They may not have flourished, but they somehow boxed their way above their weight into the 21st century, nonetheless, and are still the local bar of choice for several communities scattered across the city. Yet, somehow, the dive bars kept their dim lights on, even as the mills went dark. But like so much Schlitz spilt on dusty, worn carpet, the textile jobs dried up and the mills stood empty shrines to Columbus’ long march from sleepy mill town to the cosmopolitan city we are only now awakening to. Where cheap beer and loose women met, bloody knuckles and broken noses were soon to comingle. After all, these are the oldest bars in town the run-down watering holes where mill workers would blow off steam after long shifts at Swift.
The scrappy, hard-living reputation of Columbus’ dive bars has been well earned. These ominous words translated by Corey Feldman’s Mouth as the Goonies began their quest for One-Eyed Willy’s treasure could also double as the opinion held by many in Columbus of the one-time, sud-soaked monument to the working man: the dive bar. “Ye, Intruders beware, Crushing death and grief, Soaked with blood, Of the trespassing thief.”
