The Dive Bomber: Diving Through the Looking Glass at Doc Haus
Theraflu, not bourbon. I'm not a total drunk. Although a few shots of Old Crow at Doc Haus might have been a wise decision. It works faster than the over-the-counter stuff intended for colds and flu, and it would have livened things up.
I had high hopes for the Doc Haus, based on its exterior. It's a wee clapboard house with café curtains. It looks more like Grandma's house than a bar. My friend Julie noticed the golf memorabilia in the bar, and the sign announcing that golf fees were due.
Ladies and gentlemen, we have located the MoFo Road Country Club.
Things might have been a bit more interesting in the back of the bar. A group of senior citizens filled a large table and seemed to be having a raucous good time. Well, as raucous as old men in polo shirts dare to be. I walked past them to investigate a back room, hoping to find a pool table or shuffleboard; all they had were darts, video games, and a mop bucket. On my way back to the bar, I overheard one of the old men announce in mid-story, "He was a seaman, and I'm not talking about a sailor!"
Or maybe I just imagined that in my haze of one beer and a handful of Sudafed. I can't possibly imagine the context of that sentence, especially among the golf crowd. Two days after the fact, I've nearly convinced myself that I hallucinated it.
Doc Haus isn't bad at all. The regulars seemed comfortable and happy. Julie and I weren't treated badly. It was just rather tame by my standards. Granted, anything seems tame when you've got happy purple snorklemonkies dancing through your antihistimine- and painkiller-adled mind.
It didn't occur to me to ask if there was a doctor in the haus. Perhaps I missed the answer to the health-care war. Get sick. Go to Doc Haus. Get health care after tee time.