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Dirty Blonde

I use the side door at the Silver Dollar. That puts me at “semi-regular” status, somewhere between a bachelorette party and a motorcycle club. I step in out of the evening Mandan mist to the familiar hum of the dimly lit, smokey dive that has happily become my second home and gently push my way through the diverse and eclectic crowd to the booth nearest the middle bar (the one with the stuffing exposed from the rip along the back and the busted springs that result in a dip in the seat on the left side.) Mel, my favorite cocktail waitress, with her apple bottom jeans and boots with the fur, meets me with a freshly cracked can of ice cold PBR. “From Doug,” she says as I tip her and nod at the gifter, the bar’s manager of 15 years, a hulking teddy bear of a man who will either give you a hug or the beat down, depending on how you treat your fellow patrons in his presence. Doug nods back as I wedge myself into the table with my usual gang of misfits and say my hellos.

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