The sign outside, any of the bartenders would tell you, says it all. THE STRIPE. ALASKA'S ONLY REGGAE BAR. OPEN 24 HOURS.
It was a curious place, one that made any patron outside of the regular crowd pause with curiosity. Stripping down from the layers of clothes required by the outside elements, customers undressed into another world, as if The Stripe's doors led to another dimension. After you entered from the tiny wilderness town of Talkeetna and tossed back the fur-lined hood of your jacket and stomped snow from your boots, you stepped into a scene straight from the Caribbean. Christmas lights hung from plastic palm trees; red, yellow, and black flags and banners hung from everything else. The heads of three stuffed tigers looked down from above the bar: one had a picture of Bob Marley in its teeth, one had a picture of the Jamaican bobsled team, and one had a picture of Elvis. A cigar store Indian wearing a wig of dreadlocks stood next to the jukebox.
Women stripped to cutoff shorts and bikini tops and slurped fruity drinks injected with rum. Men draped themselves in casual wear from Tommy Bahama that was at least two summers old. Boots gathered in the boot checkroom and everyone shuffled to the sounds of that night's cover band in assorted sandals from Nike, Teva, Adidas, and Target. If they knew you and if they were tipped properly, waitresses would serve small joints with your drinks.
This was every night at The Stripe, one of 26 known reggae bars in the state. Last call was at 3 a.m.
The unspoken rule at The Stripe was that no one interrupted Marcus Liberty and Jim Hafner. You listened, you laughed, you cheered in agreement, you shouted in disagreement, but you did not interrupt, interject, or intervene. It was part talk show, part variety show, and part stupid human tricks. But it was their show.
"I swear to you, the goiter was as big as a grapefruit," Liberty yelled over the soft rhythms of that week's band, Stefan and the Rastafarians. The crowd laughed behind him; they had all heard the story before.
"W, W, W, dot Jake bags another, dot com," Hafner answered with his usual non sequitur, pounding the bar as he rattled off his URL. "It'll be the best thing on the Web. No one else is doing it."
The men laughed and the women booed.
"No one is doing it?!" Liberty shot back. "Do you know how much porn is on the Internet?"
"Do you know what industry is making money on the Internet?"
More laughter, more booing. Hafner's idea was simple: He took his life's passion-screwing women-and turned it into a moneymaking venture. In his 42 years, 27 of them sexually active, he had nailed 142 women. And after each encounter, he would excuse himself from the bed (or sofa, or floor, or tabletop) and his German shepherd Jake would take his spot next to the lucky female. Then Hafner would return with a camera and snap a picture. Hafner's collection of Polaroids-featuring strippers, barflies, divorcees, and college students, all smiling playfully and unashamedly for the camera, as if they had just had sexual encounter with a dog-originally had provided only masturbatory pleasure for Hafner and a few of his friends.
Now he was an e-entrepreneur, already with 321 subscribers to www.jakebagsanother.com. His customers paid $8.95 a month to view Hafner's conquests posed seemingly in post-coital contentment with his dog (he's on his third "Jake" now).
"I'm indexed with all the bestiality sites," he continued. "And now I've got women sending me photos with their own dogs. I'm adding to the site every week." He paused, turned to the crowd, and shouted, "Who wants to be next?"
Hafner was an electrician by trade and a pilot on the side. Women were his passion, and flying was his hobby, one he took very seriously. He had been doing glacier landings in the area for more than 10 years and he and his partner Eddie Frazier had lobbied hard against the plan that would have severely limited such flights a few years earlier. They shuttled tourists on a regular basis, sailing over the Interior and touching down on slabs of ice as big as any airport they had been to . . . all to the wonderment of their passengers. He was a celebrity in Talkeetna, for his flying, for his entertainment at The Stripe, and now for his web site.
"Really, y'all don't have to get down with me," he yelled through his laughter. "Just lie there next to Jake. Won't take you but a minute."
The news of the crash was slow to travel to Talkeetna. All news was slow to travel there. Located some 60 miles north of Anchorage, it sat exactly in the middle of nowhere. If a plane crashed more than a few miles away, news had to come via special delivery.
"Jimmy!" A shout came from the back on the crowd as the laughter died, and all anyone could hear was Stefan and the Rastafarians softly singing a Marley cover . . . "Don't worry, 'bout a t'ing. Cuz ev'ry little t'ing, 's gonna be all right. . . ." The crowd turned in surprise toward the interruption. Hafner craned to see who it was. "Jimmy! It's Eddie. They think his plane is down."
"Where?"
"Not sure. Anchorage said they lost contact."
"When?"
"Not sure. Maybe eight, 10 hours ago. I don't know."
"Survivors?"
The messenger just shrugged. Hafner ran to the door and headed for his Ford Explorer.