WHO IS MIKE CORKRON?
I twist the sweaty pint glass in my hand, is this what they’re calling beer now a days? The taste of pine intermingled with a bit of dank Humboldt County homegrown washes my palate. For what it lacks in taste, it makes up for in ABV; at damn near 9% this **** would have professionals like Hunter and Bukowski pissed in no time. I chuckle as the thought of a beat up Mickey Rourke yelling at the barkeep “Another round of skunk piss for my friends” plays out in my mind.
Having just stumbled into this place from the six previous places I’d been since nine this morning, I don’t flinch when the barkeep calls me by name.
“Another one Mike?”
“As long as you’re buying”. I say… more serious than joking.
The scruffy young man fills the glass with the precision of a neuro surgeon. The white foam hanging to the rim precariously, like a Golden Gate jumper suddenly realizing that life ain’t so bad.
His beard is a month overgrown and he sips from an old Nalgene bottle that looks as if he found it at the bottom of the Grand Canyon in 1982. He’s wearing a throwback t-shirt with the rings around the sleeves and neck, an old surf van adorns the front, with the words “Aloha Mr. Hand” in bold print. He can’t be more than 25 and I highly doubt he’s even seen the movie his hipster shirt refers to.
As patrons start to come in, I can tell this kid has something that other guys his age don’t. Banter, ****, in this business if you can’t banter with everyone from the Ivy League Tech guy, to the middle aged mom stroke victim, you might as well pack it up; call it a failed career. This kid’s got it. I watch as he purposely pours an Italian Lager into a tulip beer glass for a salt and pepper haired gentleman. The gentleman begrudgingly takes the beer and exclaims “You know I only drink out of pint glasses”. “Not today” the kid responds as he flashes a sly smile that would make a fox jealous. Mr. salt and pepper chuckles as he goes on a pre rehearsed diatribe regarding how pint glasses are the only glasses that “men” drink out of and the only glasses allowed in his house. He’s pompous, I should **** his wife while he’s at work and fill his cupboards with wine glasses.
Once again I laugh at my own inner dialogue.
How have I not discovered this gin mill before? Other than the false store front that deems this place of business as a “coffee shop” it’s not out of the way, there’s no secret knock or scavenger hunt style clues that one must follow like the trendy “speak easy” type joints that are popping up in most major cities.
I watch as the kid slings beer and bull****s with an older couple. Him, grey haired and trendy, speaks with an educated tongue, yet ponders comments closely before allowing them to pass his lips. Her, bony and seemingly already drunk, even though she has yet to dispatch her first glass of wine. She’s a bit touchy feely with most of the patrons and you can see an apologetic look on her man’s face, almost begging people to humor her. He’s beaten. I feel sadness watching the dynamic. The kid is able to steer the conversation back in her direction and you can see a look of relief pour over the man’s face. He’s damn good, knowing just how to give her the little bit of attention she craves without being inappropriate. She didn’t receive enough hugs as a young woman, and judging by her physique, she hasn’t eaten enough sandwiches as an old one.
Two guys walk in and the air seems to change. The kid’s affect becomes less jovial, more business like. They sit at a high top table and the kid brings them each a glass of cream soda on ice. Who the **** drinks cream soda on ice at a goddamn bar?
They look like character’s from a Scorsese film. Pressed jeans, white v-neck t’s and leather coats. The Sammy “the bull” Gravano starter set, haha.
Four 9%ers in and things are starting to get fuzzy, who knows how many I had at my previous stops; but it’s about quitting time.
I see the kid chatting with the gangster wanna be’s. Is it my drunken haze or did the kid nod in my direction?
I leave a twenty and two five’s on the bar and stumble out the door into the alley behind.
As I make my way down the alley I hear the bar door open behind me, the low din of drunken conversation spills out.
A pair of quick footsteps catches me by surprise, reactions aren’t as fast as they once were.
“You really thought you were gonna get away with welching on that bet Corkron?”
“Corkron?” I stammer, confused.
“Yeah, Mike ****ing Corkron, I don’t know how yous’ guys do **** where you’re from, but up here we pay or debts, one way or another”.
I laugh indignantly, it’s like these guys borrowed every part of their persona, even their speech, from a bad gangster flick.
“Listen fella’s I think you’ve got the wrong guy…”
I’m cut short by a snub nosed pistol being wrapped across my temple.
“The kid told us he’s been placing your bets for month’s, you’ve won a lot of money off us. We finally win a big one and you think you’re gonna skate out without paying?”
I think back to the kid’s banter, the sly smile, the winning bet’s the losing bet. I’ve never stepped foot in this pub in my life……
As the sound of the gunshot ricochet’s through the ally, I’m left with my last dying thought “Damn the kid’s good, I know who Mike Corkron is……..”
Reply With Quote
