Dave's Stagecoach is a true dive. The beer's cheap, the bartenders are crusty, and strangers are always welcomed like friends. Around quittin' time, the faces behind amber mugs of beer are those of a mostly blue-collar crew. Guys in their blue mail-delivery uniforms clink glasses with construction workers still in their overalls. Lawyers with loosened ties cozy up next to snaggle-toothed barflies. Bedraggled old poets invite strangers to walk out the back door and go smoke in their van. There's a pool table in back, the best jukebox in midtown, and a jar of ancient maraschino cherries for sale in case anyone prefers to chew his whiskey. The vibe is almost always a happy, beer-drenched one, even though each week the regulars seem to raise their glasses to another Dave's patron who has just died. But for every old geezer whose bar stool suddenly waits empty, there's a fresh-faced college grad -- with an eye for a charming dive bar -- ready to take his place.