The other night, I went to this old bar on the West Side that’s been recently revived as The Moon Tower. Prior to the change of ownership and its new name, the bar was called the Silver Dollar Saloon. Yes, that Silver Dollar Saloon. The one on Cherry Lane that was run by, you know …
I’m not going to say travelers, because whenever someone says “gypsies” in reference to these people, I know what they mean, and I know that it’s a local colloquialism that is generally accepted without offense when spoken or heard in conversation. But if we’re being honest, isn’t “gypsy,” at least as far as it’s used in Fort Worth, maybe, kinda, possibly a little … pejorative? Because it’s not usually spoken in a tone of voice that suggests “Oh, cool!” It’s more like the tone you use for saying, “Hold onto your wallet. And your Life Alert.”
I guess you’d have to ask someone who’s been ripped off by a traveler. When I asked a Moon Tower bartender, a gregarious chick named LJ, about the bar’s former occupants, all she said was, “Oh, the gypsies don’t come in here any more.” How that happened is probably an interesting conversation, because there aren’t any signs singling out any particular type of person for refusal of service. But I would bet the occurrence was probably similar to the one time several years ago when I stopped by the Silver Dollar with some friends. We wandered in shortly after midnight on a Thursday. We got as far as the middle of the entryway before a twentysomething man at the bar stopped his conversation with the bartender and told us, “It’s cash only.” At a table behind him sat three other men of similar age, all fixing us with hard stares. So we left. Days later, when I asked around about the Silver Dollar, the prevailing comment was, “Oh, that’s the bar owned by gypsies.” I never went back, at least until it was reborn as The Moon Tower.
I would guess that in its new incarnation, the only new additions are the TVs and, in the corner of the ceiling, the internet jukebox and music video screen. Otherwise, it’s a small cocktail lounge furnished in mahogany-stained wood and illuminated with globular light fixtures and hanging lamps. There’s a quarter-fed almond dispenser up front and another one near the back of the room, where the lounge and bar turn into a cramped spot for a pool table. The back bar’s façade is accented with balustrades and stained glass barware cabinets at both ends, backed by three mirrors that are divided by rows of liquors and bottled beers. Except the one in the middle, behind the cash register station. On that one you can see the reflection of a big flat-screen TV.
As SportsCenter highlights flashed in reverse, I flashed back to that night when I got mad-dogged out of the Silver Dollar. Now, as The Moon Tower, the bar is friendly and welcoming. On Mondays, The Cosmic Trigger’s Tyrel Choat hosts an open-mic (the most all-are-welcome event in the annals of bar events). Rather than whatever a traveler puts on the wall of a bar (paintings of poker-playing dogs? drying counterfeit bills? photos of RVs?), the principal stoners from Dazed and Confused grin beatifically down on you at The Moon Tower. Domestics are only $2.75, and the regulars are happy to make conversation. The bar couldn’t be more palpably hospitable unless they painted “Alright, alright, alright!” above the front door.
But given recent culturally and racially charged political flashpoints like Indiana’s preposterous religious freedom law and the deadly, violent biker brawl in Waco, excluding customers is an unpleasant topic to breach. Bars reserve the right to refuse service to anyone, certainly so if the owners fear an individual’s association with a particular group presents a threat to the safety of their customers. But it’s a thorny limb to wander out on. I know this much: Every bar has its own assortment of scumbags who slip under the radar. They range across a wide variety skin colors and backstories, so it’s probably best for a bar’s staffers to make it clear that they don’t tolerate sketchy shit from anyone, no matter what you call him.
— Steve Steward
