By Heather White & Toma Lynn Smith

The warm brick building with its red, blue, and gold neon beer lights looks like a safe haven compared to the frigid bite that is the midnight Louisville air.
Conversations go on at each table despite the bass in Kanye West’s “Love Lockdown” resonating in the background. There seems to be more television sets than people inside the Granville Inn, located at Third and Gaulbert streets in Old Louisville, at this moment.
“Thursday night is the best night to come,” says bartender Stelios J. Stylianou. “Everybody’s broke,” Stylianou says, explaining the low attendance, also mentioning finals time at the University of Louisville as a possible cause.
There are only a dozen or so patrons in the Granville, but ask anyone of those sitting at the bar, and they’ll tell you there is nowhere else they would rather be.
However, ask them their name, and they may not be so revealing. 
“My name is Cleveland and not like the city!” explains one of the regulars with a grin. “No, it’s Cleveland like the black guy from ‘Family Guy.'”
Taking a drink from his Maker’s and Coke, he talks of “Mama,” who is Margaret Spalding, another patron in the Granville at that moment.
Downing another drink, Cleveland goes on to tell of how no one knows his real name despite coming to the Granville for many years.
“The only guy who knows my name is that one,” he says pointing to a bearded man behind him, wearing a tan toboggan. “Right, Phil?”
The man named Phil gives a small wave of acknowledgement, daring not to turn away from his drink as he watches more of the Utah-Toronto basketball game on the television above the bartenders’ heads.
Cleveland knows all the regulars, including Wally, an older man sporting a long grisly beard.
“Wally is up here all the time,” says Cleveland. “And you can tell how drunk he is by how well you understand what he says. Usually it sounds like a bunch of mumbling and then ‘give me a shot!'”
Stealing a quick glance at Wally, you can see him silently staring off into the distance out the window, unsure of where his gaze will lead.
Suddenly, he yells out.
Everyone turns just in time to see a cop drive by.  “He’s not coming in here,” assures Cleveland.
But little does he know that the cop is finding a spot to park, having every intention of slipping into Granville to check things out.
As the cop walks in, it’s as if the entire bar stands still. Everyone watches, all wondering what he wants. After an exchange of words with the doorman, he leaves.
“Something happened over at the Tavern” the doorman tells us, referring to another bar down the street.
Outside of those sitting at the bar, there is a table of six with just one girl. The girl slaps the guy across from her on the face and spits out the f-word in disgust.
She looks somewhat preppy but devilishly wild at the same time, reminiscent of a naughty private school girl.
Later the slapped young male seems confused, telling his buddies at the bar, “I don’t know what her problem is.”
Nestling into a seat, one can literally feel their bodies vibrating to the beat of West’s tune still blaring from the speakers, and can easily find a patron sipping on their beer while peering around the bar for a familiar face.
For a fleeting moment, one may consider leaving; there’s hardly anyone here save for a few patrons absorbed in the basketball game. The beat of the song continues to pulse, but no one seems to notice.
They continue sipping their drinks, quietly talking amongst themselves about girl problems or work issues. 
As the hour gets later, more people slowly start trickling in. 
Four college students walk through the door, buy a pitcher of beer and situate themselves around a square table. Sitting down to join them, they immediately launch into stories about all the people they have met here at the Granville. 
They talk about Rusty, a man who looks like a farmer, overalls and all, who comes to the bar with an Easter basket full of jerky which he sells to people. Or there’s “Shaky” Dave, the old doorman that had Parkinson’s who, with shaking hands, would hover a jittering flashlight over the ID’s of people wanting to have a drink.
Towards the back of the bar a pool game has started between four college age students, two donning Santa hats and Christmas sweaters. 
When you ask their names, one of them replies, throwing his arm around his buddy, “I’m Mr. December, and this is Mr. November.” They chuckle and continue on with their game.
Cleveland is still at the bar with Margaret and Phil, having another Maker’s and Coke, content with good company.