Time Traveling at The Bay Horse Cafe
The Bay Horse Cafe & Roadhouse prior to the 2017 renovation and reopening. For several years prior, the watering hole was abandoned. Note the dilapidated neon sign on the right.
The more I think about it, the more I realize that the Bay Horse Cafe was the successor to my Waffle House. It didn’t start out that way, though. First, it was the shuttered building with the cool, neon sign in pieces on the floor behind dusty windows. Then it was the happy hour spot beneath the cool, restored neon sign hanging above the sidewalk.
The Bay Horse’s neon sign being restored in June 2017.
I’d never been a true “regular” at any bar before—such a relationship seemed more precarious than even ones of a romantic nature—but the Bay Horse Cafe & Roadhouse was the one.
And then came COVID.
And then I moved in a few floors above.
And then it reopened.
And god damn was it great.
It was a place for cold beer. A place for hot coffee. The place where I got to know my neighbors. The place where neighbors became friends.
If someone was visiting from out of town (whether from another country or some far-flung locale such as the suburbs), The Bay Horse was the first place I brought them. The tiger maple running down the length of the main room wasn’t just for serving drinks, it was also a stage for storytelling and a desk for work.
Not that I was ever particularly productive there: I’d barely crack open my notebook before I was off into some conversation with the wonderful bartenders, another regular, or visitors who’d stumbled in because the warm light of the windows seemed welcoming. I was lucky, beyond lucky, to have the Bay Horse and its community in my life.
A few Bay Horse memories from over the years.
Then tragedy struck on Memorial Day Weekend of 2022. Lori Meeker, the Bay Horse’s kind proprietor (and my landlord) suddenly passed away. No longer would I get to hear Lori’s voice calling to me and the dog from the alleyway, or, offering me a drink on the house in exchange for carrying in a few cases of beer. Lori looked out for us—for all the tenants, all the bartenders, all the regulars. Everyone. Of course it wasn’t just our little community affected, but so many of Lori’s loved ones. All the folks who’d been at the funeral to celebrate her life.
The sorrow remained, but I got used to seeing the shuttered bar and became numb to the rumors of reopening. As someone who unapologetically loves to hear all the neighborhood gossip, I’d consumed more than my fair share. Nothing ever seemed to take hold, though, until the dog and I made our usual rounds one afternoon.
We’d received word that some dude had apparently crossed all the “t’s” and dotted all the lower-case “j’s.” The doors were back open and said dude was kicking up a cloud of dust while sweeping the floors of his newly acquired business. He was friendly, but I was wrapped in layers of personal nostalgia which fueled skepticism atop an established cynicism. Just what the fuck was a “time travel bar,” anyways? As if the place needed a “concept.” Here’s this great bar that looks classy, yet is really just a laid back neighborhood dive. It’s The Bay Horse. Just the god-damned, wonderful Bay Horse. Nothing special needed.
Not that I was truly in any position to question or criticize. I never had any skin in the game or attempted to reopen the place—I just hung out there and wanted to again. Even if I knew it would never be the same. If nearly two decades of writing about history has taught me anything, it’s that rose-colored glasses are easy to come by and even when you know how to take them off—the pull of the past always remains in some form or the other.
My reservations began to subside after reopening day, though, when I got caught up in the place for hours with all the neighborhood folks who’d come through. And then there was Smith, the new owner. My dog took a liking to him immediately, which was a great sign, but I also watched as he handled a few situations while no one was watching—with kindness, compassion, and empathy. He’s also the man that explained “The West Side” of Cincinnati to me. Something I never really “got” despite being born here (and do trust, I get it now)
Smith quickly became a neighborhood fixture. The literal cowboy who owned the dusty saloon on the block. The man sitting out front saying “welcome home” from beneath the brim of his hat to everyone coming through the door.
The “time travel” thing, though. I still didn’t get that. I mean, I’ve watched a lot of Star Trek in my life, but wasn’t sure why Smith had gone with that “theme.” My pessimism then died…
OPTION 1: …quicker than a red shirt on an away mission to 1970s San Francisco.
OPTION 2: …quicker than a Borg drone cut down by a Tommy gun-wielding Captain Picard.
OPTION 3: …quicker than Q at the hands of a Worf who got his way.
Quicker than some poor, nameless Starfleet ensign who’d drowned in a schooner of beer.
I was sitting at the end of the bar. I’d been there for a few hours, trying to type, but kept running into faces I knew. By the time the sun had gone down, my girlfriend had joined me and I’d barely done any productive work—the screen still glaring before me. There were these photographs I’d been trying to track down for years. A series of frames I made back in 2008, when I was 18. I’ve got a system, and I like to think it’s a pretty good system, but for the life of me—I could never locate those photographs. As I sat at The Bay Horse that night, scrolling through folders and files from over the years, I then realized what I was doing.
I was time traveling.
Fucking time traveling.
At the time travel bar.
I clocked that moment, took stock of every detail—vowing to never forget how I felt. There I was at my neighborhood gathering spot, relaxing after an evening spent amongst friends. Next to me was the person I loved—someone who didn’t just understand why I’d wanna exist at the neighborhood bar, but also understood me. A true partner. And straight ahead: the digital representation of the creativity I’d been pursuing since I was 16—the stories I’d spent years photographing and writing about. My main outlet, the way I found purpose. This was the kind of life I’d always desired. I was living it. Time traveling, but also living in the present.
Then, it happened.
Right after that gratifying sense of calm had taken hold—deep in some old folder from some old computer backup—the search ended. I’d found the photographs I’d been looking for all these years.
Photographs I had made of the iconic time travel vehicle.
Photographs of a Delorean.
These weren’t just any photographs of a Delorean. They were photographs of my friend’s Delorean. A friend I’d made while working so many years at Kings Island.
In the winter of 2008, after I’d made the seasonal transfer from operating rides to washing parts in maintenance, I asked Nick for a ride to work.
He just happened to have a Delorean.
I just happened to have a camera.
I’m not a “signs” person…
…but I really do like to point out when they occur.
• • •
NOTE: As I was finishing the final draft of this story, at The Bay Horse, I was casually chatting with two other people. None of us knew each other, but all three of us laughed when the topic of Scott Bakula randomly came up. You know Scott Bakula. He* was “Sam” on the original Quantum Leap: a time traveler.
*He was also Captain Jonathan Archer on Star Trek: Enterprise. And yeah, look, no one really loved that show, but hey, the guy did a lot of time travel on that show too and, well….you gotta have faith…” faith of the heart.”
Signs.
• • •
This story is dedicated to Lori, Ace, Susan, Sarah, Smith, Tiffany, New Sarah, Erin, and of course Nick Roedl—as well as—everyone else I’ve shared a beer with at “the horse” (including Peydon, who is here right now).
Since 2007, the content of this website (and its former life as Queen City Discovery) has been a huge labor of love.
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