BOOKIE's / CECIL's DA BAR

While attending Wayne County Community College some thirty years ago, an intro psych class was released early by a teacher who realized we were wasting his time. It was a clear and cold December evening as I picked my way through my fellow classmates and headed across the partially frozen tundra to the parking lot thirty yards in the distance. Being in good shape (this was thirty years ago) and freezing my ass off, I decided to sprint the final distance to my car.

About ten yards into my sprint, my toe met a piece of frozen sod sticking up about two inches higher than the rest. I immediately started to pitch forward, lurching crazily, trying to catch my balance. This went on for twenty yards in distance and an eternity in time. Finally, when I realized that catching my balance was out of the question, I gave up all hope and leapt forward, a long haired (thirty years ago, remember?) Superman flying two feet off the ground.

Superman never had a landing like this. The books I held in my hand kept me from bracing, and I took it hard, bits of sod mingling with my fingers, pant legs pushed up to my knees, breathing labored. I was on the ground for less than a second and was back to running for my car like nothing happened. But something did happen, as evidenced by the snickering and mock concern I heard from my fellow classmates...the classmates I would be seeing for the next month.

The point is, bad stuff happens. Like it did a couple of Friday’s ago for fellow lush Tony and I as we headed to Bookies in Detroit. We are always a bit off our game going into the city, edgy at the thought of being accosted or having our car stolen. Let’s not get into the whole Detroit thing, we get up tight and that’s that. Anyway, after Tony mocked me for wanting to park in the street, we found a spot in the parking lot behind Bookie’s directly under the glare of the one working street light in the area. “Lots of light for the guys wanting to boost your truck,” I offered.

Once in the bar, Tony and I looked around at the twenty or so people on the main floor, and tried to figure where the people who belonged to the cars in the lot and the street were drinking. Over our first beers, we watched some beautiful patrons walk through the main floor, engage a Bookies rep, get on an elevator and disappear. We both knew that there was more to this joint than the lame first floor, there had to be additional floors of privileged fun.

After a bit of liquid courage, we got up and slowly made our way to the elevator. No Bookies rep. We pushed the up button and waited, wondering when someone would rush over and tell us we were not cool enough, or not invited enough, to head upstairs. Finally,the elevator door slid open and we entered a small cube filled with doctor’s office light. I morphed into a clear skeleton model, the veins in my body visible to anyone unlucky enough to look my way.

“The third floor button doesn’t work,” Tony noted, a bit of edge to his voice. “Hit the second,” I answered, desperate to get out of this shaft of light. The elevator jerked forward, and in seconds the doors slid open on the second floor. The harshness of the elevator announced our presence to the hipsters on the more intimate second floor, all of whom turned to look at the two old douche bags wearing thirty dollar jeans invading their world. I took in the crowd taking me in for a mere second and wheeled back into the elevator, wanting badly to escape attention. I’m not sure if Tony’s feet ever touched second floor carpet, but his frantic pushing of the first floor button told me he didn’t want to be there either.

Just as quickly as we headed up, we headed down, out the door, into our truck, on the expressway and back to downriver. After a brief argument over what happened, Anthony and I understood the situation for what it was, a moment so mortifying that mentioning it to our wives was out of the question.

After selecting the next, more comfortable watering hole, we began to speculate about the hip crowd’s reaction to our entrance/exit. We decided that they took turns putting napkins on their head to imitate our male pattern baldness, putting maraschino cherries on their nose to look like me, and walking out of the elevator on their knees to parody Tony.

This revelry made the trip to Taylor, and Cecil’s bar at the corner of Goddard and Pardee easy. Not easy is finding a parking spot in the small “L” shaped parking lot surrounding the gray brick bar. There is a large strip mall parking lot across the street for the overflow, but be careful crossing the bustling intersection.

There was no cover to enter (good), the atmosphere is dark (better) and the crowd was typically downriver comfortable (great). Once inside, Tony and I made our way to the bustling bar which dominates one entire wall and found it difficult to get a drink. Not only was it busy, but the broads behind the counter were more interested in trading insults and swiveling hips than taking orders. At one point, Tony leaned forward, elbows on the bar, head in hands looking like a forlorn kid who got stiffed by the ice cream man. This obvious dejection seemed to work, as our two beer order was finally filled for a reasonable $4.25.

Most of the karaoke I have heard is long bursts of caterwauling interrupted by surprisingly decent singing. Not at Cecil’s, where caterwauling is the order of the day. Maybe if some chick sang, a moment of sanity would have prevailed. Instead, we had to endure guys performing rap-rock (Korn and Limp Bizkit), pure rap (Snoop and Eminem) and metal (Rammstein and Ozzy). Everyone should experience a drunken kid screaming “Du...Du hasst...Du hasst mich” which translated means “You...You hate...You hate me.”

For some reason, possibly the alcohol or the night’s previous humiliation, Cecil’s was a lot of fun. Did I mention the dance floor in front of the performers? It was consistently bustling to both the karaoke and the intermittent DJ offerings. It did not have a hook-up feel, more friends acting crazy and dancing in groups.

The pool tables at the front of the bar and seating around the tables were also a beehive of activity. Though most of the playing appeared to be good natured, I saw a few bucks being passed around. Of course, there are multiple televisions and Keno for additional amusement.

Cecil’s is a good time. The drinks, while sometimes tough to get, are crazy cheap. There is plenty to keep you busy and a comfy crowd to get busy with. It surely beat the tension and perceived mocking of “The Bookie’s Situation”.

Cheers!
-Jim

Bookie's:  2208 Cass Ave. Detroit, MI 48201


Cecil's Da Bar:  22615 Goddard Rd. Taylor, MI 48180