My jaw nearly hits the floor to see this place now. Can there possibly exist a more indelible message that nothing ever lasts? Most of my friends were never fans of this fabled club on West Henderson, whereas I was an early convert. Yet what seemed immediately after ascending to its all-time apex and winning over even those staunch holdouts, doors began shuttering and cobwebs descended from the rafters.
Arlington Café was always a bit of an anomaly, but made its idiosyncrasies work. Situated at the end of a shopping center counting Kroger as its anchor tenant for eons, in front of a sleepy upper middle class neighborhood, by day this bar was a dark dive which working class drunks were fond of slipping off to for their liquid lunches. Then come nightfall, shortly after the DJ slid into his glass lined booth and began cranking out modern dance mixes, it came alive with a completely different and still younger clientele, albeit one all the daytime regulars felt perfectly comfortable rubbing elbows against, having perhaps never left themselves even after the final happy hour bell finished ringing.
Much of this was attributable to at least four distinct moods to be found within its cavernous interior, and perhaps as many as six. Achieved effortlessly, I might add, a natural extension of its contour, flowing with contrivance. Contrast this against busted downtown experiments like Long Street, a much ballyhooed dance club which hit everyone over the head with all their themed rooms, tallied some staggering crowds in the early going, and soon bit the dust. Meanwhile, Arlington Café thrived, expanded, even, as it annexed the shops in front and added a second, massive dance floor.
Our initial visit to Arlington Cafe occurs, like so many other adventures from this era, at the behest of John H. A girl he used to date is a barmaid here now and he wants to check out this scene. On a night full of firsts, lasts, and loops back around from one to the other, the same evening that Damon and his ex-girlfriend Angie (meaning ex-girlfriend even at that moment; he had a current girlfriend, Shannon, who was not present for these festivities) and I happen to catch the final hockey game at OSU Ice Rink, we agree to meet John and some of my other coworkers out here, at this unfamiliar club on Henderson Road.
We follow his mysterious instructions for finding this place, which does add to the intrigue level, although not strictly necessary. Parking in front of the Henderson Road Kroger, there is indeed a long, dark tunnel carved between that building and the cluster of others fanning off to the right, in proper strip mall fashion, a passageway barely wide enough to fit two directions of foot traffic. Yet upon emerging on the other side, behind Kroger and the bar, you discover there’s a perfectly usable parking lot back here, not to mention another on the side, both of them accessible from nearby Nugent Drive. Still, as far as first impressions go, it’s hard to quibble with his recommendation of this ultra weird but cool Batcave entrance.
How they attract any patrons is actually somewhat of a mystery itself, explainable only by word of mouth. There’s no advertising whatsoever, not a single sign on the street nor in front of those stores, which would indicate any place of business exists back here. And yet much to our surprise, as we duck inside the back door, this place does boast a sizable crowd, despite bordering on a not quite insanely happening, middle aged to verging on senior part of town.
Which isn’t to say, despite the crowd, we are initially blown away by this club. We find ourselves in this slightly more subdued, rear lounge type room, and it’s a total yuppie haven – at least tonight. The lights seem way too bright for a drinking establishment, the wall to wall carpeting a bit more plush than is customary. As expected, the clientele is skewing a little older, older even than Banana Joe’s had last week. Everyone stands around in their Dockers and Tommy Hilfiger attire, and it’s all very tasteful and vomit inducing.
To say we feel a little out of place is an understatement. Angie looks good, of course, but Damon’s wearing a tie dyed Pink Floyd tee shirt, not to mention the mountain man look he’s still rocking, with the shaggy beard and the hair halfway down his back. In keeping with this “nice guy routine” I’ve adopted since the fall, which was also in large part inspired by John’s example, it’s true that I have thrown on some better clothes before heading out here – but wouldn’t say I am entirely comfortable with this scene, either.
But this is just one room, we remind ourselves. A room which features a vaulted glass ceiling – various people through the years will tell me this was retractable, even, though I never witness such and doubt that tidbit’s veracity – lording over a small dance floor, a horseshoe shaped bar, and seating on a couple of different levels, while the eastern, more spacious room beyond features all of the same, pretty much (minus the vaulted ceilings) but with a larger dance floor where the DJ plies his wares from a walled in nerve center, alongside scores of pool tables and a juke for non-disc jockey curated nights. And in later years, after the businesses in front were annexed, still larger dancing regions existed for would be booty shakers, in front of those pool tables. Giant TVs mounted everywhere, of course, and the lighting I recall as being colorful, neither too bright nor too dark regardless of the hour or day. But mostly what I remember are the forever changing vibes, dependent upon whatever moment you chose to show up.
The three of us venture over to the other half. Damon and Angie grab a beer at this side’s bar, while I, though playing the designated driver card, am in fact almost out of discretionary income for the night and have to seriously conserve my bullets. Once those two have drinks, we begin our meandering search for my past and current coworkers, a small cluster of whom should be here by now.
Kristin is the first such person encountered, sitting in a booth with her fiance. Though she stopped working at our restaurant almost a year ago, and I’d never fraternized socially with her before she quit, this is the second occasion we’ve bumped into each other since – once, a passing, shouted conversation at the insanely packed Cornerstone bar on campus, and now this. While I hadn’t noticed much about her appearance during the previous encounter, tonight she represents Exhibit Z in how if girls mange to at least look average in your dreadful waiter’s attire, then you know for a fact they’re going to represent as borderline hot at minimum in street clothes. Which I nonetheless always forget anyway.
As we settle into this spacious booth, sitting high enough off the ground that your feet more comfortably dangle mid-air rather than reaching for the ground, I hear someone calling my name, and it’s her. Upon joining them, I have a chance to appraise her up close and in better lighting. She rates highly on the score card despite both of those potential obstacles, in tight jeans, a black top and a little bit of makeup, not to mention the classic hair style which you don’t see much of now, though it’s been in fashion through the ages and surely will be again: the long, straight brown locks, parted down the middle without fanfare. As for her man, he seems affable enough, but is the sort of blandly, vaguely handsome and inoffensive sort whose features tend to melt into oblivion even as you’re sitting across from the guy.
Somehow arriving after us, John H soon enters via the side entrance himself, wearing the black leather jacket which, as possibly expected, always makes him look more GQ than ruffian. Moments later we are joined by Amy K and yet another former coworker, Andrea. When you either actively or randomly hang out with the same people two or three nights a week, it’s easy to take for granted how low key and complication free said individuals always are. And falling between the cracks of this discussion in particular are the affable, party compliant females upon whom we’ve never imposed any designs. They represent a sub-category of those we take for granted, and Amy falls into this especially deep abyss, even though she’s technically classified as our superior on the job. Meanwhile there’s Andrea, she of curly, short dark hair and at present some almost secretarial glasses, sloshed already as she seemingly always is. Yet another casualty in the war of attrition any place of employment represents, the service industry in particular and, like Kristin, encountered more since she left than when actually working alongside us. The last occasion, at one of Swabby’s pandemonium drenched performances, John told me he’d heard she “fucks like a rabbit” but admitted he never made any efforts himself.
It says a lot about the aircraft carrier sized booths here that eight of us could squeeze into one without too much difficulty, though Damon and Angie want a little privacy, and will commandeer the next one over as soon as it becomes available. As we are sitting with bottle cap tossing distance of the pool tables, Amy and Andrea challenge John and me to a game or two. Meanwhile H is filling me in on his history with this barmaid, also named Amy, someone he knew back home in Cleveland. Both moved down here to complete degrees at OSU. Both have subsequently dropped out well shy of these degrees.
The roving waitress attending to these masses at the sea of pool tables is this highly flirtatious redhead whom, John and I both agree, sure seems like she’d be exceedingly easy to nail. On occasion you can kind of tell the difference between someone hustling guys for tips and someone who actually follows through on this slutty aura. This appears to be one such instance, a thought further confirmed when John’s ex tells us that this chick is crawling with diseases.
Damon and Angie have disappeared for the time being, locked into this apparent quest to get hammered and reignite their intimate history, in whichever order that has to happen. They will eventually reemerge, much more crocked than I last saw them. Damon mentions wanting to acquire a twelve-pack at Kroger before it’s too late, for whatever afterhours shenanigans transpire, a cause that even I deem worthy enough of a few dollars’ donation.
For a welcome change, I have my game on at the pool tables, and we destroy these ladies. Yet in keeping with her alleged character, Andrea meets not one but two dudes at a nearby table, inviting both of them back to Amy K’s house for some post-closing-time fun. By this point Kristin and her thoroughly respectable man have long since left, for only the fanatical remain, these societal dregs for whom remaining out at 2am on a weeknight in an older skewing neighborhood sounds fantastic. Andrea asks John and me if we care to join them over at Amy’s place, but we beg off of this assignment and politely decline.
The comedy continues as the house lights come up, as bar tabs are presented. Smashed beyond repair, Damon and Angie sit cackling at the next booth over, when Amy K and Andrea realize they don’t have enough money on them to cover the bill they’ve been handed. Between the six of us we can’t even finance it, for John confesses to the same sorry state as me, that he hasn’t so much as a nickel on his person now. These strangers Andrea has corralled into our midst shrug with blank faces, too, believing correctly that this is not their problem.
The girls head back to Amy’s place in Dublin with these two guys. Without managing anything concrete in connection with this ex tonight, aside from possibly building bridges to the future, John goes home alone. Meanwhile as I’m chauffeuring this pair of inebriates in my backseat, I note that it feels like a perfectly good omen that they purchased a twelve of Lowenbrau, this exceedingly obscure beverage they’ve picked up with no knowledge of this drunken epic with Alan two months ago, during which he and I made the exact same choice.
II.
In late 2019 I make a point of driving past, just to see what kind of condition this place is in now. It’s hard to fathom that such a prime piece of real estate has sat empty for so long, yet this is apparently the case. Of course, at this point, if a new owner wanted to bring such a venture back to its former glory, you would probably need to annex one of the businesses that actually face Henderson, so people could see this operation was back on the map.
As it stands now, I was worried at first that even the “bat cave” entrance had been wiped out, because you can’t quite tell if approaching from the parking lot’s west side. This is still intact, however, and I used it for this literal stroll back to memory lane. At the top of this post, you can see what the rear entrance looks like now, and here are also a couple photos I managed to grab of the interior:
Finally, here’s some video footage of your journey from the front parking lot to the back entrance of the club:
