Da Dollar
View From the Edge
By Brian Sanders
Get this straight: ‘Da Dollar’ is a Folly Beach institution. But you can’t get in if you aren’t a member of this institution. The price of membership is a mere dollar. Are you a member? No? Wanna borrow a dollar?
The Sand Dollar Social Club (‘Da Dollar’) is located at 7 Center Street, cornering with West Ashley Avenue. Da Dollar has been on our island of Folly for many, many moons. You can pay your dollar, apply for your membership and pick it up the next day.
But, if it is a late night and you really want to get inside and don’t have a membership…an existing member may sign you in. Do you know a member of this institution? Chances are that if you don’t, but you are cool, you will perhaps meet that someone on Folly. But…ya gotta be cool. Get a membership and save yourself the effort. Awww hell, just make the effort to be cool anyway, or RJ and Skipper will bounce you out on your head and revoke your membership. Hint: ‘cool’ equates to simply being nice and respectful. It’s not how you look, but how you behave.
I go there a lot. It’s my favorite bar! ‘Da Dollar’ offers pool, ping pong, darts, good music and an eclectic mix of good company. You meet the damnedest folks there, from almost every walk of life and with the damnedest life stories. There’s ‘Nick,’ a gnarly old pool player who insists on having his beer in a frozen mug. He is a welder who can hardly see but he sure can push a mean pool cue. If Frankenstein wore a fedora it would be ‘Nick.’
Did I mention that a can of Bud is only $1.00? A mere handful of change, and I’ve seen a few down-and-outs buying a Bud with quarters, nickels and dimes. This perhaps irritates the bartenders a little when things are really busy, but they usually err on the side of compassion. Folly has its share of ‘down-and-outs’; we always have and probably always will. That’s okay with me, because I’ve walked at least mile in those moccasins. We are all ‘down-and-out’ at some point. Oh, and as a sidebar: Da Dollar only accepts cash, even if it is coinage. So, leave your plastic at home; bring dollars to Da Dollar. Assorted change works, too. No pennies, please.
Perhaps I go to Da Dollar because I am a good ping pong and pool player or, I go there because it is my ‘Cheers,’ where everyone almost knows my name. My slice of American Pie a la mode, and Folly is, of course, the a la mode. Gotta get your Folly on, baby!
This Folly institution was founded sometime in the mid 1970s (’74? ’75?), a biker bar as some would call it, but far more than that, a local’s bar. Bikers were and are still welcome, be they locals or not. The bikers do tend to stand out, but they are typically cool, albeit in a rough-neck sorta way. They are, however, independent, free-thinking rebels – modern day cowboys, if you will, riding iron horses.
‘Back in the day,’ and as a mere adolescent, my visits to Da Dollar were few and far between, but they each left indelible impressions. My experiences with Da Dollar as a wee lad and ‘back in the day’ began on two occasions in the summer of 1977. I was ten and went into Da Dollar for the first time with my grandpa.
He sat me on a barstool next to his and let me have a sip of his Miller High Life. I also had a puff of his cigar, when he wasn’t looking of course. There was so much going on around us that I felt as if I were on a ferris wheel gone wild. Grandpa seemed to be caught-up in the same wheel ‘O wild. That’s why I was able to get away with another sip of his beer, another quick puff of his cigar and the excuse of going to the head. He was distracted and I was in adventure-mode — gonna go explore this carnival!
That night I ran around Da Dollar like a banshee, annoying the pool players, randomly punching buttons on the jukebox and just being a ten-year-old. That is, until grandpa was ready to go. He corralled me and we walked outside to the curb. His car was parked right out front, just past the line of motorcycles. He let me sit in his lap and steer the big, green Thunderbird back to 506 East Ashley Avenue.
The second time I went to Da Dollar, it was to retrieve my grandpa. A few weeks had passed since my initial visit, but I knew the location. Though I hadn’t been back inside, I had been by Da Dollar a few times as I scooted around Center Street and the nearby pavilion. Oh, and the attached Atlantic Ocean. But that was during the daytime, and I would just peek inside the open door. Grandpa was there a time or two, but I never tried to go in. My friends and I were on skateboards or bicycles or just running barefoot. Besides, kids can’t go into Da Dollar…
So, one night, when my grandma told me to go find grandpa, I knew where to go. I didn’t even bother to grab my bicycle, but just took off on foot. I would be steering the Thunderbird back! I ran the five blocks, 506 East Ashley to 7 Center Street without pause.
It was a rambunctious night at Da Dollar, perhaps a full moon. The curb out front was littered with motorcycles and guys in either tee shirts or leather jackets, smoking, talking and laughing, sipping on beers and cocktails. The big, green Thunderbird was parked along the curb beyond the bikes. Hot damn, grandpa really was here!
I managed to slip inside unnoticed. I looked for grandpa at his usual seat (by the door) but he wasn’t there. I pressed on, continuing to slip between the adults like a shadow. I had almost made it to the pool tables when…
“Boy, get your ass outta here!” ordered a burly bear of a man, grabbing me by the back of my shirt. I weighed all of 60 pounds dripping wet, and he lifted me like a sack of taters, my arms and legs flailing at the air.
“I’m looking for my grandpa!” I squealed. The burley man just laughed and tossed me onto his shoulder, locking an arm across my knees. I steadied myself by grabbing his melon-sized head with both hands. Sitting on his shoulder, seven feet in the air, I could see everything! I saw a whole new world up there, neon lights and the mass of happy mingling bodies filling Da Dollar. I also saw my grandpa, sitting at the other side of the bar, by the pool tables. He looked pretty damned happy, too.
“Look what I found,” exclaimed my carrier, “shark bait!” He headed for the door, but spun back around when a pretty lady intervened. She had grabbed my bare foot and slapped the burley brute on the back.
“Max, what the hell are you doing?” She demanded. Max kinda shrunk, his melon head bowing and shoulders slumping. Thank God he had an arm across my knees and I two handfuls of his hair, otherwise I would have fallen seven feet to the cement floor of Da Dollar.
“Put that boy down!” she ordered, still holding my foot and poking him in the chest. Max straightened up and looked around as if he had lost something. He was about to speak when I shouted, “There’s my grandpa!” I had dared to free one hand and point. Max dumped me into the arms of the pretty lady and slumped off.
“Where’s your grandpa, honey?” she asked, turning me so that my back was to her, a hand on my chest, the other roughing my hair. I again pointed. She took my hand and we headed around the bar. I pulled ahead, but never let go of her hand. When we finally reached grandpa’s barstool, we found he was a little tipsy.
“Brian ?” he asked in response to my incessant tugging on his shirt. I started blabbering, but his attention had gone to the pretty lady who was again petting my head. They started chatting and before I knew it, grandpa and the lady had sat me on the bar between them. I was glancing at grandpa’s beer when Max walked up.
“Sorry Mr. Sanders, I didn’t know he was your boy,” Max said, his hands in the pockets of his tasseled leather biker vest, his melon head slightly bowed. He shuffled his feet like a schoolboy called to the front of the class. Grandpa studied him, sitting his cigar in a nearby ashtray.
“That’s okay, Max,” answered grandpa, patting me on the leg. “Did Brian cause a scene?” Max started to reply, but the lady again intervened.
“No,” she said, “he was just looking for you.” Grandpa nodded and extended his hand to Max.
“Thank you for helping Brian find me,” he said and Max took grandpa’s hand in both of his bear claws. They shook and Max made his exit. As he was walking away, Max glanced at me and then stuck his tongue out, his eyes squeezed closed.
“Grandma told me to come get you,” I interjected, stealing another glance at grandpa’s beer. The pretty lady moved behind grandpa and rubbing his shoulders, encouraged him off the barstool. He took his beer out of my hand and lowered me to the floor. With the pretty lady’s help, we left Da Dollar. Outside in the cool night’s air, grandpa tossed his cigar into a nearby ash bucket, stretched and gave me a serious look.
“Brian,” he asked me, “can you steer us home?”
As already noted, I am now making up for lost time at Da Dollar. Though I have traveled some and been back and forth to Folly over the years, I’ve made this island my home for the past few years. So, I frequent Da Dollar now, maybe more than I should, but everyone there almost knows my name! Besides, there’s pool, ping pong, darts, and dancing; Oh, and a can of Bud is only a dollar…
Da Dollar epitomizes Folly Island: come as you are, but again, be cool while you are having fun. You get to meet people like: ‘Ricky Boy,’ a well-known ‘Dollar’ member from New York who always seems to be there, or ‘Brian the Pool Shark’ also known of as ‘Cracker,’ because he’s always ‘cracking’ up. He too seems to always be there. Oh, and let’s not forget ‘Chance’ the ‘Side Pocket Kid.’ He isn’t always there, but he is often enough. With a moniker like that he must be a good pool player. He is, except when it comes to a side pocket shot…
Other regulars include ’David’ or ‘Mark,’ the ping pong masters. David is a tennis guy, so pong comes natural to him. Mark is a long-term local, always playing barefoot and asking after every close shot, “Did that hit?” I’ve had some serious battles with these two.
And then…there is ‘Doc,’ the eccentric old guy who means no harm, but has a serious inability to use his inside voice. Oh, and ‘Doc’ should never be allowed to go within 50 feet of the jukebox! If I have to listen to that damned ‘YMCA’ song again my every fiber and very being will hurl.
Don’t even get me started on ‘Bubba’, ‘Pete’, ‘Gwen’, ‘Whitey’, ‘Das Weed’, ‘Bryan’, ‘Carmen’, ‘Big Perm’, ‘Captain Kirk’ or the plethora of other vagabonds, young and old, all of them with an affection or an affliction, but none-the-less, a membership for The Sand Dollar Social Club. These regulars, customers, clients, patrons – perhaps even ‘patients’ – make Da Dollar what it is. It is the ‘Edge of America’s’ melting pot.
Are you cool enough to be a member? With the cost of membership only being a dollar, roll the dice. And yes…you can borrow a damn dollar! Here’s four quarters.
From the owners to the bartenders and the patients, the atmosphere of Da Dollar is…cool. The indomitable bartender ‘Netty’ once told me, “This damn institution is full of Folly!”
Brian Sanders
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