Louisville Magazine is Louisville's city magazine, covering Louisville people, lifestyles, politics, sports, restaurants, entertainment and homes. Includes a monthly calendar of events.
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46 LOUISVILLE MAGAZINE 7.15 The Air Devil's Inn is a Louisville staple, beckoning pilots with lengthy layovers to quench their thirsts since its opening nearly a century ago. By the 1940s it was a go-to watering hole for World War II pilots training at nearby Bowman Field. Today, it glows between a liquor store and an Ethiopian restaurant from 10:00 a.m. to 4:00 a.m. the next day, illuminating parking lots with a sign that says, "Be Kind to Each Other." I convince my co-ed soccer teammates to abandon their free post-game pitcher at the Tin Roof in St. Matthews and instead bring business to this crusty watering hole. Some of them raise eyebrows as we park next to peeling murals of colorful air combat, but once they adjust to dim lighting and uneven fooring, we pile into one of the red leather booths. I watch them awkwardly adjust to massive craters and exposed springs in the cushion. Brian returns from the bar with a comical amount of beer and a Best Dive Bar Air Devil's In 2802 Taylorsville Road smile. "Six-dollar pitchers!" he shouts. We cheer, then toast. Our bartender approaches the booth carrying a framed photograph in his left hand. "You all been here before?" he asks. We respond with a mixture of yes and no. He hands me the photograph and encourages me to pass it around. Thirty schoolchildren stare into my soul with black- and-white eyes. "This place was originally a one-room schoolhouse, built in 1905. It wasn't a bar until the 1920s," the bartender says. I pass the frame, and the history lesson continues. "The original bell tower is still here," he says. "People believe it's haunted." I believe him. He introduces himself as Alan, shakes each of our hands, and brings us two more pitchers. We cheer. We toast. Model airplanes, suspended on fshing line, soar above sippers. Stacks of encyclopedias sag shelves, which display trophies and unplugged televisions laid to rest at the end of their relevancy. Lattice fencing surrounds two large tables on the front patio, where talk between strangers bleeds into to the dying neon's buzz. A sign reads "Happy Birthday Jillian, you itch." Pilots, civilians and soccer teams (at least ours) pass time with jukebox tunes and payphone chatter. We rotate rounds of traditional or bumper pool with darts or the Golden Tee arcade. Comforting smells of complimentary popcorn pierce the ashy odor from decades of indoor smoking. Framed photos of Amelia Earhart provide feminist inspiration in the ladies' room. Since that frst night, my soccer team has become a Monday-night fxture in this time capsule, where we braid stories with the regulars. The bar comforts us in loss and congratulates us in triumph. Either way, the pitcher is six dollars. — Wesley Bacon CRITIC'S CHOICE