At first, I wonder if Walker’s Pint has closed for the night. The bar is completely empty when I walk in, even missing the bartender. It’s almost 10 pm on a Sunday night, and I’ve just driven an hour and a half from Chicago to get here before midnight, completing my most ambitious bar crawl of the trip. I get a $3 Miller Lite from the punk bartender with gauges who doesn’t seem annoyed to see me at the end of a slow night.

Pop music blasts over the speakers and the bar looks exactly like you’d expect a dive in Wisconsin to look. The only indication that this is a queer bar is a rainbow Jager poster and colorful string lights. Behind the bar is a whiteboard labeled “Liquidation Center,” detailing drinks bought for others to be delivered at a later date. There are t-shirts and other Pint merchandise for sale, and printed signs everywhere implore you to “do things at your own risk.”

There is a nice outdoor patio area, with oversized Connect Four and seating perfect for late-night flirting over beers. It feels handmade in the best way, the sweat and hard work of Dykes imbued into the air.

The Pint reminds me of my favorite dive in Montpelier, and I can see the space getting packed and lively on game nights. The place feels lived in and comfortable, like it’s seen a lot of shit and lived to tell the tale.

“Are you writing or drawing?” The now familiar question, everyone always wants to know about the quiet one rapidly scribbling on the bar. I tell the bartender, Liam, about my trip and they gush about The Pint.

“I love coming to work, I love working here.” They tell me they used to come here with an ex (how very homosexual,) and that they got into a routine of coming here alone after work, getting a Miller and a shot of bourbon.

The former bar manager got them into bourbon, “accidentally” pouring extra shots and offering them to Liam. I’m told this bar manager got diagnosed with cancer a few years back, and worked at The Pint through their fight, outlasting the doctor’s predictions by two years. He passed away in mid-2020, and today there was a fundraiser in his memory.

Liam tells me that they wanted to work here because of this bar manager, and that they had always felt welcome and accepted by him. I can tell this was a special person, and I’m glad the community had someone like that at the helm of this place for so long.

Liam has been working here for three years. They became a bartender because of a seventeen-day solo road trip they took to Dinah Shore, the largest queer women’s event in the world. Three months ago, they were promoted to manager, and I can feel how much they love this job and this place.

I wish I could see this place at its most lively, but I’m so glad to be here late on a Sunday night. I have a special place in my heart for empty dive bars. I can feel the laughter and tears of nights past, I can breathe in the love that built this bar into what it is.

Liam offers me a shot before they start doing inventory, and pours me Eagle Rare. They drink pickle vodka. Clink, tap, knock it back. We take our shots in perfect rhythm with one another, following the beat every bartender knows by heart.

God bless bartenders, and goddess bless Lesbian dive bars.

Firm handshakes: 1

Milwaukee, WI