This is a story about change and the quiet way in which history is made. It is also a story about a bar and its patrons, about their stubbornness and gentleness, vehemence and spunk. And it begins in a city that is not much of a city at all. In the state of Nevada, the city of Sparks lies adjacent to Reno and its sparkling casinos, where retirees and young families come to temporarily reside in a world not unlike Disneyland, with its vivid lights and colors and heavily made-up characters. People come to Reno to stave off the real world. They come for the bling. They settle in behind a cocktail and pull a silver lever and wait for scantily clad women to circle by and refill their glasses. In Reno, you can see a show at almost any hour; you can roam for days through casinos without ever exiting a building; and you can live large enough to pretend, for as long as you can afford it, that fiction is reality.

Sparks is just reality. There is no brilliance and nothing is staved off. Scattered throughout the trailer parks and dilapidated homes are places such as Dotty’s, a local chain of bedroom-sized casinos. At Dotty’s all the machines are electronic; silver levers are not pulled. The woman behind the counter is typically old and damaged, and her jeans are too tight. She is missing three teeth, but you can’t see that because she does not smile when you pick up your drink. Dotty’s, and a few like it, are all the sparkle that Sparks has to offer. Sparks is where people go after Reno has wrung them out like so many sponges. Sparks is welfare cases, pot bellies, drug addicts, banana clips, grubby children and sagging breasts. It is Vietnam vets, ex-cons and single mothers. And, of course, it is illegal aliens by the dozens, living where no one cares to notice. In Sparks, the wind rushes down from the mountains, blowing about dust and trash and tumbleweeds and winding people up. It is a city short on nerves.

And it is here, sandwiched between a grimy 7-11 and a ramshackle dry cleaners, that there is a bar, sometimes full and sometimes not, that has been there for a long time. It used to be dark inside, with deep red walls and a deep red ceiling that siphoned all light from the room. A wooden island, mounted with trophies and slot machines, took up the entire center of the room but was never used. Once, a regular named Marilyn accidentally threw her car into the wrong gear and drove through the front door of the building, crashing into the island and hurling it into the bar. The damage done was well over the $10,000 that the insurance paid out. After that, the owner, Robin, had trouble catching up with the bills. She also started keeping the liquor bottles in the back room and out of harm’s way.

For many years the place, known as Robin’s Nest, was hopping, and you were fortunate if you could find a seat. The red benches against the walls and the stools along the bar were always full, leaving standing room only and, now and again, occasioning crankiness. The pool table, then lit by a dim Bud Light chandelier, was continuously in use, as was the jukebox. Robin had the best jukebox in town. But things change, and for the last four years that she owned the place, Robin knew she should sell.

No one knows for sure how old Robin is, but the best guess is late eighties. Everyone who knows her likes her, respects her and fears her just a little. From time to time Jeanie and Jack, two of Robin’s regulars, meet at the revamped and refurbished bar that used to be Robin’s and talk of past times and past people, of things missed and things best gone. Jack, wearing his usual baseball cap and flannel shirt, sticks with beer. He laughs frequently, untroubled by his missing front tooth. Jeanie is in her fifties and has peachy skin, a high, smooth forehead and alert blue eyes. She drinks coffee with Baileys and plays keno while she talks. Jeanie was there when the bar first opened in 1985, and she was there when it changed hands twenty-two years later. She knows the former owner well and says Robin won’t talk about what happened. “It broke her heart to sell this place,” Jeanie says between swipes at the keno screen.

Robin, it is said, owned a number of bars in California—all “Robin’s Nests”—before she moved to Sparks and started a new venture. No one is quite sure about Robin’s business history, but they all have a strong sense—different strong senses, in fact —about the woman. She was short, she was hard of hearing, she had dementia, she was tough as nails, she was spirited, she was intractable, she was a good lady, she was difficult to work for, she could be so ornery.

“She was a bit on the odd side,” Jack says.

Jeanie slaps at the keno screen, “Jack’s right about that, she was definitely different. Boy, she was a toughie.”

“She was a pistol when she was younger.” Jack hoots and orders another beer.

“Oh Lord yes, we’ve seen pictures.”

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