Tyler Sharp
A Neighborhood Treasure
Quietly nestled in a converted historic house in the Cedars area of Dallas is a bar called Lee Harvey’s. Named after one of the alleged JFK snipers, this neighborhood watering hole lives up to its’ subversive moniker. Appropriately within earshot (or gunshot) of my abode in Jack Ruby’s old building down the street, I can walk there on any day, at any hour, and feel totally welcome. The patrons know my pursuits, my projects, and they know that I am writing this story. It is the only bar in the world where they know my name.
Part lake house, part junkyard, chain link fences encircle the gravel lawn, wrought iron fire pits, and weathered wooden picnic tables in the front yard. Through the screen front door, the cheap wood paneling and ripped vinyl booths are bathed in the neon light of antique beer signs advertising the leisure of high life. They have a beat up pool table, old TV’s that play classic cartoons all day, and a pair of fermented cat testicles on a shelf above the bar. I have bellied up to the bar with characters of every shade; other local artists, oil rough necks fresh off the job, bankers in suits, the women’s roller derby team, and someone’s grandparents.
And though the gravel may occasionally get stuck in my shoes, the smoke from the fire pits may sting my eyes, or the toilet may be over flowed in the bathroom, there is a friendly communal atmosphere here that makes me proud to be a part of the neighborhood, and proud to call it my backyard bar.
**This photo story was published online for Pictory Magazine’s theme, Neighborhood Treasure. The sixth story in the showcase, it is my second essay to be published with them.