The Daily O’Collegian

It’s 10:30 on a cool Thursday night, and the line to get into Eskimo Joe’s is more than 40 deep.

The entrance door squeaks and squawks with every tug, but customers don’t notice. No need to open a door that never gets a chance to close.

The long, winding queue of mostly OSU students won’t even pause until 11:22. The hiatus, to the chagrin of the bouncers, will last only a minute, for 11:23 will bring another string of customers. Doorkeepers won’t get a true reprieve until well after midnight.

It’s “Thirsty Thursday” at Stan Clark’s two-story landmark on Elm Street. That means “all-you-can-drink” domestic bottles all night.

It’s $5 for guys, free for ladies; green wristband for guys, “I Know Stan” stamps for ladies.

Controlling the flow of traffic, four Joe’s employees have crowd herding down to a science. Two doorkeepers examine IDs while another collects money and a fourth passes out wristbands.

Rusty Wallace, one of the ID inspectors, also is armed with a handheld metal clicker to keep track of the people entering. He said another bouncer is stationed with a clicker at the exit. Five or six more bouncers are positioned throughout the bar for crowd management.

Capacity is 560, Wallace says. Although the lonely first floor looks spacious this early in the evening, that number will be critical later.

Wallace, a mechanical engineering technology junior at OSU, works every Thursday night even though he has an 8:30 class Friday mornings. He says he doesn’t get to sleep until 3:30 or 4 a.m. but he doesn’t mind.

If he weren’t working, he says he would be out drinking with friends anyway.

“It’s like waking up on Friday and going to class, but without a hangover,” Wallace said.

Click, click, click. In come the patrons.

“I lost my wallet,” a customer says. He hands the bouncer his passport to prove he’s of age.

Unfazed, the bouncer certifies his age and lets him pass.

“Do you know where the monkey drinking bottles is?” asks another patron.

“What?” Wallace says. His twisted facial expression questions whether he heard correctly.

“We’re supposed to meet our friend by the monkey drinking bottles. Do you know where that is?”

“Try upstairs,” Wallace says although he doesn’t appear too confident in his answer.

The men-to-women ratio seems about equal, despite one man’s claim that it’s “always a sausagefest.”

It’s 55 degrees on this April night: too warm for a coat but too cool for comfort. The ladies in line cross their arms for warmth as the men bury their hands deep in their pockets to conserve body heat.

There’s no dress code at Joe’s, but an onlooker might guess otherwise. Almost without exception, men pair jeans with one of only three shirt choices: a crisp Oxford button-down, a pristine polo or a trendy screen-printed t-shirt.

The women’s attire suggests more variety, but trends are easy to spot.

Height-enhancing heels aren’t just for the vertically challenged. In glossy gold or deep red, heels are the accessory to complete any ensemble.

Another trend: Dresses don’t travel alone. Instead, they roll into Joe’s in packs, four or six at a time.

Some are silky and flowy. Others are brightly colored and stretched over opaque tights. Others still are high fashion: exotic hems and nontraditional cuts.

Nearly all have one thing in common: plunging necklines, the kind you don’t wear to church.

Click, click, click. Click, click, click. In comes a six-pack of dresses. One is paired with a light-up tiara. It must be somebody’s birthday.

“It never fails,” one of the dresses sighs. “Leslie always holds up the line.”

Leslie, whose skyscraper-high stilettos and thigh-hugging minidress can’t quite compensate for her golden Shirley Temple curls and baby face, is undergoing a thorough ID inspection. Thirty seconds of scrutiny, and she’s in the door.

Meanwhile, Maggie Lavalleur, a nutrition sophomore, collects the money. Throughout the night, she makes no exceptions and allows no excuses even when a sharp-dressed veteran feebly tries to weasel out of the cover.

“It’s $5,” Lavalleur says as he walks past her without pause.

He quickly swivels to face her. “No military discount?” he asks.

“No.”

Lavalleur, 20, says she likes working at Joe’s because she often gets to see friends.

“It’s a fun environment,” Lavalleur said.

The doorkeepers get off work about 1:45, she says, after the entrance doors close at 1:30.

Unlike the bartenders, doorkeepers and bouncers don’t get tips, she says.

“Someone bought me a shot once,” Lavalleur said. “I was like, ‘I can’t take that. I’m 19.’” Plus, there’s no drinking on the job.

Caitlin Funk, a human development sciences sophomore, agrees with Lavalleur, saying she likes her job because of the fun atmosphere.

Funk, also 20, passes out wristbands.

Click, click, click. Customers keep filing in.

A man donning a bright blue cast on his right arm pays his cover. He haphazardly lifts the broken arm toward Funk. No worries: The wristband easily stretches around the cast.

At the door, a solace bouncer closely examines an ID.

“Idaho?” he asks.

“No, U-da-ho,” responds the waiting patron. Looking almost as sophomoric as his joke in a Dubble Bubble gum hat and round-rimmed glasses, the customer grins, proud of his wit.

The bouncer does not respond, instead only handing back the ID and motioning for the next in line to hand over his card for inspection.

As more patrons arrive, the laid-back ambience of the bar changes. What once was a low-key atmosphere for chatting with friends is a standing room only nightmare for the claustrophobic.

At 11:36, another clan of dresses arrives. Click, click. Click, click. The entrance counter ticks to 650.

Wallace reminds that capacity is 560. Using his walkie-talkie and earpiece, Wallace checks with the bouncer at the exit to make sure the magic number hasn’t been exceeded.

“We’re good,” Wallace says. He doesn’t think the bar will reach capacity tonight.

He’s glad because he doesn’t like making people wait, but he says that’s what he has to do when the bar is too crowded. It’s the 10-and-10 rule.

“Ten people have to leave before 10 people can get in,” Wallace said. “Usually we get enough people that leave that it goes pretty quick.”

Wallace has worked at Joe’s for two years and says he likes it because he gets to see his friends.

“A lot of my friends come out,” he said. “I used to come out here a lot.”

That’s how Wallace landed the job.

“One of the bouncers came up to me and asked if I wanted to work here,” he said.

At midnight, it’s time for the bouncers’ hourly rotation. Wallace yields his post at the door and his counter to Weston Phillips, a mechanical engineering technology senior.

Click, click. A pair of women enters the bar. Phillips asks to see their IDs.

A frizzy redhead presents a card with a hole in the upper left corner. Phillips is skeptical, at first refusing the card.

The woman swears it’s good. “I punched a hole in it,” she says.

“Something’s wrong with it,” Phillips mutters.

“People let me use it here all the time,” she says. “I’ve never had a problem.”

Begrudgingly, Phillips lets her pass. He turns to her friend, who has no ID.

She asks to see James, an employee who can vouch she’s of age.

Phillips radios for James. Moments later, he appears.

James smirks when he sees the woman standing there.

“I didn’t know we were going out tonight,” she says. “I didn’t think I needed my ID.”

James gives Phillips a nod of approval, and the pair is in.

At 12:21, 781 people have filed through the entrance. Wallace says that’s nothing. He has seen the ticker climb as high as a thousand.

Joe’s Manager Jacob Harper guesses the bar goes through as many as 4,000 bottles in a Thursday night.

The dance floor is packed. From the second floor, a bird’s-eye view reveals scores of dancers, shaking and grinding erotically.

The second floor is more relaxed but packed. Friends congregate at tables.

What brings so many people to one place every week? Customers offer several explanations:

“$5 all you can drink.”

“Everyone I know is at Joe’s on Thursday.”

“Guaranteed attractive girls here.”

“In the winter, the coat check.”

“It’s not smoky.”

Whatever it is, the customers enjoy themselves for the next hour.

But when the clock strikes 1, they begin to disappear.

Like southward-bound birds in the winter, they migrate. In droves, they travel, many of them stumbling, three blocks to Murphy’s, The Strip’s main attraction as last call approaches.

Until next week, the clicker halts.