King Corona (in tribute)

King Corona has always been nice to me - well, for the most part. One time, I came here, half-starving and in the perfect, unshakable mood for a King Corona Cuban sandwich - with plantain chips, all warm and crunchy - and was rudely turned down, because the kitchen had technically closed down all of ten minutes before I got there. I was pissed - very angry - but then again, I was late.
But, as I was walking out the door, I was pretty sure that I saw Jimbo, the cook who would make those Cuban sandwiches (with plantain chips) that deserved perfect, unshakable cravings - still knocking around the building, somewhere. Or maybe I didn't - either way, after wasting a dollar to get my car out of the garage, I drove out to sweet Riverview and went to Taco Bell, and was awarded with a totally different order than what I asked for, which I took home and ate, in total anger, simmering about a lunch and, indeed, an afternoon ruined… but that’s another story.

Perhaps the Cuban sandwich snub was what I deserved for all those afternoons that I’d stumble in, all disheveled and carrying an evil-smelling “aristocratic” briefcase that I bought for like $12 at Sunshine Thrift, and bother Sarah for a Coke, and then sit in my corner, scheming and writing, looking unapproachable for up to three hours before grunting up from the chair, the perfect picture of a starving artist, whose hair was like a humid haystack in a life-threatening thunderstorm, with a wrinkled shirt and a face that said “I don’t give a shit about how I look, but my head is full of IDEAS that MUST BE WRITTEN DOWN - oh shit, so important” - walking up to the counter and pulling three sorry-looking dollar bills from my wallet - $2 for the Coke, $1 for a “tip” - and with a “See ya, darlin’ “ would walk my sorry ass to my car in 16th Street parking garage where, after a ride in those evil-smelling elevators, I would tender one dollar for my parking fee, and then treasure my one remaining dollar, which was earmarked for “whatever” - usually a small bag of chips from Whaley’s when I got bored enough at Lenny and Vinny’s to walk over and buy them, being left with a penny, since the chips themselves were all of 99 cents, and then being absolutely broke of bills until I had a delivery or two, or three, or none - whatever happened that evening, which was never, ever predictable, not at all - this is the life is a pizza-delivery man who fancies himself a writer/musician/man of the arts and plans his visits to the one place he can be creative around five whole one-dollar bills. It was a crazy, frustrating and wholly fun lifestyle. I lived it for more than a year.
Anyway, my point is this: I didn’t spend any good money here for a long time. A Coke - which is infinitely refillable around these parts - is the cheapest thing here, besides water. A café con leche is $3.25 or thereabouts, and a full lunch - the aforementioned Cuban sandwich (with plantain chips) and a Coke (since drinking heavy coffee and having a hot sandwich may be good for some stomachs, but not mine) came to $10 or $11, after a tip worthy of such a meal. I could not afford such luxuries in those days, so I stuck to my $3 special, which probably irked some of the managers here, thinking that my corner table might have been better filled up with a person or three who would get food and beer and wine and maybe some old port, and would pay something like $40 for these pleasures - or more, I’m sure. Instead, this table of mine was occupied by a scary-looking “artist” who would have fit in better in a halfway-decent “coffee bar” in L.A. or in Greenwich Village or somewhere that catered to my type, instead of an upscale cigar bar on 7th Avenue that had enough of an audience to consider offering 40-year-old port.
And, to that end, I’ve never had enough money to sample the 40-year-old port - or, for that matter, the 30- or 20-year-old port on call here. I can look at it - since it sits right behind the bar - but cannot afford to have the bottle cracked and a portion poured for me. I’ve often wondered how it tastes - probably like jewels in a glass, or at least I hope it does, for the price they charge for it - and thought about the act of drinking a liquid that was prepared by hoary old men in Europe in 1969. Must be an interesting experience.
But, my money situation in those times was dire enough that I couldn’t even look at those bottles of port and not feel an immature, rageful jealousy for the people who could thoughtlessly shell out $50-plus dollars for a taste of a drink that was prepared by hoary old men in Europe in 1969 - it was that bad, being a “starving artist”, being pointlessly jealous of men with money and a pad on Harbour Island, or, if they had a family, a house on South Orleans Avenue. I’m not jealous of those guys anymore, now that I have a little more money to play with; now, I like to laugh at their jokes, or treat them like humans, or occasionally be mad at them, when they use their money in bad ways that affect me personally. That’s not very often, though.

Even after a few paragraphs of rambling, I haven’t touched on what I was trying to get to - except the end of the last paragraph, which did mention my reversal of money-luck. And the entire point of this missive/essay/whatever is to praise this place, not bash the people who like to inhabit it - and I will fix this post-haste.
Anyway… since then, I’ve gotten a new job, which I wrote about before - but for anyone who hasn’t read it, here’s a recall: I pack things into boxes, make sure they won’t break in transit, and, after affixing a label to it which effects where its going to go, once an official Man paws it later, charging that person an amount of money. That total eventually gets paid. Next customer.
Or, if you wanted some stamps, I can sell you those, too. There you go.
It’s not a hard job. It pays decent - at least, more than I was usually getting delivering pizza. The only really horrible thing about the job is that it takes up most of my time… which is not entirely a good thing. I’m back on a regular old work schedule, which usually leaves me at the mercy of Saturday crowds, rush hours, and everything else that comes with being synched up with most of America’s employment times. I spent two years being un-synched - enjoying the pleasures of, say, going to the mall at 2 PM on a Tuesday, or taking photographs at an hour when most people were chained to a telephone, leaving the streets pretty empty. Getting synched up again was a hassle. It still is, actually.
Mercifully, I usually get one day off, during the working week. I spend this time off the grid - unhinged, as it were - happily having a temporary flashback to my “starving artist” days… and how fun it can be.
I miss them - I’m not going to lie. There’s a charm in having a quarter-tank of gas and five dollar bills between being relatively comfy and having an uncomfortable, boring bout of what Orwell called “enforced idleness” - a night-long stay in room 847 of Hotel Tedium - in the vast, slightly embarrassing land of Being Broke.
You should have heard me in those days - bitching to Dallas, to Jeremy, to Ryan, to Sarah, the cute-as, sweet-hearted, red-headed barista at this place (whom I mentioned briefly before as the Dispenser of the $2 Cokes, if you recall), and anyone with ears - bitching about money. “Goddamn it!” I would fairly shout (I don’t shout too much), “this life SUCKS!!” (Deserving of the double exclamation points, believe me.) “It’s supposed to be romantic! These are supposed to be the TIMES OF MY LIFE! And I positively, absolutely, without-a-doubt HATE IT!” (So on and so on - excuse my semantics, by the way - until the person I was talking to would be reduced to monosyllabic responses - or would change the subject - or think about what their cat, at home, was up to.)
But now - being removed from it - those were the times of my life. Kind of. Orwell (again with the Orwell - but he did write two of my favorite books, both of which dealt with poverty, on two different levels) wrote that once you’re broke, you find it hard to care about much. I can tell you, from experience, that he was being honest - “Only two francs lie between you and starvation,” and all that, from Down and Out in Paris and London - that’s what it feels like. I might not eat tomorrow - who gives a fuck.
Well, I was never that broke - except for a handful of occasions. I felt more like Gordon Comstock in Keep the Aspidistra Flying - stuck in a dingy, lower-middle class rut, convinced that a $20-dollar bill (or two) was the only thing between me and totally amazing, awe-inspiring artistic freedom. I was so broke, and sick of it, that I started becoming Gordon Comstock - believing everything he said, or thought - all that stuff about money-gods and how finances keep you from everything that, basically, makes life worth living - which made me a sad case, especially considering that his character was created as a satire. That’s right - George Orwell probably would have despised me, if not found my aping to be humorous. I might have given the old man a chuckle or two.

And how did Gordon end up? Married, in a much-detested “good job”, earning his four pounds a week, with an aspidistra in the window.
And how did I end up? Earning more than usual, but still trying to fit a creative life into a schedule that would better suit a weekend bar-hopper, or someone hoping for quiet domesticity. I’m not really like that, so combining the best of a moneyed life and my penchant for acting like a shabby old gentleman with a flair for the arts is proving unusual - but not entirely unsuccessful.
And that’s where this smoky, wood-walled place fits in - good old King Corona.

Here’s some - but, of course, not all - of the things that I like about this place:
It’s basically a hole in the middle of 7th Avenue - kind of like Alice in Wonderland, but only not really - where one can stay lost and write for three or four straight hours, which is what I’m doing now, actually; good coffee in plentiful amounts; you can smoke indoors, if that’s your bag; it’s mostly quiet, which conjures up all kinds of inspiration for me, for some unexplainable reason; and, if you want conversation, there’s no end to the types of people in here - liberals, straights, scene kids, old Cuban guys, hot girls, business professionals, young upstarts, band members, artists, the young and the bright, and the old and the wise - and those are just the people who have worked behind the counter in the three years that I’ve been coming here. Whoever sits at the tables, or on the patio outside, or gets their hair cut at the barber shop that operates out of this place (that’s right, a fucking barber shop) are all of those, and many, many more - all of them interesting, and most of them friendly. The food is good, too - just refer to the beginning of this rambling, mostly pointless tribute.
There’s always music on, and depending on who is controlling it that day, it mostly synchs to whatever mood I’m in, which is an extremely fortunate thing. Otherwise, it just sits on the edge between soothing and thoughtful - be it the best of Cuban jam bands, or Bob Dylan outtakes, or nameless, good soul music - it does much to the creative process.
I’ve lifted so many lyrics, and musical snippets, off of the things that attack my senses here. There’s a flat-screen television to my left, tuned to ESPN or TMC, blaring commercials or a college football game or some old film (indeed, one time, I watched an entire Lassie film here, for lack of anything else better to do); there’s knots of people, here and there, all around me, off on their own trips and leaving swirls of conversation in their wake; and the real world sits outside - a strip of 7th Avenue, reflecting the weather and whatever else is going on - attractive girls walk by, skaters, punks, bums, gaggles of bike-riders.
Even in my most illogical, moody, and disheveled times, I have always been welcome here. One time, I left in a hurry and thoughtlessly forgot to pay for all of the food and drink I had been scarfing - and simply paid the next time I saw them. That’s business - good business, trusting business, that relies on honesty from the customer and the staff. I’m sure if I did business here every other day, I could set up an account - that’s what kind of place it is. The owner, Don, is a hell of a nice guy - he's the kind of boss that wanders around the bar during the daytime, talking to random customers and having lunch with his buddies near the front windows, never losing sight of maintaining the ridiculously easy vibe within these walls, before going home and, I assume, watching sports and smoking cigars, among other things.
Every owner/boss should be like him - every place of business would be a groove to work with. And that’s a fact.

It’s totally nasty outside - windy and rainy and cold. I’m here in this warm haven, and just wrote - by hand - about 2,400 words in one sitting. I’m about to head home - for food, and a couch, and for book-reading and Wii-golf-watching with my friend Jeremy. I’m sure that I’ve popped through the three-hour parking time limit, which drives my parking garage fee to $3 - instead of $1. I might have worried about that a year ago, being so broke; but now it’s not too big of a deal. I even bought two drinks - a café con leche and a Coke - which I can pay for now - so on and so forth.
Honestly, though, I’m milking the last few moments I have in this place. The overhead lights have just dimmed, which is King Corona parlance for “Night is coming - the sun is setting - you might have to be somewhere here pretty soon.” Or, at least, that’s how I see it.
The bar has cleared out, for the most part; there’s one guy sitting there now, a professional-type waiting for his black-and-tan, or whatever he’s going to order and drink and enjoy. I would suggest the Guinness - it’s quite heavenly here. The Bass is also tasty. No beer for me, though - I’m about to kill this Coke, currently on its fourth refill - and the café con leche died a few hours ago.
But, indeed, the lights have dimmed and the house in Riverview is becoming more and more of a priority. A party of four, sitting to my left, are sipping wine and catching up on things - probably haven’t seen each other in a while - telling stories and such. There’s laughter - loud laughter - they’re gonna stew here for a while; their time is just beginning here - mine is rapidly coming to an end. You can feel when you’ve got to shove off from this place; you just know, in a weird display of psychic forethought - or usually, your back is hurting and your ass is numb - either way, something always lets you know.
You can’t ignore real life forever, sadly; you can’t stay here forever, more like, which is also sad. This is probably the one place where I can be in public and also be alone, with my ideas and such - a shut-in out in the open.
There could be one way of prolonging the magic - maybe I could just move in here - put a cot and an alarm clock upstairs, in between the kegs and old bits of wood and the rumored ghost that I’d have to share the place with - maybe a computer and a turntable too. I’ll have to talk to Don about that one of these days.
Living here would be pretty cool; or, I’d die after a week-long exposure to the vibes and words floating around downstairs, floating up through the floor in a choking fog. Something to consider. I wonder what Don would charge.


(Handwritten at King Corona Cigars [1523 East 7th Avenue, in beautiful Ybor City], over three-and-a-half hours on January 13th, 2009; typed and edited by the author the same evening.)