Marge's

In November the small swing bridge over the outlet at the north end of Irondequoit bay, which is closed in favor of boat traffic all summer, is swung back to accommodate cars all winter. On any given winter night when I’m out and headed for home I generally pass up the big bridge over the bay and keep heading north in favor of the small bridge over the outlet. That brings me to the stop sign at the north end of the Sea Breeze Expressway, where one comes nearly face-to-face with Marge’s Lakeside Inn. Nine times out of ten I’ll turn right and head across the bridge into Webster. But on that tenth night, I pull over, park and head into Marge’s for a beer.

The owner Fran sits at the door, scrutinzing all flow of bodily traffic in and out of the place. Fran is a sizeable woman, wears a fake flower in her hair (think Lola at the Copacabana) and wields a big magnifying glass in her hand. All the better to read your ID with, my dear. If you don’t have gray hair, you get proofed. I walked in unchecked.

This is a tiny, tiny bar, so no matter where you park yourself, you are never very far from any other patron. Being on the beach, such as it is on Lake Ontario, I guess that dictates that the theme be tropical. The barroom is dressed up in a beach hut motif, with grass and palm fronds and bamboo in abundance. A 2-in diameter hemp rope lines the front edge of the bar; the rope and the bar surface are coated with a 1/4-inch thick layer of acrylic. A fishnet covers the ceiling behind the bar and contains all manner of knick-knacks. And if this isn’t enough to set the mood, Marge’s has gone the extra mile with lighting. Like the special orange lights that backlight the specially-arranged bottles filled with the specialty liquors. And a miniature mirror ball shoots tiny shards of light across the bamboo-covered ceiling. But my favorite effects are the few small and strategically-placed black lights. The black light is alive and well at Marge’s. If you’re wearing anything light colored, you glow a bit. Not blinding white iridescence like a 70’s disco, just a warm glow. A white-toothed smile, if you're lucky enough to have one, goes a little farther in Marge’s.

This place is a study in oddities and contrasts. I sat watching a group of hot young girls come in, 20-somethings, with fresh hairdos and stylish clothing. As they ordered drinks, the Kingston Trio ca. 1959 played on the jukebox. The floors have a steep slant, probably the result of being built on the loose sandy soil. You can have trouble walking even before you finish your first drink. I walked uphill into the bathroom where I was greeted with more black light and a healthy dose of glowing white paper labels on the wall with catchy sayings like “Goodbye Tension, Hello Pension,” and the inexplicable “Guns Don’t Kill People, Drivers with Cell Phones Do.”

There is a jukebox, old style, with one-hundred A-sides and one-hundred B-sides. The song population is primarily the work of Fran's daughter Francine. Heavy on the country with lots of old rock and roll and odd pop songs mixed in. She hand-wrote all of the labels, many of which list the B-side song as “yuck.” Francine calls it like she sees it. She was at the bar this night, engaged in heavily besotted conversation with someone for most of my time there. Eventually two young girls came in, chatted with mama Fran briefly, then proceeded to slowly guide Francine out the floor to take her home. Her happy hour was finally over. I have a Marge’s t-shirt that came into my possession one night a few years back after talking music at the box with Francine. She excitedly opened the storage room where I had many colors and sizes to choose from, and now I have a memento of an earlier night spent in the glow.

Looking at an old jukebox is a flashback for me. I worked in a bar and grill back when I was a 20-something, and I did a little bit of everything at the place, including keeping the jukebox stocked with songs. Every couple of months my sister, who was a waitress there, and I would head over to a place called Rochester One-Stop for some new 45s. One of my other jobs was morning cleanup. At 8 AM I’d unlock the jukebox, flip open the front panel and key in my favorite tunes as a soundtrack to my sweeping, mopping and scrubbing. Then after an hour or so a small group of old, alcoholic village regulars would shuffle in for their morning constitutional of a shot and a beer. Or maybe two. It was a ritual, all set to a scratchy vinyl rock and country soundtrack.

Marge’s big stereophonic masterpiece called for 25-cents a song, five songs for a buck. I dumped in four quarters but the machine decided I was only worthy of three songs. I carefully picked them out but never heard a single one. While I was pushing buttons, Toby Keith’s “I Love This Bar” came on. As I turned and headed back to the counter, the drunk woman next to my stool was smiling at me and bobbing up and down to the song, nodding her head, as if to say “yeah baby, great choice, I love this bar too.” I didn’t have the heart to tell her I hate Toby Keith. And besides, the truth is, I do love this bar.