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[While Katrina and I are on vacation, we're re-running our favorite Troutstream columns. This was originally written March 3, 1999. -Dave] King Of CoronaThe bar was bigger than Denmark. Stools stretched as far as the gut could see, to the east and, of course, the south. The din was perpetually deep, like traffic sounds at a turnpike motel. At first glance, there wasn't an empty seat in sight. Still, the weary traveler prevailed, squinting over the smoky pall, finally spotting one lone stool at the end of a long row of busy chairs. As he settled in, older gentlemen on either side cast wary looks his way, wondering who this bold guest might be. As regulars at this joint, they knew a stranger when they saw one -- and this guy was stranger than Miss Yvonne from Pee Wee Herman's playhouse. Between the time the interloper ordered Corona A and had the frosty cerveza mas fina in his hand, the men on either side had grilled him with questions. Who are you? Why you here? Where you from? Whaddya doing here, anyway? They were simple questions which therefore beget finite responses. By the time he had squeezed the lime onto the lid of the glass, they knew his entire life story, St. John's Warts and all. And now, it was his turn to play 20 Questions. He started with the man on his right. Who are you? And so forth. Soon he'd had a glimpse of this man's inner soul. It didn't stop there. Let's back up a minute. Did the man enjoy talking about his life? Boy, that's a no brainer. He loved it. Most people do, you see. You just have to choose your moments. When the interrogator becomes the interrogated, a mighty shift of momentum takes the inquisitorial tone from one party to the other, faster than you can say, "Phhffftttt!" The man on the right was obliged to do all the talking, having already imposed the concept of opening up upon the moment in the Georgia saloon. Surely, he had no way of knowing the party to whom he originally laid siege with curiosity born of FBI training school would turn out to be, in fact, snoopier than himself. He did find this to be the case. Turns out, the man was a retired Green Stamps representative. He had represented Green Stamps in its heyday throughout Dixie, covering a Region rich in grits and goobers, an empire so entirely dependent on cotton and peanut brittle shoppes it named one of its tourist attractions, Dollyworld. When Green Stamps ruled, people always had a funny taste in their mouth, especially when they wanted a new blender. He told his new friend about battles fought keeping retailers on the reservation, so to speak, as new marketing trends threatened the reign of icky stamps on pages of microcosmic squares. Retirement, he said, had been good to him. He had plenty of time to come to the establishment where the conversation took place. Corona B arrived in time for a few parting comments. By now, the new friendship had reached the point where someone might have mentioned a family member who was looking for a new spouse, or someone in need of a job or something. In this case, there was no quid pro quo. No exchange of business cards or phone numbers. Or even names. Nope, none of that occurred. The only memorable passage, as recalled today by the visitor, a traveling writer serving the interests of a huge automotive juggernaut, had to do with the issue of patience. The retired Green Stamp executive wanted the thirsty aficionados of Cerveceria Modelo to contemplate the ethos of patience. "I've seen impatience literally destroy the careers of people your age," he told the younger man. "They get itchy and do something stupid to torpedo their careers. They forget the value of being patient, of biding your time and waiting for your moment, when your moment comes." He let that sink in. Then he delivered the final thought. "You," he said, "can go all the way to the top if you remain patient. All the way to the top." That was the last thing he said. The visitor's driver had arrived. He had to leave. He left. Not exactly able to put the man's words in context. For the rest of his life, he was left to wonder whether the man meant "he," anybody, really, needed to sustain patience to "make it to the top", or whether he meant, "he," this person in particular, had what it takes to go all the way, assuming that was ever a goal in the first place. As real life drama, there were plenty of compelling elements. Not knowing what he meant gave what he said greater value. Having to think about it meant having a greater chance of retaining it, in the first place. Universality dripped from the theme. Still does. How about the concept of "the top?" Is that important? How about the concept of being able to differentiate between patience and, let's say, ennui? You see, there was much to think about, with two cold ones in the gut and people to see along the way. Four or five years later, reaching "the top" still seems less important than getting a good night's sleep. And figuring out the relative vagaries of "patience," as a concept, remain illusory as ever. We do know we are tiny specks on a planet in a sky so filled with other spheres we can only dare to imagine our overall insignificance. We also know we can do wonderful things with the energy and spirit we're given, including find an empty seat at a bar where retirees mingle with young Turks, often imparting a dash of inspiration and divinity, among the slices of citrus.For more Trout blarney than you ever thought any one doctoral candidate could reasonably masticate, visit the largest web site since Webster Hubbell was spotted entering seven restaurants at once -- www.troutstream.com. You won't be disappointed; you'll be relieved of your life savings. www.troutstream.com -- where minnows dare not sun bathe! Troutstream is a kanoe.com exclusive from Michigan-based David Trout Pomeroy, who is engaged in numerous literary pursuits. You can write to him at trout*AT*bignet.net. |