The best way to make friends at a dive is just be nice, pay cash, tip well and be you. You don’t necessarily need to be entertaining, impressive, or engaging. Don’t need to to be flashy or even buy anyone a drink. Just roll with the vibes, be honest, and make good conversation. That’s it, really.
Never have I ever regretted a small-talk, dive bar conversation more than the one I had at the Cat’s Meow in St. Louis that could have altered the course of my life greatly. Maybe it did.
I was in St. Louis on business. It was late 2019, and I was going on four weeks unemployed. I was chasing job leads in three states, so tension was high. With the help of a good friend, I’d landed a coffee-interview with a news director at the top TV News station in town about an open position. Went well. Mission accomplished. Time to relax and see some St. Louis. So naturally, we headed toward the Anheuser Busch Brewery. But I’ll be darned if they didn’t have a school kids & seniors 10 a.m. tour. tours don’t start until 11.
Sourcing bars near the brewery that were open that early was an easy task. This was a Budweiser town, through and through, and one that blew up in population during the days of corner taverns and daily barrel deliveries. We found one called The Cat’s Meow that was close by and been open since 7. Great spot to pre-game the brewery tour, right?
Bingo. Only Bud products on tap, and you’re crazy to drink anything else at a bar so close to its source. No frills. Except the dozens of styles of Mardi Gras beads hanging behind the bar for sale. But those arent as much frills as they are obligatory Soulard souvenirs.
One regular was sitting at the end of the bar chatting up the woman behind the bar. The bartender was a 7 a.m. classic. The kind that called ya hon and refilled your mug when it was ¼ full mid-rant about the closing shifters.
The cat theme was subtle and varied in levels of taste. The restroom doors were A+. I remember most of the famous cats being represented in some way or another. Garfield, Felix and the likes. I took some pictures. I’d have probably taken more if not for the series of events that happened next.
The alcoholic at the end of the bar came in from a cigarette. He was a 5’10 clean cut but ostentatiously desheveled. His hair was combed and neat, but he was wearing a pulled from the hamper polo and ratty flip flops. He started chatting us up. It wasn’t the usual, “How ya doin? Where ya from?” or even “Did ya see the Cardinals game last night?”
This guy ranted bombastically about his drinking and partying, making it sound like he was a very important and well connected person. Every other sentence was about a U.S. Senator or Lake Geneva or a private box at the Kentucky Derby. Real braggadocios stuff, bordering on the totally unbelievable.
I’d cautiously entertain his wild stories, nodding and sometimes indirectly prodding when I felt he was stretching the truth a bit. I was familiar, albeit sometimes repulsed by, the people, places and privileges he was talking about. Anybody who brags that big, unprovoked and unabashed, I am more than a little skeptical of. Then he asked about me, why I was in town.
After easing in with a beer, I’m usually as unguarded as a 7-footer beyond the 3-pt line while I’m at dive bars. It’s part of their charm. You can be yourself. Or whoever you want to be. Minimize or aggrandize yourself. Especially a dive you know there’s a good chance you’ll never visit again in your life? What did I have to lose by telling the truth? Plus, this guy seemed politically connected in Missouri and beyond. Maybe he turns into a source in my reporting career?
“I’m here to interview for a TV reporting job at KBBL Channel 6,” I told him.
“Oh no shit. So who did you interview with? Do you know so-and-so?” he asked.
I had no idea who he was talking about, but he claimed he was a producer behind the scenes and a good friend of his. As the loudmouth got up and walked outside and grabbed a cigarette, I googled the name of the person he was talking about at the station. Sure enough, he wasn’t making him up. He was real.
“You know what, let’s give him a call!” he said.
“Oh no, I don’t think so. He’s probably in production meetings…” I hurriedly tried to shoot down the idea any way I could.
You see, my interview was more of a coffee meeting, not a formal interview. If it went well, I’d be on the shortlist for the station to call me whenever one of their reporters moved on. That’s how that business works sometimes. A foot in the door goes a long way. But would that door be quickly shut if this producer got a random call from his alcoholic playboy friend stumping for a kid looking for a position that isn’t even open, while they’re both at a bar at 10:15 in the morning?
“Oh here, I got his number!” he said.
My heart sank to the floor as I heard the dial tone ringing. WHAT THE HELL WAS HE DOING? MY FATE IS IN THIS DRUNK’S HANDS. I’M TOAST.
“Yeah, hey I got someone who wants to speak with ya… Ya, hear he is,” he said, and hands me the phone.
“H-H-Hello?” I don’t know what else I would have said.
“Hey, this is Mike, whatsup? I stepped out of a meeting.” the voice said.
“Uhh hey, this is Jake Berent. I had a meeting with, um, one of your anchors today, so…. I was just sitting here. I didn’t ask him to call y–” I was cut off.
“Cool. Well yeah, just send me an email man. I gotta hop back in to this meeting,” he diffused and deferred.
“Ok. Great!” I said, never before with such dread and defeat.
I handed back the phone and immediately wanted to follow it up with a punch to the face. Who was this fucking jagoff? Who does that? Just plays with people’s professional careers at 10 in the morning while kickstarting their 72-hour bender?
I was mortified I’d lost the job before I even had a chance to get it. By now the brewery was open, but I’d lost my appetite for even that. The whole purpose of the trip was blown up because of some douche.
We decided to still do the brewery to get our minds off what had just happened. That helped. Free beer and the smell of fresh horseshit, almost as fresh as the heaping pile we were just shoveled. I still love gawking through the Anhieser-Busch gift shop and making up histories for each Bud Bowl game. Have since I was a kid. But it felt a little different. This felt like it was 4th & Goal at Bud Bowl VII, and I got tricked by Budweiser’s ‘ol razzle dazzle bottle roll trick play. Humiliating loss. Just demoralizing for the Bud Light squad.
However things sorted out, it appears I was spared of the cosmic interference from a chaotic intruder. A week later I was offered a vacation relief reporter position at the station, a role I ultimately turned down for a better offer.
Jake Berent 