Beaver trap.

• Position: UPFRONT

I once met a girl for a drink at a bar called the Thirsty Beaver. It was her choice; I'd only lived in Charlotte's Plaza Midwood neighborhood a few days and had yet to notice the building with the anthropomorphic beaver painted on the side. This wasn't a date. We were both new to town, both native Texans, both worked at the same place. Being friends seemed practical, but we didn't hit it off. She wore a Western shirt and drank a tall Pabst Blue Ribbon. I had on a cardigan and ordered Newcastle. During the many lapses in conversation, I texted a different girl. But we both fell head-over-heels for the bar.

[ILLUSTRATION OMITTED]

The Thirsty Beaver Saloon--or the Beav, if you're a regular--isn't fancy. It's two dark rooms separated by the women's bathroom, tastefully adorned in '50s pinups. (So I hear.) The front room features the bar, a jukebox that plays real country music and fancy wall art, such as a portrait of bare-chested Hank Williams Jr. There are two TVs; one is almost always tuned to sports, and the other shows Hee Haw on a loop. The backroom has two pool tables, a dartboard and the men's room, where fat Elvis hangs over the toilet.

This girl and I didn't make nice that first night, but call it fate--call it a lack of options--we kept hanging out, and the Beav became our touchstone. It's where we took her mom, who loved it, though she calls it the Lusty Beaver. It's where we took my mom, who didn't love it, though who can blame her after that homeless gentleman sidled up to her to espouse the downside of desegregation. It's where my best friend, in town for a visit, predicted romance after watching the girl and I two-step behind the bar. He was wrong, I swore. So did she. Of course, he was right.

The Beav isn't perfect. Sometimes the pretzels are stale, sometimes the band is too loud, sometimes you accidentally lean on a well-built...