The Hood Was My Favorite Place in the World.
The Naborhood Inn was the bar at Mount Union. “The Hood,” as it was known by students, was the major college hangout. I remember it as a dark, dark place where absolutely everything happened.
The Hood was about the size of a three-car garage made entirely of cinder block. I don’t remember windows, but I imagine there were glass-block holes in the wall and neon Budweiser lights hanging nearby. There was a cigarette machine against one wall and a jukebox against another, with six small tables for Hood Burger consumption.
My friends and I would hike the half-mile to the bar and wander past the sign with removable plastic letters in the front announcing “HAPPY HR 3-5” or “50 CENT SHOTS TUES.” On our way out, sometimes we’d take removable plastic letters with us. This had to infuriate them, but we expected them to expect this thievery. Building our names with plastic Hood letters became the ultimate dorm decoration.
Going up the three cement steps into the bar was easy; going down and out was always dicey.
Inside The Hood was pitch black. When students swarmed the place, it was so crowded that I couldn’t move or see over the shoulders around me. And if the place was empty, I still couldn’t see with the dim lighting and the thickness of cigarette smoke. When the door opened, a blast of cold air would smack everyone inside, so every head turned but no one smiled.
The Hood was my favorite place in the world.
In the center of the room was a dark-wood bar with a smattering of torn, spinning black barstools around it. Behind the bar were the real treasures: bartenders Jeff and Karen, and owner Sam.
Jeff was kind and quiet, always happy to see students, a mustache covering his minimalistic smile. Karen was the exact opposite. Petite with hair that matched her coal black surroundings, Karen was like a stray cat that had wandered inside: only there because she had to be, and no kindness toward college kids. But she was there every day, so we feigned happiness if we got our drink without her hissing at us.
Sam was the stalwart. Monstrous in size with a buzz cut he probably got in the Army years before, Sam was a terrifying teddy bear. When the students descended, Sam stood with his arms crossed in a corner scowling like a New York club bouncer. He didn’t talk much but when he did, it emitted as a growl: a low, beefy warning that startled even the drunkest football player and kept us from snatching the glowing beer signs from the walls.
One night I walked over to Sam and kissed him. It may have been on a dare, or I may have just drunkenly decided I loved him. Sam and I kissed forever, right there in his corner. It’s possible that he was the best kisser in the world, so I just didn’t stop. It wasn’t until after Sam died that I learned he had a wife and kids. I like to believe that they weren’t in his life the night we kissed. It’s been 40+ years after all.
Of course, the kiss changed nothing. The Hood continued to be both a respite and a wild party for my college socializing. It’s the place I remember the best, and the place that now, I’d be most scared to visit.
In my mind, in spite of what it actually is, The Hood will forever be the greatest bar in the world.