The first time I rolled into the building now called The Colony at 28th and Harvard, I was in my mid-30s. I leaned against the hood of my Corvette, my Ray-Bans perched low on my nose—too cool to move. A carload of my Friday happy-hour let’s-get-the-weekend-started buddies rolled up alongside. The bar, at that time, was called IV Play (say it out loud). It was the mid-1970s.
After exchanging the customary insults, we piled into the darkness of the establishment. At first blush, the interior reminded me of those 1960s coffee houses filled with counterculture beatniks spouting poetry from the stage and condemning war. Barely visible through stale cigarette smoke, a sign on the wall announced that this dive bar had served its first cocktail in 1958. My Friday afternoon clan followed me to the bar, ordered 25-cent beers, and strolled to the backroom pool table to plug the jukebox and unwind.
Some of my buddies had fought in Vietnam war trenches, some had fired on other humans, and some smoked weed to cope. In contrast, I served as a Navy dentist—Lieutenant Gerkin at your service—stationed in the desert of White Sands Missile Range, NM, 88002. There were no trenches. I was on the Navy rifle team, so my only enemy was a wood target at 400 yards. As for pot, we lived on a high-security base with teams of new Military Police following us home from the front gate, watching us walk in the front door, listening to phone calls. Possession of weed resulted in a court martial and a term in the Ft. Leavenworth Prison. What would you do? Mainly, I pounded down beers at the enlisted men’s bar, listening to music that played too loud. Maybe IV Play felt like home.
Country Joe and the Fish released a song in 1965 with the lyrics: “Be the first one on your block to have your boy come home in a box.” Thousands of boys did come home in boxes. Regularly, war trauma received a little Friday afternoon therapy session.
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Recently, on a cold winter day, I parked my Silverado in an empty slot along the bar’s front entrance. I stood next to the truck and gazed, now without Ray-Bans, at the façade. A different sign announced a years-ago change of the name to The Colony—an outdoor deck was nicely re-done. The door showed the tell-tale signs of age.
It was a few minutes after the 4:00 p.m. opening time, and the drinking buddies of old weren’t expected. Some had passed. Some fell by the wayside. I thought about them, nonetheless.
One change from the past would be my absence at the closing time of 2:00 a.m.; if I stayed till then, my greeting at home would not be friendly. Those days are gone. Well, most of the time.