From My Corner Of Hangman's Hollow: Memories Of The Dark Horse And Other Haunts

The Dark Horse Saloon that I know is probably not the one you know. I cannot tell you about frenzied Saturday nights, or the roaring crowds during a Buffs game.

My Dark Horse is one found on weekday afternoons. No, please, don’t run away just yet. In my Dark Horse, it’s quiet enough to hear the lyrics of the Blondie or Skynrd song on the PA. My companions are a Jiffy Burger, an unholy monster of protein and fats, and whatever Harlan Ellison book I happen to have with me that day. I don’t drink; my potion is a liter of Coke in a semi-opaque red cup. I have no illusions that it isn’t taking just as many years off my lifespan.

The Dark Horse is the bar you find on dead planets at the far edge of star systems. Its cousins are Mos Eisley on Tatooine, and Hangman’s Hollow, last stop of the Galaxy Express. The dark-stained wood beams are covered with the posters, street signs, and placards of generations past. There is a stone fireplace in the back. If one were to look up, their eyeline to the ceiling would be blocked by dozens of carriages, sleighs, carts, and wagons suspended by wires. It’s as if some mad race across the cosmos had ended with a crash through the roof.

My Dark Horse is a place to be alone amongst people. Now pay attention: there is a difference between being lonely and being alone. Sitting alone in the Dark Horse, scribbling on my legal pad, hearing order names called out through the fuzzy PA, I can feel my spiritual batteries recharging.

There is a weight in the walls of the Dark Horse. The names etched into the wood beams, the bizarre spinning gears of the north bar, the random remnants of report cards, rallies, and rock concerts, it all says “The world did not begin with you. There were people here before.” There were people in this shadowy saloon who told tales and cheered touchdowns and fell in love long before me. A piece of them lives on in the walls, in the scarred and worn hardwood floor, in a glint off the chrome finish of the payphone.

I sit in the Dark Horse, perhaps not so alone after all.

But not for long. The land has been bought up, and the saloon will be razed for apartments. One day this will all be gone. Like Jones Drug on The Hill, where I bought my first movie camera and learned enough about cinematography for it to count as its own class. Now…a Starbucks and a tanning salon. Like the second floor of Illegal Pete’s where I leaned back in my booth, listening to Paradise City blaring, and felt like life couldn’t get any better than this. Now…nothing. Like the Landmark Theater, where I had some of my happiest memories with a good friend who died ten years ago. Now…a Barnes & Noble.

Like the Tattered Cover across from Union Station, where I —

“You know, the Tattered Cover…”

I stop at this interruption from my shrink and look up.

“I remember the Tattered Cover,” they say, “back when it was on Cherry Creek. I had a very nice anniversay dinner with my spouse across the street from there, and afterward we crossed over and browsed the books. That was a good memory. Gosh, that location closed years ago.”

I sit back on the couch, thinking about their memory of a place I never knew. And my memories of a place others will never know.

You see, the shrink wants you to think through these things yourself. That’s what they call a “breakthrough moment.”

Perhaps I could count my blessings. Right now, there is a student at CU who never knew Jones Drug, or found a plastic knife blade in their bagel at Buchanan’s, or caught a flick at the Landmark. Ten years from now, that student will come back to The Hill, and find their old haunts gone. They never knew my Hill, and I never knew theirs. They will stand on the corner of College & 13th in 2034, and think to themselves, “It’s just not the same anymore,” because it never was.

Neil Peart passed away four years ago (I can tell you we’ll never see his likes around here again). Come to think of it, he was in that movie I saw at the Landmark with my late friend, and played the “Drum Solo of Life.” For the song “New World Man,” Peart wrote: