“Four bucks for one of these… ‘nuff said.” “These bad boys!” she howls, slouched at the bar, a mammoth tub of brew in each hand. When asked what makes He’s Not Here so illustrious, UNC junior and HNH regular Maggie Zebrine doesn’t hesitate. Summarized in three words (with unabashed alliterative cuteness): cups, company, and karaoke. So what’s the timeless bait that has lured in the patrons for decades?
By 1:30 a.m., the place is shoulder-to-shoulder even its precarious steel staircases are buckling. There’s a constant ebb and flow of people wandering in and out of He’s Not’s two-story indoor tavern. About every two minutes, another distracted undergrad trips over the bulging roots of the majestic courtyard’s central magnolia tree, with which every HNH regular maintains a love-hate relationship. The bar’s spacious open-air courtyard is teeming with an eclectic array of guests, 90 percent of whom are sipping from periwinkle plastic cups the size of fat cartons of ice cream. Amidst the discord, three sounds are recognizable: first, a shrill, garbled chatter indicative of a pack of morphine-addled hyenas (or in this case, cackling sorority girls) next, a virile pounding of boulder-sized fists against a splintery wooden table occupied by a huddle of beer-thirsty UNC linebackers and lastly, the distinct gentle twang of a banjo complimenting the rich, raspy croons of a local folk singer. Here at the wall’s furthest limit is a familiar three-word phrase painted in shoddy evergreen lettering above the colossal stencil of a human hand – pointing omnisciently towards the bar’s incognito entrance.Īs is typical on weekends, a boisterous muddle of noise resonates from within the He’s Not grounds. If the intrigued pedestrian cares to squint past the squirming crowd of figures down the grungy passageway, she will see an ivory, weed-adorned brick wall that borders it until eventually seceding from it. Yet detection of the elusive HNH bar is nearly impossible from the eyes of an unenlightened passerby… unless she happens to be strolling by I Love NY Pizza near midnight on a Friday and witnesses an unusual procession of tipsy locals down a nondescript alleyway between the Yogurt Pump and the FedEx building. or a faded avocado-colored bumper sticker displaying a primitive telephone logo, adjacent to the mysterious words He’s Not Here / On the Village Green.Īn unacquainted visitor or callow out-of-state freshman might scratch her head in puzzlement at repeated sightings or casual mentions of the mysterious He’s Not, desperate to know its origins and who on earth He is, yet too craven to ask around.īy eventually unearthing the identity of He’s Not Here (HNH) as the name of a beloved bar somewhere in the area, the Chapel Hill newbie is still not yet fully out of the dark she has merely unshackled the gate to a larger mission: finding it.Ī casual midday walk down Franklin Street provides easy visual access of impossible-to-miss joints like the famously looming Top of the Hill bar, the notoriously risqué Players nightclub, and the ironically rowdy Library. Visit the enchanting college town for a weekend, and you are 99% guaranteed to see at least one of three things: a famous Carolina blue sky a beaten and belligerent Dookie or two stumbling back to Durham around 3 a.m.
Polk and Walker Percy show smarts… Well, He’s Not sums up how we party.” “MJ, basketball…Mia Hamm, soccer…James K. “We have an icon for everything that makes UNC great,” business major Ben Leone drawls. Indeed, He’s Not’s venerability is hard to question, with a 40-year-old legacy of good times, good tunes, and gargantuan blue goblets of – what else? – beer. Recently, the New York Times even gave the establishment’s history a nod. In fact, it is the rather enigmatic name of a legendary homegrown bar in the heart of Tarheel town – quite possibly the best old-style dive east of Texas. But to the cultivated students and residents of Chapel Hill, North Carolina, “He’s not here” carries more merit and spirit(s) than anywhere else in the world. Since its earliest and most sacred documented usage (outside the empty tomb of the resurrected Christ, no less!) the phrase “He’s not here” has been uttered mostly in casual and obscure contexts. Three words – one blunt, cryptic statement.
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