Postcards from State Avenue

Washburn unlocked the bar for him at 10:30 a.m., half an hour before she normally opens.

Her bar is tiny -- only nine stools -- but it has character.

It's a bar for bikers, fishermen, the working class and nonworking class, Washburn says. The house shot is a Funky Monkey, a neon-green mix of vodka, rum and flavorings. It's 25 cents all day, every day, though her regulars are sipping beers as they talk about trucks, sports and landscaping.

Her idea to call the bar "Dad's" was well-thought-out, Washburn says. "Would your old lady question you if you say you're going to Dad's? It was either that or 'The Pharmacy.'"

On the far wall is a magazine rack with recent issues of Playboy. She says the regulars get angry if she doesn't hang the latest centerfold in the bathroom. Miss August is pinned above the toilet, between two chalkboards where viewers grade her looks according to a crude rating system: three penises ejaculating in her direction.

But the bathroom is off-limits when Washburn hits the switch that sets a blue police light spinning over the bar. When the light flashes, draws are only 25 cents and longnecks $1. The Blue Light Special ends when the first person at the bar has to use the bathroom. She says she enjoys the ruckus that always breaks out when someone finally gets up to go pee. "We've had people tackling other people," Washburn says.

As usual this afternoon, Pops is getting all the attention from the women. Even so, he says he's no player. "They shoot me down real quick," he says. "When you're the oldest goddamn person in the place, they know they're safe."

Shellie crushes out a Winston and sidles up to the old man again. She tells him the water pump on her lawnmower broke the other day, and as she mowed her acre of grass, she had to refill it with water every ten minutes. She says she mowed the lawn in her bikini, so onlookers were pleased with her inconvenience. So is Pops, who's now smiling again. After Shellie says goodbye, he quickly disappears into the bathroom. -- Bryan Noonan

6 p.m.
Hid-N-Cornerz
3209 State Avenue

Hid-N-Cornerz is anything but hidden.

An American flag decorates the old brick stand-alone storefront, its picture windows filled with junk. A homemade sign above the door boasts, "I have any size bed you need clean 'n' cheap." Inside, two narrow pathways wind through upright rows of mattresses that vie for space with refrigerators, high chairs and baby walkers. Random items like a Beefeater Gin mirror, a framed Princess Diana commemorative poster and an old-school typewriter add to the jumble.

Owner Monte Roden, 51, has carved out a space for his desk (topped by two stacked TVs -- both tuned to different stations) at the entrance to one pathway. A quiet man sporting an Old Navy American flag shirt and jean shorts, he grew up nearby but moved across the state line to Missouri (where he still lives). He despairs of the changes around his store in the five years he's been back on this corner of State Avenue.

"The drug traffic's gotten really, really, really bad within the last year," he says. "Right there." He points to the gas station across the street. "If I set up a camera, I can videotape 30 drug deals in a week." During the day, he says, four or five guys hang out in the gas-station parking lot (which boasts its own homemade sign: "We now have Slurpee") or on 32nd Street for hours at a time. Cars pull up. One guy walks to the passenger side, where money is exchanged. Sometimes, the pay phones in the station lot are used to facilitate the transaction. "They've got it down like clockwork," he says.

"I see people from all walks of life, from Johnson County to north of the river. And everybody is coming here to get their drugs and go back to their nice, quiet suburban homes. I've learned to live with it."

Roden has no plans to leave the area, due in part to how expensive it would be to relocate. He says business is all right, and that he's managing to pay his rent. "It's a pretty good location for my type of business," he says. "I serve a need for the community -- or at least I feel like I do." He claims to be streetwise; he keeps his distance from trouble, from those who've taken a different path in life.

"It's unfortunate," he says. "The cops don't care nothin' about it."

But do they know about all the activity?

"They know," he says. "They know." -- Jen Chen

8 p.m.
Jalisco's Restaurant and Bar
5000 State Avenue

Jalisco's is quiet, save the animated conversation at a booth near the front window. The couple adding life to the place are Susan Estes, a marketing manager at an Overland Park consulting firm, and Michael Crosby, an architect.

In the spring of 2004, Estes and Crosby made the difficult decision to head west, leaving behind their beloved apartment in midtown Kansas City for the unknown frontier known to them only as "Wyandotte County."