Afternoon at Maroni's

Occasionally, life just happens. Regardless of how much in control we think we are, sometimes we just have to go with the flow and experience the wonderful things that appear before us.

Four days ago, I arrived on the campus of Mary Baldwin to take a film class. Two hours later, after surrendering my library card for $4000 in equipment and with the blessing of my professor, I became an independent film maker.

Today, armed with a microphone for the first time, I set out to fulfill my last assignment: interviewing people in the community about a "current topic of interest." The exercise was more about teaching me the intricacies of sound recording than video. I schlepped my 10 pound camera bag through the streets of Staunton, VA with the intention of ending up at a gas station to discuss the gas prices, how much we all love our president, alternative energy sources, etc. etc. Little did I know that this was one of those times that the universe had other plans for me.

As I reached the street corner near the station, a portly, white-haired gentleman approached me and directed me to the BP around the corner. He further asked what I planned to do there and, when I explained my intentions to him, informed me that he couldn't think of anything more boring. "Wouldn't you rather spend the afternoon with me?" My immediate initial answer was a vehement "NO!" Curiosity, however, rose above my gut and so I agreed. "Well then, come have a beer in the oldest restaurant in Staunton!"

As he half pulled, half escorted me into the tiny, run down eatery with no exterior to speak of, I surrendered my fate. I was immediately introduced to all the patrons (subsequent introductions occurred each time a new person entered), handed a Pabst Blue Ribbon, and six hours later, had all the footage I could handle and more.

Maroni's, which has been owned by the same family since the early 1900s, is unofficially a gentleman's club. Women are welcome (though few venture), and are occasionally allowed to have opinions, but never to buy beer. If you can be classified as remotely attractive, crass comments will fly in your direction. Race and sexual preference matter not, as all are accepted if you abide by the unwritten rules of Maroni's. Non-conformance will result in being listed on the shit-list (a white board above the bar) or permanent ejection by the owner, a slight, white haired beauty in her 80s.

Maroni's customers are loyal and trustworthy, a fact proven by the tabs they meticulously keep to record the purchases that they serve themselves. They help cook and clean and, later, even provided entertainment on acoustic guitar, passed around from guest to guest. Occupations and social classes are well represented with retirees, students, construction workers, chiropractors, city council members and even the mayor in regular attendance. They all come to solve the world's problems, or forget them, for a few hours in beer and burgers.

As the sun began to set and after consuming countless PBRs, I emerged, newly inducted to the shit-list. A great honor, though I will never share my transgression. I entered this place a tired college student with some camera equipment. I left inspired, rejuvenated, and slightly drunk by the sense of community that pulses in Maroni's.