Iggy was dead, to begin with.
It was only fitting that I learned of the old fry cook's death as we sat in the once-hallowed halls he had called home during his heyday. The guy who looked like Big Pussy Bonpensiero's weird cousin, the guy who made the very best tavern-style pizza within a one-block radius, had left this mortal coil. Felt weird to be hanging out where he spent his final days. A new bar? Brah, this ain't no bar. This is a haunted house.
Last we checked in on the erstwhile McNally's on Rhawn, we were doing a little reminiscing in the form of a faux listicle. Soon after I wrote that Greek tragedy, I noticed that the exterior walls of the old building had been painted with a fresh coat of navy blue. It appeared that McNally's reopening was imminent, for better or worse. And sure enough, a month or two later, the doors were open wide, a welcoming gesture to the neighborhood denizens, that they may visit the brand new Fox Chase Tavern.
For reasons usual and unusual (parental restraints; occasional sobriety; fear of giving my wife COVID), I had no plans to visit Fox Chase Tavern for any Usual Crowd drinking any time soon. But on a random Monday night, wishing to catch up somewhere/anywhere, Kev and I ended up at our old haunt. Because where the hell else are we going to go?
So, a report from the field on a quiet weekday night at Fox Chase Tavern: this place is fucking weird. I can only say that because I still visit McNally's in my dreams, and this place both looked like McNally's and didn't. The dimensions were the same, the bar was in its usual spot, the walls and ceilings remained in place and stable, the bathroom still in its place in the back. But this wasn't McNally's.
Gone were the chintzy beer signs on the walls. Gone was the stupid golf arcade game and bubble hockey game. No "wobble baby" DJ to be heard anywhere. And weirdest of all, they strung those weird bright neon lights around the perimeter and, worse, underneath the bar. It's bizarre to put your drink down and stare down at the spotlighted scab on your knee. No, this isn't McNally's.
So strange was the feeling of everything you knew intimately being slightly askew that I started to question my own sanity: Who are these bartenders? Who are these patrons? Who the fuck is the cook, coming out to talk to us about her french fry recipe? She's not Iggy! Where did all of you people come from, and what are you doing in my bar?!?! IMPOSTORS!!!
Eventually I snap back into reality. We're not at McNally's. We're at the Fox Chase Tavern. Our shitty old bar has a new haircut and has freshened up and has gargled mouthwash. Its sterility is gross. McNally's was a beautiful corpse, and Fox Chase Tavern is desecrating it. Don't raise the Miller Lite prices and turn the walls neon pink and serve me shitty overpriced "scrapple fries" and pretend like everything is fine. It's not. Nothing is okay. Iggy is dead. McNally's is dead. We're all dead.
That's the thing, though. Our lives at McNally's really are dead. I thought I was ready to accept that, but being at Fox Chase Tavern just tears at a wounds. It made me take a step back in the healing process. I don't mean to take out my grief on the new bar in town. I hope the place does well. I cannot in good faith, though, hang out there anymore.
It's okay! They don't need me! Because on this quiet Monday night, I looked down to the other end of the bar, and saw a group of five or six early-20-somethings pounding beers, laughing at each other, and having a great fucking time. They were making memories, here, at the Fox Chase Tavern. Their own memories. Memories that they'll remember forever, these young kids, these kids who were in middle school when McNally's was the place to be. This will be their bar, and they will cherish it, cherish those moments that will be gone in the blink of an eye. I am happy for them, that they get to live their present at this bar. I wish them well.
I wasn't at Iggy's funeral because I didn't know he was dead until I hung out with Kev at the Fox Chase Tavern. So let this serve as my memoriam for an old friend. After all, Iggy was a man, but he was also a symbol. He was a symbol of everything we held dear in this rundown shithole we used to call McNally's. May he—and it—rest in peace.
GRADE: 0 pukes out of 5
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