From the outside, its dingy windows and faded Carolina Blue exterior is uninviting to the unknowing, and the “No One Under 19 Allowed” sign on the front window may at times deter a younger crowd. But for those familiar with Rene’s Bar, once you yank on the rusted-iron front door handle and peek inside to see the familiar faces patrolling the bar, you know exactly where you are. Located a stone’s throw away from Bayou Lafourche in Thibodaux’s downtown district, Rene’s has been a favorite local hangout for more than 75 years.
“There are always interesting people in there,” says a man who claims to have been a regular at Rene’s for years. “I always feel welcome in there, I get along with everyone and everyone is always good for a game of pool or cards. It is hard to get a laugh out of the bartender, though. He doesn’t appreciate my humor.”
“You feel like you can just kick back and hang with the boys,” says a man sitting in one of the leather-backed chairs lining the bar. “I don’t drink myself, but when I leave here, I feel like I have smoked a pack of cigarettes myself.but it is a comfortable place to just sit around.”
“I have been going to Rene’s for about the last year and a half,” explains a tall man wearing an un-ironed red and blue pinstriped shirt. “I didn’t come here a lot when I first came to Nicholls.but the atmosphere is laid back.everyone has a good time, and the bartenders are always friendly.” Of all the bartenders that work at Rene’s, there are two you are certain to see more often than not.
C.J. leans up against the cash register, his face illuminated by the orange and blue neon lights glowing above his head, patiently surveying the sparsely filled bar. Service is a little slow at the moment, as it usually is at just before 5 p.m. on a Friday evening. But before too long the bar will have more visitors, making more noise, creating more memories.
Joining C.J. behind the bar is a tall, slow-moving man, whose silver locks lay like a bird’s nest on his head. His ever-darting eyes continuously survey the room, which, at this stage, is filled with no more than a dozen locals. He leans on the bar-top with his elbows, his bearded chin resting comfortably in his right hand. “Hick!” a man wearing a purple and white checked shirt calls as he approaches the bar. “Two more, man,” he says as he unloads two empty beer bottles on the bar-top.
Dim. Dull. Dingy. That is Rene’s. The majority of lighting comes from the illumination of the televisions, which play through the night, a myriad of neon lights representing various beer brands and the Christmas tree-style lights that weave along the shelves behind the bar. The thin plywood walls inside Rene’s are littered with an array of collectables and advertisements, publicizing everything from Nicholls State Baseball’s 2010 schedule to the “Superbowl Saints.”
The crowd has doubled by 8 p.m. A couple at the top of the ‘L’ shaped bar sit facing each other, the male enjoying a beer, his female accomplice, a red wine. Deep in conversation, their eyes remain fixed on each other. Across the room, a group of three males sit around a well-lit table behind the pool table playing cards. The banging of the table and the elevated voices suggest the game has come to an exciting end.
Standing up from the table, his bald head barely missing the hanging overhead lights, was a thickly built man with heavily ink forearms. He walks over to the bar and trades in his empty beer bottles for some fresh ones.
At the opposite end of the bar, one of the three video poker machines lets off a celebratory jingle. The couple sitting at the machine, both dressed in white, give each other a smile of approval, before the male plays another hand. Behind the bar, Hick leaves his conversation with three people in the corner of the bar to attend to the ringing phone. He vanishes for a minute before returning to his seat.
An hour and a half later, the number of people inside this vintage watering hole numbers about 50. The pool table now has stacks of quarters lining one of its rails, indicating the line of people awaiting their turn, and the majority of those tall, leather-backed chairs lining the bar are now occupied.
However, more noticeable than the sheer growth in numbers at Rene’s, is the distinct change in the make-up of the crowd. Gone are most of the after-work crowd, the men who have walked from their office up the road, and the ladies who routinely come to Rene’s after their day of teaching. They have been replaced by a stream of under-25 year olds, many of who are students at Nicholls, who on the weekends become regulars on Rene’s pool table.
Now, the Sid George Jeweler clock hanging from the wall above the jukebox reads 10 p.m. The radiating noise being generated by the constantly growing crowd of college-goers and the jukebox churning out rock and roll hits is now permanent. The clicking of the plastic coated balls scooting along the green-felted pool table, and the scraping of the bar’s chairs being dragged along the wooden floorboards only add to the commotion.
Midnight passes and Rene’s has taken the form of any ordinary, overpopulated college bar. Empty beer bottles are continuously exchanged over the bar for fresh ones. The black ashtrays scattered along the bar top and at the center of each table are now piled with cigarette butts. Patrons lean on the bar, waving their crumpled bills in the direction of the bar staff, eagerly awaiting some service.
And then there are the characters.
There are the obnoxious drunks: those who practically inhale their Long Island Iced Teas, before slamming the plastic cup down on the table already littered with empty cups and spilled ice. Quieter drinkers: those who sip quaintly and slowly from their vodka drink, not getting too carried away with the evening. The non-drinkers: like the tall blonde wearing blue jeans and an open-backed blouse, standing to the side of her boyfriend, not becoming too engaged in the group’s conversation. The notorious pool-shark: the person who is continuously chalking their cue between shots, pointing from cushion to cushion before ultimately clearing the table. The sports-watcher: those glued to the television with its running subtitles, riding every missed shot and foul as if their life depended on it. There is the flirt: which tonight is a tall, lanky gent who compliments the glowing brunette sitting at the bar on the white headband holding her hair tightly in place.
Some of the crew begin to file out as the time creeps towards 1:30 in the morning. Although there are still some people sitting at the bar, their attention is split between their conversation and the ongoing pool game behind them; the crowd has definitely thinned. It is no longer a challenge to get the attention of one of the four bartenders, and the line leading to the ladies room is obsolete.
The two girls who have worked behind the bar with C.J. and Hick for the majority of the evening take turns tidying up the tables. They pick up an array of empty bottles, plastic cups and used napkins, before returning to their spot behind the bar.
“Four more, thanks,” says a modestly built man, his facial hair well beyond that of a 5 o’clock shadow.
“Long Islands?” she replies, looking for reassurance.
He nods back at her.
In exchange for the drinks, the gentleman hands over some money and tells the server that the rest is a tip. He clutches all four drinks and walks back across the room.
It is 10 to two. C.J. walks over to the door and locks it from the inside. No more visitors tonight. On his return, he picks up a couple of stray beer bottles and an overflowing ashtray. The last three people from a group playing cards in the back corner down the last of their drinks, gather the scattered deck of cards and head for the door. The jukebox belts out its final song for the evening, which tonight is ‘Hey Jude’ by “The B
eatles.” And as the final two girls leave the room, only five people are left inside.
That is it for this Friday evening. The curtains in the front windows have been pulled shut. The bar top has been wiped clean of condensation and the odd clump of cigarette ash. Beer bottles crash into each other as they are being tossed into the garbage, and the televisions are no longer tuned in to ESPN.
The door opens and closes for the last time this evening. This Friday at Rene’s is now history. But before too long, the doors will be back open. And returning will be the obnoxious drunk with his non-drinking girlfriend. And at a table alongside them will be a group with their eyes glued to the television, intrigued by another March Madness moment. Across the room, the pool-shark will be back at it, taking challenges from more onlookers, and the flirt-well, hopefully he has more luck tomorrow evening.
They will all know where to meet up. 204 Saint Philip Street. That unassuming Carolina Blue shack in downtown Thibodaux, oblivious to so many.
