Monroe Ave. institution Acme Bar and Pizza closing? Probably. Maybe. We'll see.

There's no announcement, at least officially. But social media is buzzing. Which means it's probably happening. That's so Acme.

When I was a part-timer in the sports dept. at the D&C, I would often leave the newsroom at the end of my shift and head to Monroe Ave.

Most of the time, I went to Acme Bar and Pizza, the dingy, dive-y Monroe Ave. institution that featured craft beer before it was cool, arguably the best pizza slices in town, and unquestionably the nastiest (basement) bathroom in Monroe County.

I’d grab a pour or bottle or can of whatever was on special. (Acme, located at 495 Monroe Ave. between Goodman and Meigs, always had the best specials. Those Sunday nights with $2 “microbrews” got especially fuzzy. It also introduced me to some of my all-time favorite breweries and some of my all-time favorite people.) And then there would be a slice of ‘roni pizza. (If I was feeling especially frisky, I’d add pineapple to it.) That late night beer-slice combo was unbeatable.

It’s not hyperbole to state I grew up at Acme. So that makes this news hard to fathom. There's no announcement, at least officially. But social media is buzzing. Which means it's probably happening. That's so Acme. Everyone is saying Acme is closing its doors for good Saturday.

I’m gonna do something I never do as a journalist, I’m gonna report (or really reflect) on a rumor. I’m not gonna bother to confirm it. I haven’t been inside Acme since before the pandemic. Fatherhood has really limited my ability and desire to go out. So (with my wife’s encouragement), I’m gonna try to fully encapsulate what this lovable shithole meant to me. (I’m gonna fail.)

(Update: Acme confirmed in an Instagram comment on my post. Saturday will be the last day.)

Photo: Having to dig through my Google Photo archives for Acme art, that was a wild and emotional trip down memory lane.

So here are some vignettes and meandering musings on Acme:

I met my wife there, sorta

Today was the nine-year anniversary of me asking out Cass via email. I saw her in a D&C staff meeting. I worked in the newsroom on the fourth floor. She was in advertising on the second floor. I introduced myself as “Will C from the fourth floor.” I’m still saved her in phone like that. I was so worried that she would ignore me, so when I got that response I was so over-the-moon excited. (Her response was delayed a few days, because she was up in the Adirondacks without cell service. It was never harder to be patient.)

I really think I have Acme to thank for our relationship (which now includes five years of marriage, a surly 3-year-old roommate, three cats, and probably something else very, very soon — I’m drawing a blank there). Cassie’s best friend Morgan worked at Acme as a bartender. Morgan, who would later be Cassie’s maid of honor, knew me as a regular. So Cass asked her roommate whether she should go out on a date with the goofy guy from the fourth floor. Thankfully, Morgan gave me a glowing review.

Over the years, we spent a lot of time together at Acme, especially when Morgan was working. That initial email ended up working out pretty well, all.

What about that one night where I saw a man-size banana sitting in the front booth

Acme was the kind of place you could (pardon the terrible Big Brother allusion here) expect the unexpected. And the hilarious part is that no one would bat an eye. Because the unexpected became the quotidian. It was all so banal, really. That’s the beauty of Acme. When asked to describe Acme, I always used to say, it felt like a weird sociology experiment gone astray.

Photo: One night, this very large banana was just chilling in a booth. No clue why. No explanation. But hey, that’s Acme.

So yeah, there was that one night where a suspicious-looking banana with a mustache sat in the front booth. Alone. The banana sat there for hours. No one bothered the banana. And as far as I can tell, no one claimed the banana. I don’t know how the banana got there, why it was there, or if the banana made its way home. All these years later, I hope the banana is doing well.

Big John

If you’ve spent any time at Acme over the last 20-plus years, you know Big John Edwards, the imposing bouncer. With the shaved head and the big beard (sometimes), John was always standing at the front entrance. It wouldn’t be a stretch to call Big John the mayor of Monroe Ave. John became one of my best friends. During my early D&C days, I spent more time with John than anyone outside of my family (and later Cass). Not only was John the most-well read person I know, but we could spend hours talking about the NFL and an assortment of random topics.

No one loved (loves) Acme more than John.

We usually went out every Sunday night. I’d meet him at the liquor store up the street and then our adventures would begin. More often than not, those adventures ended at Acme, even though we told ourselves we’d spend the night at Tap and Mallet or the Firehouse Saloon or O’Callaghan’s or somewhere else beside Acme. Acme had a way of drawing you in, even when you didn’t want to draw in.

We already hit on Morgan (who also met her husband Dan at Acme). But I’d be remiss if I didn't mention the other incredible employees and regulars — Don, Jill, Derek, Toni, Christina, Jamie, Jason, Scott, Aimee, Steph, Chuck, Donnie, and on and on and on. (I know I am forgetting some names. That’s not intentional. It’s just a lot to remember and a lot to wrap my brain around.)

Early edition of the newspaper

I remember ending up at Acme for the first time shortly after I turned 21. I am not exactly sure how I ended up there. I knew I was hooked after that first visit. Some of my favorite memories are also some of my cringiest.

How about the time I tried to impress that lovely young lady by bragging about being verified on Twitter? (It didn't matter that I only had 1,200 followers at that point, because I honestly thought I would score some points by sharing this.) It didn’t work. I am pretty sure she didn’t know what Twitter was. That’s probably for the best.

Here’s something equally embarrassing:

Before leaving the newsroom for the night, I would often wait for the early (regional) edition of the newspaper to be delivered downtown. I’d grab a copy, especially if I had an article in there. (There are still few better feelings than the rush you get from seeing your byline in print.) After I scooped up a copy of the paper, I’d usually head to Acme. I’d bring the newspaper inside, look for an empty booth, order a beer (usually from Aimee), and open the newspaper.

I didn’t do this because I was hoping to catch up on the news. I did this because, again, I thought it would impress someone. I had these delusions that a woman would see me reading the paper and ask me about it. I honestly thought that someone would be dazzled by me reading the newspaper before it even came out. What a puddinhead.

But therein lies the beauty of Acme. You could be as weird as you wanted to be there and you’d be accepted. I’m gonna miss that, even if I’m just a lame dad nowadays.

A final note: It’s pretty wild to think I’ve been working on this independent publication for over two years now. In that time, I’ve published 200 newsletters, highlighted some of my favorite people in the industry, curated two beers festivals (that featured 150 participants and 4,600 attendees), and continued to break all the biggest news in the region (closures, consolidations, openings, etc.).

The Cleveland Prost remains the preeminent source for regional beer news. If you own a brewery, bar, or beer-adjacent business, this is the best place to reach the nerds you wanna be in front of. So I remain open to sponsorships, advertisements, and sponsored content. Feel free to reach out to me at clevelandprost@gmail.com for more. And more than anything, thanks for all the support. None of this would be possible without the devoted (and thirsty) audience.