Shooters II Saloon is officially a ski-friendly establishment.
But I did not know this at the start of Wednesday night. As I strapped on my cross-country skis for a nocturnal expedition, my mind churned with doubts. This is Durham, North Carolina—what if they don’t want people showing up with skis? What if they turn me away for carrying two pointy, metal-tipped poles into a bar? Will my ski helmet provoke social ostracization?
But classes were canceled; most every bar and restaurant was shuttered; the roads lay hidden beneath several inches of snow with more still falling; and despite it all, Shooters had kept its dance floor burning bright.
This was indeed a dilemma worthy of my liberal arts education.
Snow gods help me.
A cross country ski, while lacking the sharp edges and tight control of its downhill counterpart, sports a scaly underside optimized for sliding along the surface of a snowy landscape. Especially when walking involves crunching one's boots through a thick layer of ice—as it did that night—such skis allow its users to bypass all hassle, by simply gliding over.
I had brought mine to Duke after winter break in hope of finding snow on the Carolina mountains.
Main Street turned out to be much more convenient.
Setting out from my abode on Burch Avenue, I first swished my way through the darkness of Buchanan and, observing the road clear of any vehicles, made my way within some snowy tire tracks near Smith Warehouse, up to Main Street. There the path was also clear, so I launched myself out into the middle of the street, letting gravity shoot me down the hill.
The cross street to Shooters was thoroughly covered in snow—a formidable obstacle to any sedan, but a laughable feat for my trusty skis. Initially, the lack of a line snaking out of the door concerned me, but then I remembered: 'Well yeah, it’s snowing.'
As I approached the main entrance, I could see the warm light of the "open" sign blazing out, a symbol of hope to all weary winter travelers.
With two quick pokes of the ski pole I dislodged my boots, gathered up skis and poles and entered the building. This was the moment of truth. As the gentleman approached to ascertain my age, I enquired, “Do you have a ski policy?”
His reasonable riposte: that I should check with the man behind the counter.
I shuffled forth and did so, and found myself pleased with the reply: “Why don’t you leave them in the bucket right here?” And then I saw it: a round, white plastic bucket, about a foot high, really quite similar to any plastic bucket you’d expect to find sitting around in a shed or utility closet.
But tonight, it was my ski rack.
Having checked my skis at the door, I entered the bar. And it was actually pretty full. Not gasping-for-space-just-to-breathe full, but like, a well-attended-kinda-slow-night full. And it picked up as the night went on.
I soon discovered that my ski helmet, which I left on my head because why not, did not impede social interaction but actually facilitated it. The average Duke student, especially one in a celebratory mood, really enjoys smacking other people’s helmets, it turns out. Not to inflict pain by any account. Rather, it seemed to be a way of acknowledging the presence of another human being, by doing something that would normally hurt but doesn’t right now because he’s wearing a helmet. Making the whole thing a socially acceptable form of physical contact with strangers. Or drunk people hitting things. I defer to cultural anthropologists for the authoritative reading here. But a few of these helmet smackings did lead to exchanges of names and brief conversation, so on the whole I consider them a net positive.
More importantly, though, the experience showed me the possibility of a community asserting itself in the face of adversity.
When the snow conquered all other nightlife venues and multiple days of class, the stalwart staff of Shooters created a warm and melodic environment for interpersonal connections to flourish.
Yet that alone would not be enough. We cannot forget the intrepid actions of all those patrons who trudged through snow and ice (or hailed those few brave cabs) in order to populate this milieu.
In just a few months' time, countless authority figures will urge me and my fellow seniors to follow our passions as we venture out into the real world. I will be happy to report that this is not a problem for us. The events of that snowy Wednesday night demonstrate incontrovertibly that Duke students will go to grueling lengths to pursue what they are truly passionate about. This may have been what poet William Ernest Henley had in mind when he penned these lines:
Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.
For all who mastered their fates and captained their souls to Shooters: may that spirit never die.
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