Corona Park Jams, By Andrew L. Foster. Creative Non-Fiction, 2017
For Your Entertainment, feel free to analyze, make remarks, ignore, enjoy, or otherwise. roughly 1600 words. about a 10 minute read.
Reflected sunrays pierce slightly bloodshot eyes after a night of libations with friends from out of town. The 1995 Buick LeSabre rattled as though it had bricks for engines. My head ached as if I had bricks for brains. The car would have its 21st birthday soon if it hadn’t had its big day already. That was reason enough for us to celebrate. Last night was the celebration of the Buicks birthday and the squeal of its belts was the hangover to the pounding in my mind. We also had friends in from out of town, we can celebrate over anything.
As if Puebloans needed a pretense to party. I allowed myself to be absorbed into the cushy carpeted seats that were tanned a light grey from years of Pueblo desert sunshine. A smile crept across my face and that lonesome sun smiled right back at me. I appreciated the historic boom district appeal contrasted with the “we never recovered from the Great Depression,” patina. Even the quintessential Pueblo dish of a cheeseburger covered in Green Chile known as a “Slopper” was weird mixed with cool. It’s the kind of college town where the community college does better than the university but they both aren’t that great. The rivalry is strong. The feeling of family is stronger. Puebloan’s need little reason to come together but create lots of reasons anyway.
This stop light always catches me. Emilio leaned into the steering wheel, elbow cocked into the open mouth of the driver’s window as the breaks pressed us to a stop. One hand clutched the wheel, fingers tapping the rhythm to a Circle Jerks jam, the other hand connected to his resting elbow brought a smoking cigarette to his open mouth. We were all in our cups last night, but we were “on one” and stocking up for more no-excuse-necessary partying. The green light cleared our passage and Emilio sought after parking.
The Pantry is a Seinfeld-esque dinner, though maybe less cliché, which is a wonderful place to fill the old tum-tum. Abriendo Street hosts a series of Roman revival structures, one or two-story buildings connected business fronts with inset window wells that lead to doorways, pulling walker-bys into shops to search for doo-dads in antique shops with no particular end in mind. We pulled up Michigan St. and parked the bucket in front of Tony and Joe’s Pizzeria. The tree-lined streets are triple wide in the Aberdeen district thanks to General Palmer calling this neighborhood home for many years. His old manse was farther up from the shops, at the first corner. A quick walk to the drugstore that has been there as long as the Corona Park and Bessemer districts, near a century. Autumn trees, gold and green leaves shimmer. The air carries the aroma of old money. We walked to the corner and found The Pantry.
Emilio represents the profile of friendships that have enhanced my life. He is unique. His Style is the more independent and classic profile of punk that could be likened to the clash, early on—before they stopped making music with pretense. No need for spikes or studs, just a simple rejection of the common standard. Emo has tackled deep self-reflection and made pertinent life changes that mirror the development of his personal philosophy. This largely consists of him choosing to be a pescatarian—a bit of a contradiction if you ask me, but I let it slide because I eat everything and have no place to talk. I hold him in high regard because he has introduced me to many Pueblo intellectuals whom I have learned and taught with too great satisfaction. Life’s zest can often be found in good company, good food, and good conversation.
Emilio paid for the half-dozen potatoes, egg, and cheese breakfast burritos. Exiting the maze of The Pantry’s tight corridors, I gave a shout out to a classmate I recognized, Anthony. He is both homeless, employed, and a student in the lowest rent city in Colorado. Anthony gave a friendly smile and went back to bussing tables. We had an ancient civilizations class together, his presentation on the ancient Assyrian warrior caste was excellent and marked him in my mind as brilliant, yet his condition remained troubled. He only came to class 1 out of 3 sessions a week. I suspect this wasn’t due to a lack of heart.
It was ten am and the hot September Sunday was well underway. Emo and I sauntered back towards the whip both donning colorized wayfarer sunglasses, like Millennial Blues Brothers, sent on a mission from God to feed our hungry and hungover friends breakfast. Next stop this morning was Hercules Liquor Store, Agent Orange’s “Bored of You” had the energy flowing through us and the breakfast burrito’s smelled like a cure to disgrace. Emilio reeled the clunker away from The Pantry and the general’s old castle and back into Abriendo’s light Sunday traffic.
Herc’s was just another couple blocks up the way on Colorado Avenue. This drag shared a wine and coffee breakfast bar on the corner, next to the Local 1607 Millwright’s office so the metal works could catch a shiner before meetings with the union. Hercules Liquor and the Historic Firehouse Museum shared an alley. Occasionally I would see familiar faces from the firefighter school working in the museum as I went into Herc’s for an evening brew. They always carried themselves with purpose as I slinked by with little pride. Emilio cut a wide U-turn and pulled us into the alley to park behind the spirits house.
This, a small cramped store was absolutely flush with plenty of beer to choose from and an excellent selection of liquor and wine. Mike and his brother ran the store together, owned by their mother who is suffering from late-stage dementia. Despite this, the boys are always smiling and chatty when they see Emilio and I come in. They like us because we drink like their late Slovakian grandpa. Campari and grappa are two of the commonly stocked items at Herc’s we can’t find elsewhere. Because the brothers are 2nd generation Americans, they still have close ties to their Italian and Slovakian family. They have cousins who live on the Island of Crete where the sculptor Pygmalion’s statue Galatea was granted life by Aphrodite because she was moved by his passionate love for the female statue he created. Just so, the Cretian Grappa Mike sold us was the type of spirit that could awaken marble statues. Grappa is what is left after wine grapes are stomped upon. It tastes vaguely like wine, but primarily like pure alcohol. It does the trick. We left the store flush with cheap beer, cheap whiskey, and a bottle of Grappa which may have been cheap or expensive, but we had yet to find another bottle in town to compare price.
As we parked on the too-narrow street in front of the house, Benjamin wore Adidas classics that had looked as though they had been walked on their whole life. His wiry chair leaned precariously back against the stucco wall while his foot pressed against the ever-loosening banister which enclosed the porch. He had a cigarette in one hand while the other cradled an iPhone near his eyeballs. A three-day beard and unruly bed head alluded to Bens Sunday dishevelment. Benji is a Vancouver Canuck. His mother passed several years prior, not long after Emilio lost his father. The two, and their larger group attended St. Mary’s Catholic for primary school and the bonds shared between my two friends were far deeper than I could estimate being a new inductee to an exclusive group.
Before Emilio and I could walk up the concrete steps Ben was laughing and explain the problems that Trotskian economic theory faced after the Bolshevik Revolution and argued that the Soviets picked the wrong guy in Lenin. I smiled and nodded as if I knew anything about Trotskian political theory. Ben was always expansive in conversation and I admired him deeply for it. The first time Emilio introduced us, my misgiving and mistrust of new people was rendered mute next to the backyard fire pit and eager talking points Ben insisted on sharing with me.
I remember that night, he would hardly let anyone say a word as he often does. I interrupted him as he spoke with conviction on the need to rid the world of paper currency to be replaced with a social exchange program in line with “From each according to their ability, to each according to their need.” I asked him if he always commanded the conversation and if he ever let anyone else speak. I was instantly mortified at my manners but everyone sitting around the fire began to laugh. Ben’s other half said, “No, this is how he always is.” Ben quitted down a bit and we all shared the conversation. We all picked songs on an iPad adorned in a case printed with an ancient world map and took turns playing obscure music while passing the bottle of cheap around. The grainy taste of the whiskey mixed with the fire smoke's aroma, both gently burning our throats. This was the standard weekend for most of two years, good company seasoning our slowly aging lives within the old, worn town that rested in the fading shadows of old wealth.
As the Sunday star dipped below the horizon, we looked out towards La Vida Pass and the Sangre De Cristo mountains. The buzz we shared reached deeply into the earth and for a moment it seemed like all of us were supposed to find each other, as though no matter how big the universe became this moment would persist as both the flash of a meteorite and the timeless life of a lonely sun. As if we needed more reason for us to celebrate.
