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dominoes had been scattered to hell:’ As the memories began to flow, spurred on by the beer, the regulars insisted that bulldozers and dump trucks would have to bury them before the bar turned into another strip mall. “We’d be lost without it,” said Warren, visibly angered. “Hell, we don’t need another Wal-Mart, but we do need a Beverly’s?’ Another regular named Ronnie became defiant when contemplating the bar’s demise. “They ain’t ever going to get rid of this place,” he insisted. “It’s one of those places where people say, ‘Don’t go in there because they’ll kick your ass’… You either love this place or you hate it at first sight.” On the day that I visited, Beverly was celebrating her daughter’s 42nd birthday. Bikers swaggered around the bar holding pieces of birthday cake on paper plates. As they did, Beverly waxed nostalgic. “I’d like to make it to the 50th anniversary,” she said, her voice trailing off as she began to envision the bar decked out in gold. “You don’t realize what a good time you’ve had until it’s gone?’ After my visit, I began receiving e-mails from a friend and longtime patron of Beverly’s. He was depressed about the imminent demise of his favorite bar. In March, he sobbed in a message that what he had long feared had finally come to pass: Beverly’s had closed its doors for good. But that’s not really the way this story ends. Earlier this month, the bar was given still another reprieve. Austin’s explosive growth and the law of money are still at the door, of course. But Beverly’s lives again, thanks to the kindness of a Nigerian car salesman who is storing his cars in the large lot behind the baryet another chapter in Austin history and the history of “the toughest bar in Texas.” Melissa Del Bosque is a writer in Austin. 30 THE TEXAS OBSERVER APRIL 29, 2005