Milwaukee, WI
The last time I went to the Holler House it was a Sunday afternoon. While the second-shift bowling league was clattering downstairs, Marcy and her daughter, Cathy Stuckert, were preparing dinner for patrons in the kitchen between the bar and the apartment. During her break Marcy told me the bar’s history.
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She’s made one concession only to age. “I can’t drink beer,” she said. “I drink wine. Years ago, I drank gin rickeys. I used to carry my own lime, ’cause not all the bars had fresh limes. I’d carry a lime and a knife.”
I carried the cocktail down to the basement and watched the bowling league. World-class kegler Earl Anthony has bowled at the Holler House, but he didn’t come to pump up his average. There hasn’t been a perfect game here since FDR’s first term, and weekend bowlers can expect to lose 20 pins off their typical score. The planks are real wood, not synthetic, and they’re oiled with a spray can, not a computerized roller. Bowlers are convinced the lanes slope inward, though Marcy says it’s just an illusion. It’s also hard to get a proper pair of shoes from the Florsheim disaster area under the stairs. The stock consists of castoffs from dead bowlers and moving-sale finds.
“That’s a good question,” Mike said. “Pretty much see if anyone steps up, or if it’s a team effort.”
“Traci Lords is a nice girl.”
