The speakeasy in one's mind has a rectangular peephole in the door, a peephole that slides open to reveal a pair of eyes, then closes again, leaving those awaiting admittance in a state of anticipatory uncertainty. Feet are shuffled, glances exchanged, words whispered. Then, if all is according to script, the door at last opens, and there stands the handsome
proprietor, wearing a tuxedo.
On a certain dark backstreet in a certain Seattle neighborhood after midnight on a Friday, the scene at the city's newest speakeasy unfolds in exactly this impossibly cinematic manner. A semaphore, visible from a certain vantage point, tells whether the speakeasy is open or closed or whether, if you go away for a while, you might possibly get in upon your return. The signage, such as it is, is so discreet as to be difficult to detect when you're directly in front of it.
Before you're allowed in, the handsome man in the tuxedo explains the house rules in hushed tones. Number one: Any firearms must be checked. They will be locked in the safe. The majority of the remainder of the rules pertain to the gambling taking place on the premises: how chips are to be handled, how disputes shall be settled, how you will comport yourself in the event of the appearance of the law. You are not to congregate outside under any circumstances.
An understanding established, you're ushered into a curtained vestibule, spend a moment in a Lynchian liminal state, then emerge on the other side. The surreality of the sceneâthe bar, the gaming tables, the jazzâis supplemented by a literal haze: People are smoking as if there's no tomorrow. Chemist's jars with silver lids offer complimentary cigarettes should you have failed to bring your own. A gracious bartender mixes drinks; the host circulates. The blackjack dealer, bare-chested under his jacket and with a hat atop his nest of hair, makes punk rock and Chippendale's seem an inevitable, perfect combination. His look bespeaks the unspoken dress code: louche, postapocalyptic formalwear. One patron, relaxing on a couch and conversing with a lovely lady in a patterned jacket of red silk, wears dark glasses all night, as if he does not wish to be recognized.
The décor is minimal: four clocks in a row, all reading the wrong time within half an hour of each other; a mirror with a gilded frame depicting eclipsed suns all around it; an animal skull. At the poker table (Texas hold 'em, low stakes), players sit on red-cushioned folding chairs. A dapper gentleman with an impressive mustache gives an impromptu tutorial on the game for a few novices, prefaced by a disclaimer that he's no expert. Right. The song "Minnie the Moocher" plays. At the blackjack table, a man in a pinstriped suit and a pearl necklace gets blackjack five times in a row.
The partyâdefiant, noir, fantasticâis still in full swing at 3:00 a.m.
