The Snake Pit sat quietly on the opposite side of Thomas street from Reynolds Army Community Hospital. The white clapboard building sported linoleum floors, a quarter-for-three-songs juke box playing Ronnie Milsap, and six paperclip-shaky-leg 1950s soda fountain tables with red plastic chairs. A civilian served up top drawer beer—both Lone Star and Michelob—snatched two-at-a-time from the cooler.
Things happened at The Snake Pit, and cars knew their way home from the gravel parking lot out back.
The Snake Pit is a fading picture of a long time ago, and I love it still.