Bresa del Rio.

Bresa del Rio. 2006ish.

Otsego, Michigan is known state-wide for basically three things: its status as being located in a county that ranks high in meth-amphetamine lab busts, its Bittersweet Ski Resort, and its infamous western saloon and dance emporium, Bresa del Rio. In fact, I hear people from miles away talking about Bittersweet and Bresa all the time. Apparently the meth-amphetamine situation is one that people don’t like to talk about as much.

Having lived in the small town of Otsego for the last twelve years, it probably seems unlikely that I never really knew about Bresa del Rio until I was in high school. Upon finding out what it was, I swore that I would never go there. Maybe this was my secret way of disclaiming myself as an Otsego resident in general and suggesting my preference for the downtown city scene to farmland and countryside.

But in an attempt to reconnect with a long-lost high school friend and break myself of my own cynical preconception, I agreed to go with Kim to Bresa del Rio. I met up with she and her friend, Kim, at a restaurant so that they could do what they called ‘pre-gaming.’ I ate. They drank. Apparently drinking and driving was of little concern to them. I followed them to Bresa in my Buick LeSabre. Its boat-sized frame would keep me safe on the country roads should either of them have to answer their cell phone, fix their hair or makeup, or check for spinach between their teeth while they were driving.

As we approached our destination, the houses became more sporadic and the distance between them was replaced with rolling hills and snow-covered farmland. As I pulled into the parking lot, the headlights of my Buick LeSabre bobbled up and down like a mini seismograph in the puddled and potholed parking lot. There were already cars lined up in undesignated parking spots and it was only 8:00p.m. The cold, dry February air eased the scent of truck exhaust. From the outside, it was difficult to tell which building was meant for the horses and which building was intended for the Saturday night country bar crowd. Since it was dark, I wasn’t even sure that the horses and the people didn’t share the same building.

I got out of my car to meet with Kim #1 and #2 in the parking lot and concentrated on not slipping and falling on the ice in my $3 tweed high heels. I thought back to the only other time I had been to a bar and remembered feeling underdressed in a t-shirt and jeans. For this occasion, Kim had advised, “Wear your cowboy boots!” I don’t have cowboy boots. The closest thing I had was a nice pair of jeans, a teal ‘girly’ shirt, hair down, and these shoes. She wasn’t even wearing cowboy boots which made me wonder if people really wore cowboy boots here. Who knows. She had, however, outdone me in the hair, makeup, and outfit categories. Her skin screamed ‘I have a lifetime pass to the tanning salon’ and her bleached blonde and red streaky hair was neatly curled and sprayed in place. “Do I look okay?” she had asked, probably three or four times already. I said, “Yes,” but questioned my own authorization to answer such a question since we were entering her stomping ground, not mine. I longed for the jeans, t-shirt, and tennis shoes lying at home on my bedroom floor that I would have worn to Fourth Coast, my favorite coffee shop in downtown Kalamazoo.

Upon entering the bar, I was greeted by a beat-up road sign leaning up against the old door that read: “HORSE X-ING.” The man checking ID’s secured a blue bracelet around my right wrist indicating that I was free to explore the western subculture inside the glorified barn and consume as much alcohol as I pleased. Typically I’m not a drinker, but I decided I would wait to see how much fun I was or wasn’t having before I declared myself as a nondrinker at Bresa that night.

A series of wooden 2x4’s fenced in the line dancing floor. An unseen disc jockey had the country music going. A handful of people – all female – filed into lines on the dance floor as a few spectators sitting in white plastic lawn chairs around card tables served as the audience. Behind the dancers, an unlit stage with microphone stands and guitar amplifiers stood as figures against a large white banner on the wall revealing the planned entertainment for later that night: The Doug James Band. I had no idea who that was.

“I love this song!” Kim said as she stripped down into her white tank top, hurled her black jacket at me, and joined the other women on the dance floor. Kim #2 went to greet her other friends and I decided to take the opportunity to use the bathroom. Upon entering, I noticed that there were no locks on the stall doors. The toilets were clogged, too. I honestly wasn’t sure whether my ass was wet after I was done peeing because the toilet sprayed onto the seat when it flushed or if people were just completely losing bladder control and pissing all over. Hopefully not the latter. It was then that I learned that I would start inspecting the toilet seat before sitting down. The ice cold water and lack of paper towel completed my first sub-par trip to the Bresa del Rio bathroom.

When I opened the door, the country music went from muffled to vibrant and alive. I scanned the crowd for Kim. She was on the opposite side of the dance floor chatting with some girls. I compared their outfits to mine to see if I was closer to socially acceptable this time. They were in jeans, tennis shoes, and oversized hooded sweatshirts. It figures. I didn’t recognize any of them as girls from Otsego. In fact, I didn’t see a single person in the bar I recognized. It was then that I started to realize that there probably weren’t many other country bars in west Michigan and that a lot of the people there were probably out-of-towners. Maybe Bresa had something going here.

“I swear there is no one here yet. It gets a lot busier around 10 or 11,” Kim reassured me as if I were worried that I might not have a chance to run into any hometown faces. Actually, I didn’t think I wanted that. How would I explain how I had gone from a shy, straight-edge, Indie nerd to a cowboy and country music line dancer enthusiast? I looked at her and said, “It’s okay, I believe you.” And I did.

I helped myself to a white lawn chair in the corner near the line dancing floor and watched shyly as the Kims danced to the songs they knew. I waited for a song I knew, but none came. Her friends politely said “Hi” and then proceeded to ignore me while I sat and people-watched for an hour or so. Having experienced this in other first-time places where I only knew one person, I was used to feeling awkward and out of place.

At 9 o’clock, a woman’s voice announced that she would be instructing a dancing lesson. With that, a plethora of women made a beeline for the dance floor. Some of them dragged their daughters or significant others along. “Wanna go, Em? It’ll be fun!” Kim said, gesturing toward the dance floor. I thought about the time I went to a hip-hop club my first weekend at college. I had just been trying to make friends with the girls I the dorm, so I went. I remembered how ridiculous I looked trying to dance and knew I would look the same way trying to line dance, especially given that here, there was a right and wrong way to do the dance. I bit my lip as I assessed the slippery wooden floor. In high heels, this could be a death trap. Even so, I followed her, carefully placing one foot in front of the other. I requested that we find a place somewhere near the back so spectators would have fewer opportunities to laugh at my lack of coordination. I made Kim stand in front of me so I could watch her.

The short, blond-haired instructor began calling out the dance steps as she demonstrated them in front of the group: Step, 2, 3, 4, left together, right together…” I could do that. Sort of. I saw some following confidently while others, including myself, glanced around looking for help. The other inexperienced dancers were usually a step or two behind the instructor and laughed as they stepped on each other’s feet or ran into the people in front of them. I just concentrated really hard. I don’t know why. Being a good country line dancer wasn’t something I aspired to, but I hate doing anything half-assed. The instructor continued: “Right heel, left heel, step 2, 3, 4…” Assorted footwear clomped out of sync on the wooden floor as the instructor’s voice boomed into the microphone, creating a cacophony of chaotic sound. I was still doing okay. “Paddle 2, 3, 4” she called out as we swung our bodies around our right legs until we were facing the adjacent wall dedicated to posters with country singer faces, Shania Twain being the only one I recognized. I couldn’t figure out how to do the ‘paddle’ thing so I just kind of turned in the same direction they were turning and picked back up with: “Step 2, 3, 4…” Around we went, past the wall displaying assorted styles of cowboy hats and Nascar banners and then past the replica of a horse head tacked up onto a tall wooden pillar hanging over the B-93 country music station banner. When the teaching session ended, we tried out the steps to music.

I looked around as thirty-something-year-old women in tiny black shirts swayed about the dance floor, their pierced belly buttons and leathery skin protruding above their tight blue jeans. Their Farrah Fawcett hair resembled strands of hay as it reflected against the fringy gold strips and white Christmas lights hanging from the bar (or barn?) ceiling. Some high school girls and boys in t-shirts, jeans, and tennis shoes stumbled around on the floor, trying to keep up with the experienced dancers. Men decked out in full cowboy outfits proudly displayed their shiny, oval belt buckles. Two young blondes with the infamous black X’s on their hands danced around in the front in short denim skirts and cowboy boots for almost every song as spectators lined up along the U-shaped wall around the dance floor to watch them. During partner dances, they stood especially close together, exciting nearby men. Probably women, too. This bothered me for two reasons. One, they men staring them up and down and whistling at them were drunk and probably in their 40’s. And two, although these girls were obviously under 21, they didn’t seem creeped out at all. They acted as if this were normal and socially acceptable. I suppose I should have just been thankful that I wasn’t being stared at. But who would stare at some uncoordinated girl who couldn’t even paddle the right way.

Once the song that we learned the dance floor was over, I returned to my white plastic lawn chair nearby. I sat quietly and watched as other dancers filed on and off the floor as songs they knew or didn’t know started and stopped. Or when they needed a drink or a cigarette. Sometimes they danced in lines, other times around in a circle, showing no mercy to the clumsy followers.

By about 10 o’clock, Kim had probably had three or four beers. It was then that she realized that I hadn’t had anything to drink yet. Being that I considered myself a bar virgin, I didn’t think it was odd that I’d never had a tequila shot. She, however, found this unacceptable. She escorted me to the bar where she insisted that I take my first tequila shot ever with her. Kim gave a friendly hello to the bartender wearing a black leather fringed vest. She ordered two shots and when the woman set the shot glasses on the counter, I looked at Kim with a “What the hell is all of this stuff for?” expression on my face. I looked at the shot glass, the salt shaker, and the lime with innocent confusion. Kim was the teacher, I was the student.

“Okay, first sprinkle salt on your hand. Right between your thumb and finger – like this.” I raised my eyebrow at her, but did it anyway. “Okay, now you’re gonna lick the salt off of your hand, drink, then bite down on the lime.” I nodded, pretending like I understood why there was such a ridiculous procedure for such a thing. On the count of three, we drank. When I was finished, I wondered how the hell drunk people had enough coordination to do this. I could barely do it stone sober; I felt like I needed three hands. “Yay, you just did your first tequila shot with me! Did you like it?” I responded with, “Yeah!” I tried to match her enthusiasm. I wasn’t nearly as excited as she was, but at least I’d never have to re-learn how to do it.

As we wandered back out to our corner, the music changed to what I recognized as a Will Smith song. I’m not very keen on identifying hip-hop/R&B/rap tunes, but I was puzzled as to why Will Smith was being played in a country bar. However, I learned that night that people can also line dance to this kind of music. I got the sense that the Bresa crowd was partial specifically to him because his three or four songs were the only non-country songs that the DJ played all night. I watched in amusement as the crowd on the dance floor simply found a series of steps that appropriately matched Will Smith’s beat and began dancing.

By 10:30, The Doug James band was on stage ready to play. “Somebody shout!” the singer called out, segueing into the first song. Everyone shouted. His face was sunburned and wrinkly and he wore an American flag button-up shirt and the country man’s signature accessory: the cowboy hat. The band played a series of covers while the strobe light over the middle of the dance floor flashed on and off, highlighting the smoke circulating throughout the open room. Between songs, the middle-aged singer singled out random people on the floor, usually an underage female, to publicly flirt with. He told us that he wanted it to be summer so he could see young women in bikinis and at one point said, “Somebody’s gonna get naked tonight!” People cheered and that worried me. I hoped it wouldn’t be him. I left to get my first beer.

When the band ‘slowed things down,’ one of Kim’s friends asked me to dance. This dude was huge – probably 6’4”, 350 pounds. He was wearing a black t-shirt tucked in and had a large silver belt buckle holding up his denim jeans. I could barely fit my arms around him. Droplets of sweat shined on his forehead. He seemed genuinely polite and we tried to make conversation but found that we quickly ran out of things to say. “Are you from around here?” I asked. “Fennville,” he responded. “Where you from?” he said. “I’m from here. Otsego. But I go to school at Grand Valley State University. I’m just home for the weekend.” And that was pretty much it. Being that I am awkward even slow-dancing with males I am well acquainted with, this wasn’t exactly a relaxing moment. It all kind of reminded me of high school dances after the football game. The lights dimmed and couples rocked back and forth on the dance floor as the singer’s lazy twang serenaded the crowd. Any man on the dance floor who was wearing a cowboy hat would remove it for the dance and rest it against the small of his partner’s back. My dancing partner followed the rule.

After the slow song, the band picked it up again, covering a series of songs I had only vaguely remembered hearing on the few occasions I had ridden as a passenger in my brother’s truck. They were about drinking bones being connected to lonely bones and staying out all night long, double XL’s, and sexy tractors or something. “Somebody scream!” the singer said at the end of the song. Everyone screamed. He then dumped a pile of hats onto the edge of the stage, urging people to try them on and ‘be somebody else’ for fun. A Santa Claus hat. A multicolored helicopter hat. A jester hat. And a sombrero among others. I found the idea of wearing a hat that hundreds of other people had already worn to be a little bit disturbing so I opted to not be somebody else that night. On my third trip to the bar (this time to just buy the cheapest beer they had), American flag shirt man announced that there were costumes available for getting pictures taken. I didn’t get a very close look at the costume rack, but as soon as I saw pink and poofy and other odd items that didn’t look like anything I would be caught dead in, I kept walking.

By this time, the bar was probably at its maximum capacity. I kept looking around for familiar faces expecting to see people from high school that hadn’t left Otsego yet. Nothing. Then in true girl fashion, Kim and I left together on a mission to the bathroom. She later let me in on the secret that she wanted to get a boy named Dustin’s attention. He just happened to be sitting in the pathway to the bathroom. On our way back, he waved us over.

I had never seen this guy in my life, but apparently he remembered me and claimed to be ‘really good friends’ with my high school sweetheart. Next to him I noticed two other guys, probably in their early 20’s whispering and looking at Kim and me. They introduced themselves as Michael and Ryan. Apparently they both remembered me from high school and their names sounded vaguely familiar, but they still looked like strangers to me. Michael was wearing a Miller High Life t-shirt under a vertically striped shirt, unbuttoned. Ryan wore a t-shirt representing his favorite Kalamazoo band, Mustard Plug. As a disclaimer, they both stated that they were not usual Bresa goers either.

We leaned in around the table and tried to hold a conversation over the noise behind us. I think within fifteen minutes of meeting these guys, Michael gave me a strange proposition. “I’ll give you $2 if you punch Fritz in the head,” he said, pointing at Ryan. What??? I thought to myself. Who are these guys? I politely declined, but he was persistent. “Come on, it’s $2. That’s enough for a beer. Fine, how about $5? 10?!” I stated that for no amount of money would I punch a stranger in the head. I laughed at their silly drunkenness and excused myself to get a beer with my own $2. By the time I got back, I had been nicknamed ‘Emily Impossible’ for refusing his request. To go along with Kimpossible, the cartoon character, I guess. Clever.

When the band played the song that we learned during our dance lesson, we made our way to the dance floor. We were all so scrunched together that we spilled over into the ‘drinking’ section of the bar. I could feel Michael and Ryan watching us, but in a slightly less creepy way than the other 40-year-old men. Kim stayed for the next dance, but I exited the floor quickly so as to not get trampled over by eager dancers. I headed for the table where Michael and Ryan were rather than returning to the empty corner where I would be politely ignored. For some reason, they intrigued me more than the brick walls that waited for me on the other side of the bar. For the first time all night, I would be left without Kim to socialize with people by myself. This is the real test to see if I was capable of genuine human interaction, I told myself. Having four drinks helps.

When I came back, I found Dustin drinking tequila out of the ash tray. Michael and Ryan were pointing and laughing. Why I found any of this entertaining was beyond all comprehension. So this was what it felt like to get drunk and silly. Once they realized that I was back, Michael went back to prodding me to punch Ryan in the head. Was this his pathetic attempt at flirting? No, maybe he was just trying to see how manipulative he could be. Or maybe he was just drunk, too.

Shortly thereafter, I followed Kim onto the dance floor again for two more non-country songs. To my surprise, the country crowd was enthusiastic during “Brown-eyed Girl,” “Pour Some Sugar on Me,” and “You Shook Me All Night Long,” three songs that I actually knew the names of. I never thought I would be so excited to hear Van Morrison, Def Leppard, or AC/DC. Happy to see that there were not specific dances for these songs, Kim and I joined large group in the center of the dance floor where people had departed from their synchronized steps and were moving around freely. I’m pretty sure I had a silly huge smile on my face as I shouted the words at the top of my lungs and laughed at my own embarrassing dance ‘moves.’

Back the table after that, Michael and I were talking about music and movies we liked. I was delighted to know that we shared similar taste in both and he seemed ecstatic when he found out that I liked the movie Amelie. I think he thought we were a match made in heaven. In the back of my head, I was still puzzled by his persistent request to punch Ryan. I giggled to myself but didn’t let him in on my absurd thought.

We hadn’t been sitting for more than five minutes when The Doug James Band began their cover of Aerosmith’s “I Don’t Want to Miss a Thing.” Uh oh. This was a shy girl’s worst nightmare. I was sitting alone with a somewhat attractive boy at a table and he was looking at me with big blue pleading eyes. Or again, maybe just drunk pleading eyes. He didn’t give me a chance to sit the slow song out, something I had gotten really good at in high school. He asked me to dance anyway and held my hand on the way to the dance floor. Maybe he had seen me walking around clumsily in my high heels earlier and didn’t want to see me trip and fall. When we found a spot on the floor, he put his arms around my waist and I, though a short 5’3”, was able to put my arms around his shoulders in those high heels. I rocked back and forth like I had been taught to but kept a good distance from him. Having been single for three years, I still think that maybe I got a warm and fuzzy feeling inside. Or maybe the alcohol was just upsetting my stomach.

Once the song was over, it was nearly 2 o’clock in the morning and the stage lights were turned off. Apparently the last song the DJ played was the one that meant ‘get the hell out of here’ because as soon as it started, people started slamming beers, smushing their cigarette butts into the bottom of ash trays, and clearing the dance floor. Empty white plastic lawn chairs and plastic cups complemented the deserted dance floor as people filed out the door and scattered in different directions in the parking lot. I overheard people talking about coming back for the weekly Thursday dance lesson. As I replayed the night in my head, I thought about the drinks, the dances, the conversation, and the laughter. Maybe the alcohol in this bar had some competition.