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Big Dogs on the bar, 'ugly' animals on wall part of the ambiance at the rowdy Owl By
Bryce Petersen Jr.
It's the middle of the night. Melanie Barney's bedroom is full of tables and smoke. She lies down again, desperate for rest. But a customer calls from the hallway. "Hey, I'm trying to sleep," Barney says. "Can I have another Budweiser?" Being a waitress at the White Owl isn't easy. Sometimes, the work follows Barney home; shows up in her dreams. "It's like your body just goes on automatic pilot. G--, gotta get these beers out," she said. Working on a weekday afternoon is different. Barney is tending the bar. There's no need for an extra waitress on Thursday at 3:30 p.m. A few customers start to straggle in to cap a long day on the construction site. But it's pretty quiet. A couple of regulars sit at the bar drinking their daily glass. Barney rummages through the CD collection and decides on Fleetwood Mac's Rumours. Large fans whirr noisily on the ceiling, attempting to purge the smoke-saturated air. The attempt is mildly successful, though there is a distinct possibility that archaeologists could exhume the bar in 500 years, pry open the door and say, "This was a smokehouse. People made jerky or burned old newspapers here for hundreds of years." "You know what sucks about working at night?" Barney says, CD in place. "You sleep all day." But the pay's better. And it's definitely more exciting. The newest employees generally tend bar in the day. A busy night shift, where bartenders and waitresses can make $150 in tips, must be worked up to. "You have to know what you're doing at a place as busy as this or else you get really, really, really, really lost," Barney says. But during the day there's time to sit back and discuss pressing matters -- like the weight of a Big Dog, the 32-ounce mug carried by experienced waitresses in bundles of four. Barney guesses a full one weighs about 8 pounds. It's made out of glass, a half-inch thick on the sides, a full-inch on the bottom. Solid. She's carried a lot of them, full to the brim and sloshing with Miller or Killian's, Captain Bastard or Bud Light. "Naw, it can't be that much," says Bill, who stopped in for a beer on his way home from Western Watts. He guesses 3 pounds. He's only carried his own. Actually, the glass weighs 3 pounds empty; 5 full. "At about midnight, they probably weigh 10," Bill concedes. Brady Hitchcock has worked at the Owl for less than a month. He tends the bar in the day, but at night is relegated to kitchen work. He doesn't mind the day shift but admits it's a little slow. "Some of the guys are interesting and they have good stories," he said. "Even if they tell them a couple of times." Here's one from Bob, a "regular," sitting in his regular stool, near the end of the bar: When Bob was 12 in 1938 the White Owl was half this size. The pool hall was it. None of these dead animals was on the wall neither. The bear, the four-point buck, the buck-toothed buffalo, the pheasant, the Canada goose and the rumpled owl behind the bar all showed up in 1983 after John Calderwood bought the place and opened up the east half. Bob doesn't know what those "ugly" animals are for. Calderwood also tore down the plaster and exposed the worn brick walls in the front half. Bob doesn't know why he'd want an old dirty brick wall like that, but "he can do what he likes." Back in '38 there was a dirt road outside and at that time, there were bars all over this town; Delmar's, the Owl, Country Friends and Capitol Billiardsúall on Center Street. "If the city officials had their way, they'd close this one and all the rest of them," Bob says. B But anyway, back in 1938, Bob's brother left him in Logan for a few hours, while he worked construction. While he waited, Bob stopped in at the Owl to shoot some pool. Evidentally, the bartender was impressed. "The bartender came down and said, "G--, that kid'll be pretty good when he gets old enough to come in here,'" he says. But this is not 1938. There are no 12-year-olds to be seen. Ryan Christensen, a night bartender, said a few underage kids are kicked out every week. Usually a bunch will come in together on Thursday night "to watch the band or something." This is not taken lightly. Selling alcohol to minors is a Class A Misdemeanor. The owner and anyone who serves alcohol to an underage drinker is slapped with a fine and possible jail time. Repeated violations could cost the White Owl its business licence. "The staff realizes their job is on the line, so they pay close attention," Christensen said. While washing the last glass in the pool hall at 12:30 on a slow Monday night, Christensen admitted that isn't where the money is either. But it's more exciting than the day shift. "Sometimes, I'm not into listening to people's problems, that's what the daytime bartender is for," Christensen said. "I'm the fun-loving bartender. I'll act kind of crazy, make people laugh and maybe they'll tip me." He looked forward to a short, quiet bike ride home, a good night's sleep and a leisurely morning before his day job, as a video network specialist for Multimedia and Distance Learning Services at Utah State University. "I'll probably wake up around 10, sit around, hang out on my patio -- I just poured a new patio in my back yard, it's nice -- then I'll go to work at 3 o'clock. This (bartending) is just kind of a luxury." Christensen works here as a supplement to his job at USU. He's not dissatisfied with the college job, but the pay schedule leaves gaps that bartending can fill. "I enjoy it. I love it a lot but I get a monthly paycheck so I come here a few times a week, sling a few beers and take home some cash," he said. And it's not so bad. He talks to people, watches Monday Night Football and plays foosball, one of his favorite sports. "I basically get to throw a party and I get to be the host," he said. Monday is easy. Bob drinks the last drop of his Budweiser and bids farewell until tomorrow. Someone crashes into the inside door. It might as well say "Push" for the struggles newcomers have with it, says Hollee Petersen, who's been a waitress here for just over a year. "Actually, the drunk people can figure it out," Petersen said. "It's the people who are just getting here who have trouble." Barney says that on busy fall nights, like this one, the outdoor deck will be full, the restaurant will be full, the pool tables will be full and the front will be standing room only. Already, at 4:30 p.m., the conversations are shorter as she changes two empty kegs and moves around to the tables, which are beginning to fill. "This is when it starts to get crazy," Barney says. At 6, she hands the baton to Tommy Reynolds, fresh off an eight-hour shift at ICON Health and Fitness. The band starts at 8 and by 9, there's no room to breathe. The air is thick with smoke, the bar and every table is full, pool tables are staked out. Three waitresses and two bartenders work the front room. By 10, the voices are louder and the trays are heavier; from two Big Dogs and a tray with two pitchers at 8 o'clock to four 32-ounce mugs in one hand and three in the other. Employees jockey with customers for position in front of the bar, shouting out orders. The taps are running like Niagara Falls. Money is stuffed into tip jars. Reynolds takes orders, fills pitchers, makes change and thanks someone for a small tip. The tips get bigger as the night wears on. "The drunker people get the better you get tipped," Reynolds said. "Usually. They definitely lose their inhibitions." Fights are rare, but every bartender has a story about a guy he threw out. And every waitress, a story of a bounce she requested. "They support us completely," Barney said. "If someone's giving us a hard time, we can kick them out just like that." Reynolds said bouncing fellow ICON employees makes his other job a little more interesting. He runs into them in the cafeteria, he said, and sometimes they haven't forgotten. "They call you 'the police,'" he said. "You make a lot of friends and you make a lot of enemies." For Christensen, at a lanky 6 feet 4 inches and 160 pounds, breaking up fights does not come naturally. To make up for a lack of brute strength, he uses a different method. "Just yell at them," he advises. "Don't letæm get a word in edgewise." After one such experience, Christensen remembers trying to wash dishes while still in the thralls of adrenaline. The other bartender chuckled as he watched Christensen's shaking fingers and reminded him of one of the first rules of bouncing: Never throw both fighters out at once. "Sure enough, we went outside and there was a brawl on the street," Christensen said. But it all worked out. Police officers showed up and defused the situation. Christensen said the White Owl has a good relationship with Logan police officers. "When it all boils down to it, the police are still on our side." Only once in his two-and-a-half years at the Owl has Christensen seen an ambulance. "That's 'cause a guy took one of these (a Big Dog mug) and broke it over another guy's head," Christensen said. The ambulance had to come. It was nasty. "They'd been drinking." While this Thursday night had no violence, there was plenty of action at the spot Salt Lake Magazine recently named the "Best College Town Bar" in Utah. "This large, rowdy watering hole is almost a rite-of-passage for students and locals alike," the magazine said. It's rowdy tonight. The band plays blistering country rock while raucous patrons whirl and cheer, jump and clap, sing and dance near the entrance doors. The waitresses are running at capacity. For Petersen, that capacity is twice what it was when she started this job. Then, she could carry two Big Dogs in one hand, two in the other -- maybe. A few days ago, she carried four in one hand. "It was a big step," Petersen said. "I moved up to four . . . but the next night I could barely carry two." Tonight she is back to four, she needs to be. She glides to a table, under the weight of an ocean of pitchers and a handful of mugs. Diamonds of sweat sparkle on her brow as she groans the mugs onto the table, laughs off another line and heads back for more. "Drunk guys," she said. "You know, you just gotta blow 'em off." "My name's Tyler," hollers a passer-by. "Drink 'til the day I die." Last call is 12:15. Theoretically. By 12:45, the bartenders are cleaning up. Reynolds stretches his back for a brief moment, a look of fatigue and relief on his face. "Kills your back," he says. The waitresses are still bustling about, clearing tables, urging customers to leave by 1 a.m. By Logan City Ordinance, no beer can be sold or consumed in the Owl after 1. Police officers do random checks to make sure the bar is in compliance. "We have to have all the beer off the table and a lot of drunk people don't want to do it," Reynolds said. "Go hoooome!" Petersen shouts. Once everyone is gone, the employees take a moment to catch their breath. "You know, because you're running around all night and you have to wind down," Petersen said. Sometimes it takes a few hours. Everything is usually cleaned and put away by two. The workers eventually make their way out to the parking lot, usually in a group to avoid prowlers. Once home, it might take another hour to get to sleep with thoughts racing back to every tray, every order and every comment. Barney said, for a while, Tylenol PM was her way to move the process along. After a busy night, she rarely gets up before noon. "It's just so hard, running around, lifting these mugs and carrying them around," Barney said. As she drifts to sleep, she sometimes hears the clanking of heavy glassware.
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