He Ain't Here
The banged up warning sign on the door isn't a joke. The name of the joint isn't either, or not much of one.
He Ain't Here was originally The Dupull Inn, but it descended below that futile grab for hayseed gentility within its first year of operation.
Founded in 1948, the bar quickly became known as "He Ain't Here," because that's what the original owner and bar tender would shout into the phone, in lieu of a more standard greeting. Shout, because the jukebox was cranked high, and the patrons were generally cranked even higher.
He Ain't Here was originally The Dupull Inn, but it descended below that futile grab for hayseed gentility within its first year of operation.
Founded in 1948, the bar quickly became known as "He Ain't Here," because that's what the original owner and bar tender would shout into the phone, in lieu of a more standard greeting. Shout, because the jukebox was cranked high, and the patrons were generally cranked even higher.
The decor has changed over the years, there's fewer peanut shells and chewing tobacco misfires on the floor, but other traditions continue. Like hearing "He ain't here!" shouted by a dozen inebriated voices, every time the bar's phone rings. There's not a fight nightly, but one semi-monthly can pretty much be counted on, especially just before the full moon. And you can't blame all that on the shifters.
There's as many large, aggressive-looking motorcycles in the gravel parking lot as there are jacked-up pickups and battered, rusty old Cherokees and Fords. Park a Lexus among them at your own risk.
There's as many large, aggressive-looking motorcycles in the gravel parking lot as there are jacked-up pickups and battered, rusty old Cherokees and Fords. Park a Lexus among them at your own risk.