40s, who sits with them. Their mother, no doubt.
The bartending woman comes back out to greet them, and they begin to chat about their day. Friends, it seems. And this bar is probably a place where they come hang out for a bit on a lot of days, and have a drink and snack before heading home. Being interested in things like this, I slow my drinking, and listen. Turns out she's a teacher at the local high school, where there's plenty of drama.
With one big gulp left in the bottom of my glass, which I was preparing to take, the door flings open again. This time, a man enters. Wearing muddy boots, muddy jeans, and a coat while not muddy, was still very dirty. His black western hat wasn't faring much better. When asked about his day, he laments about the difficulty of the cold spring and lack of grass for his cattle. "I won't get my full half of the calves at this rate," he says. His story unfolds, and it turns out he's cow punching on contingency. The deal he negotiated has some adjustable terms, and the bad spring weather could leave him short a lot of calves and a lot money. I remember these same stories growing up in Texas. Weather, disease, predators, anthrax - there's no end to threats if you raise livestock.
I pick up my glass to take the gulp, and I notice a dirty hand jut into the periphery of my vision. "Hello, I don't think I've seen you in here before," a voice outside of my periphery says.
I reach for the hand and shake it. "I don't think I've ever seen you here before," is my reply.
We make our introductions. "Well, texwest44, what brings you all the way to Wolf Point? You don't sound like you're from around here," the dirty cowpuncher says. My accent has betrayed me again. And not one for beating around bushes, I simply tell him, "oh well I live in Helena. I work for the state, I'm in town for work."
Now, people in this part of the country are not known for antics. Or big personalities. Or big emotional responses to things. However, their dislike for the government runs deep, and it can bring out some interesting sides of people.
So immediately I'm under fire. The cowpuncher raises his arms and takes a step back, the bartender immediately rushes back over demanding my ID, and the woman with kids freezes in her seat.
Nonononoit'sokit'sokIworkwithkids, I'mnotarevenuerI'mnotarevenuer Idon'tenforceanythingIhelpkidsbecomecarpentersandelectricians
I quickly explain that I'm in town for the career fair that the high school boy just attended, and I'm just in the bar to have a beer. After telling them of working with schools and the sort of work I do, they calm down. Schools, libraries, and the fire department are the redeemable parts of the government in anti-government country, so I was lucky on that front.
Once they found out I come from a cattle family in Texas, and I was only in town for a day for a career fair, they begin to open right up. I have another beer, we exchange stories for a bit, and generally have a very nice time.
"Well I'm actually needing to get some supper before I head back to my hotel, so I'm off for the Dad's bar," I tell them, in attempt to get my bill. When no bill ever arrives, I simply ask for it.
"There's no bill. You're good to go," the woman says. I can't even believe it. What amazing people! I wish them well, and head out the door.
"Hey, wait, I'll go with you", I hear behind me. It's the cowpuncher, he's hungry too and coming with me to Dad's for supper.
texwest44
Well-known member
- Joined
- Jan 23, 2020
- Messages
- 210
Part 2:
Along the way, I tell him about how I was lucky to end up at the Elks, and that I didn't take the recommendation to go down to the Waterhole bar. The cowpuncher froze. We were instantly no longer having fun in that moment.
"They told you to go in there," he asks, as if I'm some kind of lunatic.
"Well, they told me they might have draft beer."
Cowpuncher is quiet, shaking his head. "Why? They shouldn't have told you that - that bar is really dangerous. A guy I know was killed in there a couple of years ago."
As we walk, he tells me the story about the guy. Some people in there told him to leave, and he didn't. So they shot him. No arrests were made.
We make it to Dad's bar. This time when we walk in, the bar patrons wear indifferent politeness on their faces rather than suspicion.
Me and the cowpuncher grab a little table and put our coats on chairs, and head for the bar to place orders. We each get a burger and fries, and a bottle of beer. I head back for the table, and he tells me he'll be there in just a minute.
Sitting with my bottle of beer, I watch him go up to the fellows at the bar and very quietly have a conversation with them. A couple of odd glances back in my direction leads to me to believe he's admonishing them for having almost sent me to the Waterhole earlier that night.
He comes back to the table, and we make farm-and-ranch chit chat over our beers and burgers. I ask if he knows what shots of whiskey go for in this bar - anywhere from $2 to $5 depending on the bottle, he says. I notice an unopened bottle of Makers Mark on the bar. "A shot of Maker's for anyone who wants one," I loudly proclaim, and notice the quiet surprise from the group. The bartender himself seems somewhat shocked by this announcement, grabs the bottle from the back of the shelf, and opens it. One is poured for me, one is poured for my cowpunching friend, but that's it. No one else has a pour, but I leave the option open for the night.
We finish up for the night, and we ask for our tabs. The cowpuncher pays for his burger, but I pick up his drinks as a thank you for the hospitality and small town kindness towards this stranger who works for the government.
I get my change from the bartender, and included with it is this free drink token:
"Next time you're in Wolf Point, come on back!" the bartender says, just as friendly as could be. I get the cowpunchers number - and an invitation to come and shoot prairie dogs the next time I'm in the area. I wish them all a good night, and head back to my motel.
And that's the story of this very basic token. It doesn't look like much, but it represents a beautiful kind of small-town-Montana shyness and hospitality that I really appreciate. People focus on the land so much that don't realize that Montanans are some of the last best people.
Along the way, I tell him about how I was lucky to end up at the Elks, and that I didn't take the recommendation to go down to the Waterhole bar. The cowpuncher froze. We were instantly no longer having fun in that moment.
"They told you to go in there," he asks, as if I'm some kind of lunatic.
"Well, they told me they might have draft beer."
Cowpuncher is quiet, shaking his head. "Why? They shouldn't have told you that - that bar is really dangerous. A guy I know was killed in there a couple of years ago."
As we walk, he tells me the story about the guy. Some people in there told him to leave, and he didn't. So they shot him. No arrests were made.
We make it to Dad's bar. This time when we walk in, the bar patrons wear indifferent politeness on their faces rather than suspicion.
Me and the cowpuncher grab a little table and put our coats on chairs, and head for the bar to place orders. We each get a burger and fries, and a bottle of beer. I head back for the table, and he tells me he'll be there in just a minute.
Sitting with my bottle of beer, I watch him go up to the fellows at the bar and very quietly have a conversation with them. A couple of odd glances back in my direction leads to me to believe he's admonishing them for having almost sent me to the Waterhole earlier that night.
He comes back to the table, and we make farm-and-ranch chit chat over our beers and burgers. I ask if he knows what shots of whiskey go for in this bar - anywhere from $2 to $5 depending on the bottle, he says. I notice an unopened bottle of Makers Mark on the bar. "A shot of Maker's for anyone who wants one," I loudly proclaim, and notice the quiet surprise from the group. The bartender himself seems somewhat shocked by this announcement, grabs the bottle from the back of the shelf, and opens it. One is poured for me, one is poured for my cowpunching friend, but that's it. No one else has a pour, but I leave the option open for the night.
We finish up for the night, and we ask for our tabs. The cowpuncher pays for his burger, but I pick up his drinks as a thank you for the hospitality and small town kindness towards this stranger who works for the government.
I get my change from the bartender, and included with it is this free drink token:
"Next time you're in Wolf Point, come on back!" the bartender says, just as friendly as could be. I get the cowpunchers number - and an invitation to come and shoot prairie dogs the next time I'm in the area. I wish them all a good night, and head back to my motel.
And that's the story of this very basic token. It doesn't look like much, but it represents a beautiful kind of small-town-Montana shyness and hospitality that I really appreciate. People focus on the land so much that don't realize that Montanans are some of the last best people.
Hilljackoutlaw
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- Jan 15, 2019
- Messages
- 6,508
That could get a little out of hand right there. Haha
90% of us that play cards are ranchers and we just have a blast. After a couple of drinks you can tell the guys sitting across from you a dirty prick but using much harsher words and everybody laughs. That is until one guy got caught cheating and was punched off of his seat.
