Owning a Dive Bar Will Break You (If You Let It)

People have this picture in their head about owning a dive bar — whether it’s in New York, New Orleans, or the backstreets of Bristol.

They see themselves leaning on the end of the counter, under the glow of some battered neon, sliding a whiskey to a regular like they’ve been doing it all their life. There’s a jukebox in the corner that hasn’t been touched since the ’90s, the floor’s a little sticky but in a comforting way, and everyone knows your name.

Nice dream.

The reality? Two staff calling in sick midweek and the third turning up late, still smelling like whatever they were drinking last night. It’s the beer delivery that turns up short, the fryer dying before service, and the landlord’s email blinking at you like a smoke alarm. It’s you in the cellar at one in the morning, wrist-deep in foam and cold steel, wrestling a broken coupler off a keg because there’s no one else left who can. Hands numb, clothes damp, the hum of the fridge your only…