Posted on May 7, 2025

Police Called to Backyard Shed Bar in Elkhart

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Elkhart, IN — What started as one man’s attempt to relax after work has quickly turned into one of the most talked-about backyard hangouts in northern Indiana. Locals call it everything from “the Cheers of County Road 10” to “a shed that parties harder than most people.”

From the street, it looks like something out of a backyard magazine—part bar, part hangout, part local legend. Tucked behind a modest Elkhart home, the shed was built with purpose and just enough swagger. Along one interior wall runs a full bar setup, complete with stools, lighting, and a back shelf stocked with essentials. That same wall features a wide pass-through window, opening to a second bar counter mounted outside. The bartender stands between the two, serving drinks both inside and out like a one-man cocktail command center. Outside, under an extended roof, barstools line the outdoor counter, a couple of picnic tables round out the patio, and a massive barrel grill smokes nonstop—turning out smells strong enough to start neighborhood rumors.

“We call it The Split Shift,” said the man behind the creation, who goes by Gary. “I serve indoors, outdoors, and emotionally.”

It started small. Gary just wanted a place to unwind. He threw together a basic bar, a cooler, and some folding chairs. A couple friends came by. Then a few more. Then someone brought their cousin and a Bluetooth speaker. By the end of the month, he was bartending five nights a week.

“My wife thought I was nuts,” Gary said. “Now she’s bartending Thursday nights.”

Nothing is for sale. It’s a bring-your-own-drink, bring-your-own-snack kind of setup, but the vibe is unmistakably bar-like. There’s music, banter, regulars with assigned stools, and a dented Folgers can on the counter labeled “Tips or Tacos.” One guy tried to tip with a rotisserie chicken. Gary accepted.

“I didn’t open a bar,” Gary said. “I just organized happy hour.”

The place isn’t listed anywhere. No Facebook page. No hours. People just kind of know. Someone posts a blurry photo now and then, and within minutes, a small crowd shows up—coolers in hand, stories ready.

Of course, popularity has its price. Last weekend, a Facebook video showing the crowd hit over 20,000 views. That Monday, two officers stopped by for what they called a “casual check-in.”

“They asked if I was selling alcohol,” Gary said. “I told them, ‘Only thing I’m selling is a break from your life.’”

The officers stuck around, shared a laugh, and left without writing a single citation. Someone made a cardboard sign that read “Licensed to Chill” and duct-taped it above the outside window.

The neighbors? They’re mostly on board. Gary keeps the music reasonable, the grill open to everyone, and the vibe friendly. One neighbor even donated a table and called it his “bar tab.”

“I haven’t seen this many people gather since the Walmart tire fire,” said one woman, sipping from a mismatched mug. “And honestly, the company’s better here.”

Gary has been asked more than once if he plans to go legit—file permits, build a real patio, maybe charge a cover. He laughs every time.

“It’s not a business,” he said. “It’s a coping mechanism with cupholders.”

And while the place keeps growing, the rules haven’t changed. It’s not packed with rowdy twenty-somethings—it’s mostly an older crowd. A few retirees, some folks unwinding after work, and regulars who show up for the grill and chill. There’s always music playing, but never so loud you can’t hold a decent conversation. “The only ID we check is ‘Are you fun or not?’” Gary added.

Fridays and Saturdays are the busiest. Sundays are slower—cards, coffee, maybe a leftover brat or two. At any given time, someone’s retelling the story of how Gary once lit his sleeve on fire trying to impress a girl with flaming shots made from peach schnapps and poor judgment.

Regulars describe the place less like a bar and more like a movement.

“We don’t have a dress code,” Gary said. “Just don’t be a dick.”

The inside bar is small but clean. Tools have been replaced with glassware. The walls are decorated with old license plates, a couple neon signs, and a piece of plywood with permanent marker tallies that nobody can fully explain. The outside bar, meanwhile, has become the preferred spot for gossip, to-go jokes, and hotdog negotiation.

“Someone tried to trade a camp chair for a brat last weekend,” Gary said. “Honestly, I considered it.”

One regular started bringing bingo cards. Another offered to install a dartboard. Gary’s shed, once a solo escape, has somehow become a full-blown social hub with its own culture and inside jokes.

“It’s not a bar,” Gary said. “It’s a lifestyle. Also, please bring your own cup.”