Jill's Journal: This is the story of ‘The Wicked Rabb

In a much-needed, 26-hour getaway to Omaha a few weeks back, I was sure that some friends and I were being pranked and that a semi-celebrity host of some goofy reality TV show and his mob of camera people were about to pop out from behind a potted plant.

But that didn’t happen. For starters, there wasn’t a potted plant in the place.

My brief get-away was two-fold: First, to celebrate the birthday of a friend, and second, to take in the high-energy show, The Choir of Man, which, by the way, was absolutely wonderful and I highly recommend if you ever get the chance to go, go! The trip was quick, the show was fantastic, and the company was even better.

We stayed downtown Omaha at The Deco, a historic hotel – think back to mob bosses and FBI headquarters kind of charm – for our one night stay.

Upon our arrival, the desk clerk cheerfully gave us the lay of the land and casually mentioned that just a few steps from where we were standing was a speakeasy.

Well …

Who among us was going to ignore that kind of information, and not be somewhat interested in stepping inside a “hidden” bar?

Following the “When in Rome” theory could surely work for where ever life’s travels take you, and in this instance, “When in Omaha  ...”

Now here’s where the fun – or the possible pranking – begins.

The hotel clerk explained to us that just across the driveway to the right of The Deco’s front door was a tiny liquor store. And inside that tiny liquor store? A secret speakeasy. But – and this is critical – we would need a password for entry.

He leaned in and whispered: “The Wicked Rabbit.”

I assume all of Omaha knows the password. Nonetheless, we tucked the password into the back of our brains until after our eventual return to the hotel later that night.

When my friends and I stepped inside the tiny liquor store, I’m not sure what I expected, but I will say, it was ... tiny. Really, really tiny. Possibly smaller than a lot of today’s walk-in closets. Two walls were lined with dusty bottles of booze for sale. A Coca-Cola cooler hummed in the corner. And behind a small counter stood our goth-centric “concierge.”

“The Wicked Rabbit!” the three of us nearly sang in unison as we stepped inside the tiny liquor store.

He was not amused. Actually, he looked somewhat annoyed. And, instead of playing along with our out-of-towner-new-experience-enthusiasm, he requested our driver’s licenses.

Clearly, at ages 62, 61 and 49, there wasn’t a one of us in the bunch under age. And if we happened to be running a fake ID operation at this stage of our lives, we deserved to get in on creativity alone.

Nevertheless, we humored him.

After confirming that yes, we were all most like past our “mid-lives,” he asked, “How many?”

“Twelve!” the 49-year-old birthday boy declared.

I quickly corrected him, explaining that some were opting to stay back that the hotel, suggesting, perhaps, six.

“I don’t have room for six,” the non-amused concierge answered.

If this was a test, at this point of what had become “guess the right number and you’re in” game, the three of is were flunking. No question.

But, we gave it the ol’ college try, and offered a meek, “How about three?”

You guessed it: “I don’t have room for three” was the still-yet-unamused concierge. “I have room for one.”

That might’ve been helpful information at the start, just saying.

Instead, I purchased one of the small dusty bottles off the shelf. A friend grabbed a six-pack. And then back across the driveway to the left to the hotel we went with our goods.

Fast-forward an hour, and the temptation of the speakeasy was still on the birthday boy’s mind. He decided to check back in at the tiny liquor store just across the driveway to the right. Password repeated, and news that there was now room for two more.

We asked, of course.

So down the elevator we went. Out the front door. Across the driveway to the right. Back into the tiny liquor store.

“The Wicked Rabbit!” we sang again.

He needed to see IDs. My friend’s, anyway. Apparently, he remembered me and the dusty bottle I’d purchased earlier. 

I’ve done my fair share of traveling outside the borders of the U.S., and can tell you that pushing that going through Customs in foreign countries was an easier process than this.

But then, it happened. The less-than-amused concierge stepped around the counter, walked three paces to the wall filled with shelves of dusty bottles of booze for sale and opened the secret door.

And there it was.

Dim lighting. Very dim lighting. Like “are we in a cave” dim. After acclimating our eyes to the dark setting, a leather-bound menu of possible drinks book was placed before us by an attentive server.

“No phone lights,” we were told after using one to read the small print.

Instead, she clipped an even dimmer booklight to the menu of cocktails with per drink prices that would take the better share of a 20-dollar bill. Suddenly the low lighting made sense. If you can’t see the price clearly, you can’t flinch, at least until the tab came.

Some of the drinks on the men were lit on fire.

The birthday boy ordered one of those. His second one, in fact, just after we joined the group inside the speakeasy.

I ordered my usual, something nonflammable and less likely to require a fire extinguisher.

When the check came, I handed our server a $20 bill and asked, “Is this enough?”

She assured me it was.

I only had one drink.

One.

Which, I might add, was more expensive than the small dusty bottle I purchased earlier from the tiny liquor store just across the driveway to the right of the front door of the hotel.

This was real-life humor that came out of a simple invitation to join a friend in celebration of his birthday. Who knew the added bonus to a 26-hour getaway would be the thrill of a hidden door, flaming cocktails, interactions with a less-than-amused goth gatekeeper, and a password involving a wicket rabbit.