It’s around 7 p.m. on a Tuesday; the bar is dead. The sounds of sports news talk linger as the clash of two pool balls colliding pierces through the background noise of glasses clanking and drinks filling. The bar windows are boarded up, causing the decorative big-bulb Christmas lights that hang haphazardly along the bar to glow brighter, showing off the papers, signs, posters and other remnants of nostalgia that decorate the bar walls.
A man walks in and stations himself near one of the three large pool tables that fill the bar space and begins chalking his pool stick and arranging the pool balls in a triangle — he knows what he’s doing. Before he can acknowledge the woman working behind the bar, she begins pouring his regular drink: one pitcher of water with ice, lemon and a straw. She hands it to him with a smile and a quick moment of friendly catch-up, and explains that he's a regular who plays in a local pool league that practices here.
Although some bars cringe at the thought of being called a dive, Laura A. Kelly-Phillips, owner of the 23-year-old Time Out Lounge in Tempe, welcomes the title.
“There’s a sense of community here,” Phillips says. “I think people are a little intimidated by that, they get the wrong idea of what a dive is. They think it’s going to be this sort of ‘tough’ atmosphere, but that’s not the case. People see this as their home, and they wouldn’t fight in their own living room.”
What makes a dive, well, a dive? Hipster cred? Or is there something beyond the physical stereotype?
Matt Tomb, co-owner of Phoenix’s original Tiki bar Bikini Lounge, says when hearing the word "dive," “people may think it’s dirty and the staff a little crummy. . .typically it’s a place with dim lights, no windows, and people won’t eat there.”
The bar first opened its doors in 1946 as a Polynesian-inspired tiki bar. The bar’s theme and age are noticeable through its need of a few repairs, and some of its vintage décor, but the bar definitely has a unique charm, one that locals have loved enough to keep it going for so long.
When it comes to his bar and the idea of a "dive," Tomb sees something more than a few repairs that need to be made. “We have personal relationships with all of our regulars, there are lots of homeless, who are that way by choice; we take their mail, and help them out when they need it,” Tomb says.
With a sense of community, Bikini welcomes “all people, from toothless old guys to hipsters.”
A dive definitely wouldn’t be a dive without regulars: Bikini Lounge has Josh, who never misses a day. Described as having a “Santa Clause” look, an old man with a long white beard, he rides in every day around the 4 p.m. opening time on his electric scooter and stays for about three hours. He has been sitting at the same spot throughout the changes in ownerships and staff, and is a bit of a decorative story-telling piece in himself.
Across town, Phillips says “It’s a family here. For a lot of the people that come in, they are away from their family or, you know, this where they hang out, get in everyone’s business, when something bad happens, this is where they come.” Phillips continues to explain that the bar is planning their 9/11 remembrance event. “When big things happen, this is where they come.”
Although dives may seem intimidating by their locals-only feel, they really do create a much-needed place in the community for people to come and enjoy a drink and great company. And sure, there are some negative connotations that go along with the word "dive," but put them aside and try to see them for what they are: good, local folks weaving together a tight-knit community.
Reach the reporter at alsavage@asu.edu
