The Saturday night crowd was typical: the Bobbleheads (three buddies who always sat at the bar, nodding their heads in unison as they solved the world’s problems) and a smattering of older men who’d retired from the auto plant.
By midnight, the Bobbleheads had “Piano Man” on the jukebox and sang its chorus loudly, drinks raised. Then a group of 20-something couples entered, curious about the little hole-in-the-wall place nestled among trendier hotspots.
The singing stopped them in their tracks yet also captivated them. The bar’s furnishings were delightfully old school. The men, who sang and stared back at them, seemed harmless. The bartender looked like someone straight from a 1970s movie set.
One of the young women texted her friends, who soon joined them.
And that’s how Scotty’s became the place to be on those glorious weekends when anything seemed possible, and why the Bobbleheads, displaced by progress, decided to move on.