“Let us live so that when we come to die, even the undertaker will be sorry.” ― Mark Twain

“Fuck, yeah.” ― Quinn Fallon

I remember the day I first learned about the Little Rock Bar. Quinn Fallon pulled me aside at a party and, in a hushed voice, said, “I think I found the place for my new bar,” as he called up a map on his phone. He zoomed in on the screen and pointed to a lot on the corner of Fourth Street and Second Avenue.

“That’s great,” I replied. “But how will you make money just selling beers to the Lennox factory ghosts?”

He proceeded to explain that changes were in store. Condos would erupt across the area. Houses would be renovated. Improvements would be made. Shops would appear. Little Rock would be the corner bar, ready to welcome everyone to the neighborhood. And since the doors first opened in 2013 until their closing last week, it did just that.

Someone smarter than I am can explain the hard numbers behind city development or the changing economics of the service industry, but anyone with a soul who has stepped inside the “right” kind of bar (or restaurant, or coffee shop, or store, etc.) knows that subjective feeling of being in a spot where you belong.

As we navigate these divisive and calcified times, there has been more and more talk among sociologists, psychologists, and probably many other -ists about a “sense of belonging.” This is that feeling that everyone strives for, feeling connected to something larger than oneself. It’s security. It’s identity. It’s being comfortable in your own skin. Most everyone can tell you when they are experiencing it. Far fewer can pinpoint how to create it.

For many, Little Rock had it (as did Andyman’s Tree House before it). And I’m sure that almost everyone who reads this will be able to rattle off a list of other places that they think also have it. One of the fascinating things about this sense of belonging is that it cannot be manufactured. It’s not about icebreakers, drink specials, theme nights, or other gimmicks. Rather, it’s about creating spaces — physical and metaphorical — where people feel safe and welcomed. People may think that the work of owning a bar is the mopping, glass washing, and keg hauling. It certainly is, and Quinn has the scars to prove it. However, the work of owning a good bar is building the right type of atmosphere, which the Little Rock team also did by opening their space to many and keeping those who would disrupt the good vibes at arms-length.

Over the years, Little Rock welcomed neighborhood groups, activists, musicians, comedians, trivia mavens, karaoke singers, bridal parties, bar-hoppers, vinyl fans, ComFest celebrants and more, sometimes in wonderful combinations. (I will long remember signing up to sing “Fortunate Son” before realizing that night’s karaoke crowd overlapped with several attendees of a Libertarian conference.) It was a haven during COVID. It was a trendsetter with its rooftop bar. And it was a magnet for a delightful congregation of people.

The best bars are not homogenous. On a good night, the assembled will include a handful of people that you know to their core, those who you may only see a few times a year, and others who you have a nodding acquaintance with at best, all mixed amongst the total strangers who also are there. There’s the bartender who gives you a smile and vaguely remembers your regular order. The woman who always slays at karaoke. The older guy reading in a corner. The dog walker. The tattoo guy. The obsessive sports fan. The patron on the patio with a booming laugh. Did I make most or all of these people up? Maybe. Could you immediately conjure up an image of someone similar to whom I was referring? Most likely.

In many ways, it is those secondary connections that are most lost when a place like Little Rock closes. Never underestimate the value of a good, “Guess who I ran into?” There will always be plenty of places to get alcohol, and those closest friends will still gather. But, moving forward, where will we connect with those quasi-acquaintances to debate which album by The Replacements is the best? How will we hear about new partners and new exes? Who will provide the inside dirt on what team will play for the championship? Where will we meet people’s new pets? Who will open our eyes to new ideas, jokes, scuttlebutt, theories, and facts? When will we forge new connections, moving some people one layer closer to the core of our onion-like lives? If you tell me that’s what Facebook is for, get ready to receive a drink thrown in your face. The neighborhood bar was the original social media.

So, as the final last call draws near, let us all raise a glass to the Little Rock’s in our lives. Before we know it, the new owners will come in and make the spot their own. And, honestly, I wish them the best even as they update the Elvis lamp, music memorabilia, album covers, and school banners with their own regalia. Something new will replace the Tiki hut on the roof and the guitar neck bar top. As these changes occur, some of those neighborhood regulars will continue to stop in. A new crowd will find their way to the corner of Fourth & Second. They will build their own community and forge their own memories. And, as they all saddle up to the bar, they will sit alongside those Little Rock ghosts.

James Baumann is a Columbus writer who relies on Pencil Storm whenever he feels the call to voice opinions about music, hoops, baseball, books, and other essential topics.