Wind Jammer

The Wind Jammer is a dive bar located in a retail cul-de-sac in East Memphis. The building itself doesn't match the retail neighborhood of an upscale consignment shop and doctor's offices. The broken concrete and gravel parking lot has been filled with asphalt so many times it looks like a patchwork quilt. The slant of the drive only permits one row of parking. After hours, all other businesses in the vicinity chain their parking lots or tow to deter Wind Jammer patron parking. 

April 27, 2007

The Wind Jammer looks like it began as a one-room, wooden, lean-to shack and slowly, as more lumber could be afforded, additional sections were added. The front doesn't match the back and neither match the tilted drawl of the bathrooms on the right. Once, the bar caught on fire. Repairs to the building were made, but appeared to be haphazard, more of a precaution than to actually achieve stability. The bar has a row of dart games in the back, a sea theme, permits indoor smoking, and is home to the best karaoke in Memphis. 

Bachelorette Party, April 27, 2007

Miss Ruthell is the 84 year old woman with bright red hair that owns the place. She been there every time I have. When the music is playing loud she can decipher every detail of your drink order. She's behind the bar, popping the tops off of bottles, filling up pitchers, and serving-up deep friend chicken tenders with thick-cut french fries. Each drink she hands you is accompanied by a napkin and a pet name that she gives you on the spot. 

In the corner booth, Feb 21, 2010.

The Wind Jammer is the type of place you run into someone you haven't seen in years. The bar holds so many memories for me: singing with an ex, laughing hysterically with college friends, meeting the faux Senator Cohen, the Magnum P.I. impersonator, dates in the front corner booth, and accidentally kidnapping a drunk lady...

The night was just weird. As I was getting into bed late one Friday night in 2005 or 2006, Trey & Donna called me to meet them at The Wind Jammer. It was nearly 10pm, but the laughter and music was enticing and Donna said she'd need me to be the designated driver. I put my work clothes back on and headed into Memphis. On my way I get stopped on Highway 14 by the Sheriff's Department. I was listening to classical music like it was a deafening rock concert. When I rolled down the window the officer asked me where I was going in such a hurry, "I'm sorry Sir, my brother just called me and asked me to be his D.D. I'm going to The Wind Jammer to pick him up and take him home." 

I was let off with a warning. 

Many of y'all know that I don't drink and drive - I was hit by a drunk driver who was also hopped-up on pills on January 4, 2001. This night is no different, I sat with Trey & Donna, Chris and some other people I'd never met, drinking my Diet Coke. At closing time, very early on Saturday morning, I walk, completely sober, to my car. We are taking the party to Trey's apartment. One of the extremely drunk girls sitting at the table with us got up, followed me to my car, opened the car door, and sat in my front passengers seat. We headed to Cordova. Trey and Donna needed to stop for gas. As I pull up next to them, with the stranger in my car, Donna turns to make silly faces. Donna sees drunk chicky and her face turns to absolute horror and a hundred questions cross her between her eyes. 

A few minutes after we get to Trey's apartment the drunk chick passes out on his sofa. That is when I learn that nobody knows her. They don't know her name or how she got to the Wind Jammer, something about how she's visiting a friend in town and went to The Jammer. I explain to them that don't know her either. She just got in my car so I thought she belonged to them.

We go into her purse to figure out her identity. There's multiple ID's all with her face on them, all have different names and are from out of state. There is no money and only one credit card in her wallet - not in any of her other names. Her cellphone does not have any stored numbers in it, only a previous call list. Someone at the apartment calls the phone number with the 662 area code. They get an address. 

About this time I figure that I have already done enough damage. With an Irish Goodbye I vacate Trey's apartment, leaving everyone there to deal with the drunk stranger. 

I learned the next day that they put her in a cab, gave the cabbie her only credit card and the address of the 662 number. Nobody has ever seen her again. 

That's par for the course at The Jammer. You never know who will be there, except Miss Ruthell - she's always there, what you will see, or what will happen. I guess I'll have to hit-up the Jammer and attempt to sing once more for old times sake. 

#WindJammer 

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