Ripped at the North Pole Bar in 2000

[Editor’s note: For this week’s essay we’ve once again pulled out a relic from the archive of Slim Goodbuzz, who served as Duluth’s “booze connoisseur” from 1999 to 2009. Twenty-five years ago the Sultan of Sot paid a visit to the North Pole Bar in West Duluth, and composed this article for the Aug. 23, 2000 edition of the Ripsaw newspaper. The North Pole Bar went out of business in 2014.]

Reeking of Kentucky bourbon and tuna-fish sandwiches, Walter stepped out of the fog and into my life. “I’ve been drinking since 4:30,” he told me. “My old lady passed out already, but I’m still goin’ strong. I’m heading to the North Pole.”

“So am I,” I said.

I had not heard of the North Pole Bar until I got an email tip from the commander of the West Duluth VFW. “I don’t know if you’ve ever been down on Raleigh Street,” he wrote, “but my main hang out is the North Pole Bar.” When the commander of the West Duluth VFW talks, I listen.

But Walter made me feel a bit more apprehensive. “I was told when I was a kid to never go anywhere near Raleigh Street,” he said as we approached the cube-shaped building with a giant polar bear painted on the side. “My mother always told me I would come home without any teeth if I came down here. Now I hang out here all the time.”

As soon as I stepped in the door, I knew there wouldn’t be any trouble. First of all, everyone there looked neighborly and mature. Second, people were eating hamburgers. Nobody puts down a hamburger to beat the crap out of someone. Believe me, you just don’t see it. Even if the stories of the ol’ Raleigh Street Gang are true, things aren’t going to get rough in this bar until after the flame on the grill goes out.

My new friend Walter and I immediately ordered a pitcher of Grain Belt Premium for $5.50 — not cheap, but reasonable. We took a booth, where I found a mysterious button on the wall. Unable to exercise any kind of self-restraint, I pushed the button, causing a loud buzz behind the bar. This caused the husky middle-aged bartender and extraordinarily thin elderly waitress dressed in pink jeans to look at us like we were pouring our beers down our pants.

“Just checking,” Walter shouted.

A sign above the bar bragged: “We’ve sold over $1 million in lottery tickets.” Apparently these Raleigh Street bastards are so addicted to gambling that the management of the bar feels patrons, upon being informed they have squandered ONE MILLION DOLLARS, will be encouraged to spend even more.

A great deal of commotion was coming from Ray’s Grill, the restaurant connected to the North Pole. The noise was a private party, apparently for a woman named Susan. A computer printout taped to the door read, “Susan — a special lady,” with a graphic of a woman wearing a big hat and looking out across a body of water. “Wow,” I thought, “Susan is special.”

I walked in and found a dopey white guy using a karaoke machine to imitate Cab Calloway. After boldly stepping up to the buffet, I heaped a plate full of cheese and crackers and headed back into the bar.

Joining Walter at the booth, I noticed another piece of lotto info on the wall: “We’ve paid out $664,958 in prizes.” You do the math.

Walter proceeded to devour far more than his share of my plundered cheese and cracker tray, all the while talking emphatically and spraying cracker crumbs all over the table. “You know what you guys need in your paper? A column called ‘Bullshit of the Week.’ Like, I met this waitress whose employer takes 15 percent of her sales out of her paycheck to compensate for tips. But nobody tips that much. So one time, she had to pay the restaurant for the privilege of working there. You could print something like that in every issue and call it ‘Bullshit of the Week.’”

Thanks, Walter.

I bellied up to the bar for another round. A patron congratulated me on ordering another pitcher and insisted that I high-five him.

Eventually, the Special Lady Party petered out, and Walter and the other regulars all went home, leaving me alone in the bar with the bartender and pink-jeaned waitress. Pinky kept looking at me anxiously while grating chairs across floor in an attempt to clean up. I thought about getting another beer, then decided to leave before things got rough.