‘My Trix are not for your kids’

The downtown of Austin, Texas, has a unique vibe and distinctive spirit. Walking along Brazo Street, we came across a shop named ‘Floppy Disc repair shop’ and did a double take. Floppy disc in 2024! How do you even repair it? A quick check of their website revealed that they “are a full-service floppy disc repair company located in Austin, Texas. We fix all brands, makes, and formats...”. The prose combined with the odd façade of the shop-front piqued our curiosity. A burly-looking man nearby was watching us and asked us quite pleasantly, “Can I help you?” When we asked about the floppy disc shop, he roared with laughter and said, “Oh, it’s one of the speakeasies.” Now, thanks to an article in DH, we knew that speakeasy is an euphemism for a secret bar, having their origin in the prohibition era in the United States. The then illegal bars had their customers speak quietly, and the police officers who had difficulty finding the bars termed them speakeasies. Now, of course, they are perfectly legal, yet speakeasies flourish in Austin, keeping with the quirks of the city and for the fun of figuring out the entry.

Back to our affair with the floppy disc, our attempts to enter the bar flopped as we randomly punched numbers on the number-lock at the door. Our earlier good Samaritan, who goes by the name Mike, mentioned that we had to punch in this week’s code to enter. We asked, “How do you get the code?” With a mischievous smile, Mike said that’s something we have to figure out on our own. Apparently, finding a way to enter is all part of the fun, and it also makes sure that only a limited number of people are admitted as the Floppy Disc’s ‘storage’ is limited to 30. He also added that the door code is sent to a few people on their text chain. We thanked him politely and started to move away even as he was busy texting on his phone. In a few seconds, Mike called out to us and said, “Today is your lucky day. I checked with the bartender, and as things are slow in there, he has given me the code. Do you want to go?” It turned out Mike is the bouncer of the bar next door.

We were game, and upon entering the funky speakeasy named ‘Red-Headed Step Child’, a neon sign “mmm, your hair smells pretty...” at the entryway welcomed us. We took in the décor of a framed chainsaw, doll heads, and three cool wooden seats on swings and scanned the menu. It was replete with creatively delightful names; one really stood out, My Trix Are Not For Your Kids, a medley of light rum and Trix-infused milk. An axe for the handle of the ladies room gave a creepy feeling but soon melted away with a shot of ‘Silence of the Lambs’.