It’s 2006. Esquire had just named its Best Bar in America: Nye’s Polonaise Room (RIP) in Minneapolis. I was asked to spend three days at Nye’s, drinking from open till close, and write about my experience. I have had worse assignments. But I don’t like drinking alone. 
I was posting on a message board at the time. Nearly everyone on there was anonymous, but as is my rash custom, I thought to hell with it. I posted an open invite: “Come to Nye’s and you’ll drink on Esquire’s dime.” I was a good employee in some ways, and in other ways I wasn’t.
A man named Joe took it upon himself to drive nearly 500 miles in his old Cobra from Missouri to Minneapolis. I did not know Joe at all. I told him I’d be the guy in the Hawaiian shirt. This was not a specific-enough description for Nye’s, but Joe finally found me at the bar.
It was like a blind date, if I were in the habit of going on blind dates with tall rednecks in leather pants with long arms and moustaches. But Joe wasn’t who he appeared to be. He loved writing. He loved to read. He had strange stories about his soul not matching its vessel.
Nye’s actually had two halves: Nye’s, “the old side,” which was a bar with a single window and The World’s Most Dangerous Polka Band banging away. Polonaise was more of a restaurant. I’d spent the day there eating a thousand pierogies. That night, Joe and I went old side.
Our bartender was named Chicago Mike. The signature drink at Nye’s was their jumbo martini. I’m not big on martinis, so I made Joe drink one. And then another. For research. “Jumbo” did not do that drink justice. We could have gone swimming in it. It was served in a bathtub.
Somehow, Joe and I ended up on the dance floor, dancing to polka with two women who were 100 years old. My dance partner held my bum with both hands, like she was carrying a big bag of potatoes. Millie held on to me even during fast songs, like I was keeping her standing.
Honestly, I might have been. I’m pretty sure I saw Millie leave in a wheelchair. A big lady named Ruth played accordion in the band, and there was a song that she barked through, like a dog. Chicago Mike said he heard it every night and wished to strangle Ruth. Quite an evening.
Joe and I got completely obliterated. I literally don’t remember how—I guess we wobbled over the bridge—but he ended up crashing in my room at the Marriott across the river. (Two beds.) I woke up in the night and needed to pee. Joe was not in his bed. In his place: vomit.
So much vomit. Joe had thrown up all over the place and was now gone. His soul had left its vessel, and then he had followed it out the door. I had slept right through his exorcism. It looked like Dean Martin had exploded in that room. Jumbo martini all over the goddamn walls.
I staggered to the bathroom, still hammered, wondering how I’d explain the state of my room. The door was blocked. I pushed it open. Oh—there’s Joe. Joe is on the floor, lying between the toilet and the wall, his head at a terrible angle. Oh no. Joe is dead in my hotel bathroom.
My mind began racing. I imagined the conversation with the cops. “Who is this man?” Joe. “What’s his last name?” I don’t know. “How did you meet him?” On the Internet. “Why is he dead?” He drank too many jumbo martinis. I was pretty sure I would get charged with murder.
I peed. And then I was like, I might as well enjoy my last night in a real bed. I pulled Joe out of his cranny by his feet and decided I’d deal with his corpse in the morning. I went back to sleep. I woke up hours later. I decided to look at Joe again before I called the cops.
He had not moved. I poked him with my foot. Joe sat up like Dracula and shouted, “SHITFIRE!” I nearly crapped. I had to go back for another day at Nye’s. He was like, “Let’s do it.” We went to Dairy Queen to patch ourselves up and then to Nye’s, where we heard Ruth bark again.
Joe and I have since met up in Missoula, Montana; Louisville, Kentucky; Columbia, Missouri. Years will go by, and then he’s next to me at a bar. In between, he writes me paper letters about his life. They’re mostly about his quest to be a better man. I think he’s perfect.
