Top 10 CC Club stories submitted by readers
With Olivia Lavecchia
In honor of last week's cover story, an oral history of the CC Club, we asked readers to submit their own stories from the landmark south Minneapolis bar. You did not disappoint. We ended up with a couple dozen tales of booze-fueled shenanigans, ranging from dates gone awry to bar fights and projectile vomiting. Here are the 10 best (in no particular order):
I had just broken up with my boyfriend Thad. Like most gals, I engaged in some "retail therapy" at Ragstock on Lake Street, and was smitten with the handsome man working at the register. I asked him to meet me for a beer that night after work at the CC Club, and he agreed. I arrived around 9-ish for my first date with Ragstock boy, and per usual, the CC was packed. I walked the bar, looking for a spot to sit down, and who was there, but my ex, Thad. He eagerly invited me to join him in his booth, and then Ragstock boy showed up too. Talk about awkward party of three! The discomfort only worsened as Ragstock boy shared that he was a devout Satanist and felt that all people she be free to be as evil as they want to be. I'm a Christian. Thad just sat in the booth and laughed. The stiff libations at the CC Club really came in handy on that fateful night!
My now wife and I stop into the CC for a drink on our first date. We sit on the side of the divider where the bathrooms are. After a little bit we hear screaming and then bottles being thrown down the length of the other side of the divider towards the video games. After a few bottles are thrown, we hear someone get on that speaker and warn in the most stern yet helpful of ways, "we've called the cops. You'd better leave." I then notice my friend I had introduced my now wife to run out the back door.
My CC Club story is a little crazy. We went there one night after "pre-gaming" a little too hard, but we were all feeling good. Then out of nowhere one of my friends went crazy and slammed a glass on my other friend's face cutting both of them horribly. Blood was everywhere, cops and ambulances came. And I haven't seen that "ex-friend" since.
It was 3 p.m. on a Thursday and I was wasting some time before work with a couple of drinks. There were five people in the bar: Me, the bartender, a waitress, and two gentlemen in the back playing pool. The pool players start causing some sort of problem. The bartender goes back to talk to them. One of them pushes him. The waitress, a skinny girl, bolts back there and yells, "i'm sick of this bullshit!", grabs the rather large man by the back of the neck, drags him down the length of the bar, and opens the door with his face as she throws him out. Right then and there I developed a crush.
It was late, probably a little after midnight, when the waitress brought us a pitcher with a small, round object at the bottom of it. We'd been there a few hours already. To put it mildly, this was not our first pitcher of the night. But it was the first any of us had ever seen with something rolling around the bottom. We all stared at it for a minute, joked and laughed about it, and then set about drinking the pitcher. As I recall, there was never any thought about sending it back.
After everyone had drained a glass, the pitcher had about 10 ounces left. At that point, I asked what seemed like the obvious question: "Should I eat it?" Remember, at this point, we really didn't know what it was. To me, it kind of looked like a racquetball.
Everyone at the table thought me eating it was a great idea, except for my girlfriend, who expressed some concern, but was overruled. So, when I got to the bottom of my glass, I sucked the dark little sphere into my mouth and bit into it.
A cherry. And not like a cheap little bar cherry for a mixed drink. Like, a nice, fresh cherry, with the pit still intact... only it had been soaked in Bell's Two Hearted for at least a half hour. How it got there remains a mystery. I've eaten CC Club food. More than once, I've thrown CC Club food back up. I highly doubt that a fresh cherry has ever been in that kitchen. Anyway, it tasted pretty damn good, and made my night.
I go to CC Club a lot, and have for a number of years, often staying late into the night. Every once in a while we try to guess what the "CC" in the name stands for. Maybe it's "cryptic cherries."
The cryptic fruit.
Once, during the afternoon, when the place was mostly empty, some guy went up to the jukebox and started playing some horrendously loud and vulgar rap song. The bartender came out, walked right up to the jukebox, unplugged it, and walked away without saying a word.
I remember going there with my friend, John, and slamming beer on (probably) an empty stomach. At the end of the night the CC staffers announced last call and we still had an almost full pitcher and John said: "Come on, let's chug this," and we did. (Now that I'm middle-aged, I wonder: would it really be an unpardonable sin to pour a pitcher of Leinenkugel down the drain?)
John and I got up and began shuffling with the throng toward the front door and I knew with deadly certainty that I was going to be sick. I looked back at the men's room and there were just as many people behind us. Everything went into slow motion with everyone laughing and calling to one another and taking their time saying goodnight as the line crawled through the cigarette smoke toward the door. John was in front of me, turning around and talking and talking and talking. The guy could run his mouth, even after the two of us had just spent eight hours working together in the record store. There was no way I was going to get out of the door in time and was going to lose it in front of all of the hipsters. It would be beyond embarrassing and John just kept talking right into my face. I pressed the back of my hand against my mouth and concentrated on the red "EXIT" sign above the door. My eyes were watering and I was shaking, but I made it outside.
As John and I cut across 26th Street I dropped a couple steps behind him, turned my head and projectile vomited. I didn't stop or bend over, I just let it go. John kept right on walking and talking and I thought, "Wow, this guy is so self-absorbed, he didn't even notice what just happened." Then, right in the middle of his story, John said: "Good job, man. I bet you feel better, huh?" Before I could answer, John was back to relating his epic story about himself. It was pretty cool of him to refrain from judging me.
Once I was supposed to interview Gabe Douglas (of 4onthefloor) there and all I knew about him was that he "had a big beard and loved drinking." I sat down in the C.C. Club prepared to make eye contact with him and introduce myself. I accidentally made eye contact with a bunch of random bearded guys who clearly loved drinking, because that's the C.C. Club's clientele at 4 p.m. on a weekday.
I walk into the men's bathroom. While doing my business I notice a dollar submerged in the pee, spit and cigarettes of the trough. I go back to my table and make a bet with my friends how long it will stay there. A few minutes go by and I go back into the bathroom to find to little surprise the piss soaked dollar removed. To this day I hope Wendell did not get that dollar.
When I walked to work during the 90s I'd cut through the alley behind the CC Club because it wasn't unusual to find folded up money in the litter and dessicated weeds behind the bar.
Whenever I got lucky I'd picture a couple of dudes slipping behind the bar for a quick drug transaction. Then, one of them, probably the purchaser, back in the bar, digging in his jeans after ordering a beer thinking: "Dammit, I know I have another twenty somewhere." The eggs bennedict at Poulet tasted especially good when purchased with the free, CC Club alley cash.
Have a good CC Club story that didn't make it? Share it in the comments.
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