I mention my worries for the bar. "The Friday you were in there, we had two people," he demurs. "But that Tuesday, we did 47—on a Tuesday! There hasn't really been any rhyme or reason to it just yet."
I go back to the bar a few times to check on its population, and the crowd does seem to have grown, to about 40 people each time.
He continues. "I don't have nine months for this place to ramp up, but within six months, we should be going. I want it to be a staple for 10 or 15 years."
Flynn continues, "We haven't been getting the spider-web tattoos or the frat-boy jocks. They come in sporadically, see no [TV] monitors, and then head over to Garf's."
It's a difficult task getting the perfect clientele: spiderweb-tattooed punks, no. Bikers, yes. Upwardly mobile suburban sophisticates from 25-40 who are into art and fashion, yes. Dicks in Mercedes, who are rude to the waitresses? "Fucking split. Beat it. Go back to Newport," Flynn insists. Don't get him wrong; everyone's welcome, or at least so he claims. "Hopefully, though, you realize it's not a place where you could yell out or act like a knucklehead."
It's easy to like Jack Flynn. He can be a little too into style, making one (or at least me) feel hopelessly shabby. And he does tell that story about the Rock 'n' Java lease way too often. But there's something very appealing about a man who re-creates himself at a whim, from his profession to his name. He's the kind of guy who does things the rest of us jaw about doing—from hopping onto his bike to disappear for three months, to opening a cool, chic bar even though he doesn't drink, to living in a Costa Mesa industrial park. How many times have you talked about moving into an unfinished loft space? How many times have you actually done so?
We are sitting on the square, solid-oak stumps that serve as seats before a table suspended by chains from his loft ceiling. He is playing dreamy Hope Sandoval on the stereo. Large-scale paintings by Costa Mesa's own Tommy Dougherty are scattered about the space. Upstairs, where he sleeps, a utilitarian screen separates the mattresses on the floor from his closet, where each shirt faces the same direction, and each is perfectly spaced—two inches on either side—from the rest. It's the room of an ascetic and a wanderer (one encumbered by too many things) but also elevates mere clothes to gallery-worthy objets. We are taking a break from facts and figures to gossip about our love lives. I mention that I am back with my boyfriend for something like the seventh time. He lights up and confides that he has a muse who inspires everything he does.
The problem with muses, I say, is that you can't live with them or they become real people. You have to want them from, like, halfway around the world. Flynn acts as though this isn't so, but then he admits that his is halfway around the world, come to think of it—somewhere in Italy, or maybe he said Japan. But the thought of her, perfect in her absence, drives even his most mundane actions. He must have something perfect to show for himself. So the San Diego coffeehouse didn't pan out. So he went bankrupt in 2000. Here, in a Costa Mesa strip mall that's ugly as a wart, he will make something fine. Something for people like us. And if you can't be nice, go back to Newport.
