I’ve told you about the Free Beer conspiracy and Weird Frank’s corpse; these were tales which were first relayed to me by others in that greasy bar on Route Three on Merritt Island, just down the road from the Kennedy Space Center. Now I have one more story to tell.
Diamondback Jack’s is no more. It’s gone. The joint burned to the ground last week, taking with it the pool table, the jukebox, the booze, and all the pictures of living and dead spacers which had been framed, tacked, and taped on the wall behind the bar. The last and best of the hangouts for the pros of the Cape is gone, leaving behind only an ugly heap of busted glass and blackened rubble. Only the Budweiser sign in the parking lot was unscathed by the fire, but since it was broken long ago by some drunk fool, it’s nothing to get nostalgic about; if anything, it’s a fitting tombstone to a broken promise.
My broken promise.
When I went back there for the last time yesterday, Jack Baker was clambering through the debris, trying to locate anything salvageable in what had once been his court and kingdom. Maybe he was trying to find the varnished rattlesnake skin which had been the bar’s namesake. I don’t know, because I didn’t have a chance to talk to him. As soon as my car pulled into the lot, he recognized it; the half-melted whiskey bottle shattering on the hood of my Datsun informed me that I wasn’t welcome round here no more, if I ever had been in the first place. I put it in reverse and got out of there in a hurry. The last I saw of Jack was in my rear mirror; he was standing atop the wreckage, silently glaring at me as I sped back down the highway.
Jack is not an inherently violent man, but I know that, if he had been able to find the sawed-off shotgun he kept beneath the counter for the occasional stick-up attempt, he would have gladly pointed it in my direction. He might have even squeezed the trigger and blown me straight to hell. I can’t even say I would have blamed him.
He asked me not to report the story; under the old ground-rules, I usually respected his request. This time, though, I betrayed his trust. In my rush to clear the names of three good men, I forgot our gentlemen’s agreement, and it’s for that single reason that no one drinks at Diamondback Jack’s anymore. Yet, as they always say in the journalism business, the public has a right to know. Memorize that phrase: it’s one of the great all-purpose cop-outs of all time. Sorry I ran over your dog, totalled your car, destroyed your career, fucked your sister and gave her a virus, but hey, don’t blame me because The Public Has A Right To Know. Says it right here in the First Amendment.
Telling the truth is a dangerous game, but it’s the only one I’ve got. I can’t rebuild Jack’s bar with some words on paper, but I can tell you why, the next time you go down to Merritt Island, there’s an empty gravel lot where a bar once stood.
It started with a fistfight.
Offhand, I can think of several good ways to spend a Saturday night on the Cape. Midnight bass-fishing on the Banana River, sitting on the beach in Jetty Park and watching a cargo freighter lift off from the Cape, enjoying the pig-out special at Fat Boy’s Barbecue in Cocoa Beach … or, as in this instance, going down to Diamondback Jack’s to hoist a few beers and catch one of the local rockabilly bands Jack Baker used to hire for weekend gigs.
One of the bad ways is to receive a bloody nose during a bar brawl, but that’s what I get for drinking at Diamondback Jack’s.
I didn’t witness the beginning of the fight. I was in the john, humming along with the Rude Astronauts’ rendition of “Sea Cruise” while relieving myself of the burden of a half-pitcher of Budweiser—as the old saw goes, you don’t buy beer, you only rent it—when there was a godawful thump-crash-bang from the front room. My eyes jerked up from my meditations as the music ground to a halt and, amid the cacophony, I
Diamondback Jack’s is no more. It’s gone. The joint burned to the ground last week, taking with it the pool table, the jukebox, the booze, and all the pictures of living and dead spacers which had been framed, tacked, and taped on the wall behind the bar. The last and best of the hangouts for the pros of the Cape is gone, leaving behind only an ugly heap of busted glass and blackened rubble. Only the Budweiser sign in the parking lot was unscathed by the fire, but since it was broken long ago by some drunk fool, it’s nothing to get nostalgic about; if anything, it’s a fitting tombstone to a broken promise.
My broken promise.
When I went back there for the last time yesterday, Jack Baker was clambering through the debris, trying to locate anything salvageable in what had once been his court and kingdom. Maybe he was trying to find the varnished rattlesnake skin which had been the bar’s namesake. I don’t know, because I didn’t have a chance to talk to him. As soon as my car pulled into the lot, he recognized it; the half-melted whiskey bottle shattering on the hood of my Datsun informed me that I wasn’t welcome round here no more, if I ever had been in the first place. I put it in reverse and got out of there in a hurry. The last I saw of Jack was in my rear mirror; he was standing atop the wreckage, silently glaring at me as I sped back down the highway.
Jack is not an inherently violent man, but I know that, if he had been able to find the sawed-off shotgun he kept beneath the counter for the occasional stick-up attempt, he would have gladly pointed it in my direction. He might have even squeezed the trigger and blown me straight to hell. I can’t even say I would have blamed him.
He asked me not to report the story; under the old ground-rules, I usually respected his request. This time, though, I betrayed his trust. In my rush to clear the names of three good men, I forgot our gentlemen’s agreement, and it’s for that single reason that no one drinks at Diamondback Jack’s anymore. Yet, as they always say in the journalism business, the public has a right to know. Memorize that phrase: it’s one of the great all-purpose cop-outs of all time. Sorry I ran over your dog, totalled your car, destroyed your career, fucked your sister and gave her a virus, but hey, don’t blame me because The Public Has A Right To Know. Says it right here in the First Amendment.
Telling the truth is a dangerous game, but it’s the only one I’ve got. I can’t rebuild Jack’s bar with some words on paper, but I can tell you why, the next time you go down to Merritt Island, there’s an empty gravel lot where a bar once stood.
It started with a fistfight.
Offhand, I can think of several good ways to spend a Saturday night on the Cape. Midnight bass-fishing on the Banana River, sitting on the beach in Jetty Park and watching a cargo freighter lift off from the Cape, enjoying the pig-out special at Fat Boy’s Barbecue in Cocoa Beach … or, as in this instance, going down to Diamondback Jack’s to hoist a few beers and catch one of the local rockabilly bands Jack Baker used to hire for weekend gigs.
One of the bad ways is to receive a bloody nose during a bar brawl, but that’s what I get for drinking at Diamondback Jack’s.
I didn’t witness the beginning of the fight. I was in the john, humming along with the Rude Astronauts’ rendition of “Sea Cruise” while relieving myself of the burden of a half-pitcher of Budweiser—as the old saw goes, you don’t buy beer, you only rent it—when there was a godawful thump-crash-bang from the front room. My eyes jerked up from my meditations as the music ground to a halt and, amid the cacophony, I
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