When I first came to Wolf Point, I had my coworker Fran, who had previously worked as a police officer, tell me not to go to Arlo’s bar.
Devon, who had been the Herald-News’ editor before me, told me not to go to Arlo’s. I even overheard a bartender talk about how she avoided Arlo’s. So like any young red-blooded male, I went to Arlo’s, against the better judgement of my peers.
The bar was not unlike most dive bars I went to back home. There were old pictures and paintings on the walls and ornaments like Elmo hanging on the wheel.
The customers were crowded near the bar. Friends were chatting with each other as “The Fire Inside” blasted through the speakers and college football played on television. When the music died down, I could hear customer’s voices. One of them argued the number on the jersey of Donald Thompson – or Charles Thompson as he is actually known.
After I finished my beer, I quickly headed out of the door.
I had gone to Arlo’s, though I only lasted 13 minutes.