Long Weekend

 1. For Whom the Bell Tolls

AWOoOoOoooo

"Say, son, what's your name?"

"What's that, I'm sorry?" I snapped out of my temporary trance.

"We been sittin' here shootin' the shit for 'bout two hours now and I never asked your damn name!"

"Oh, it's JJ." I extended my hand for him to meet.

The old man sitting next to me put down his tonic and gin, then shook my hand with a grizzled paw and bearish force. "You got a last name JJ?"

"Ibanez. You?"

"Hmm. Sure are white for a fella named Ibanez. Ain't never seen a Mexican with blue eyes neither. But hell, that don't matter none here in the Conch Republic." The old man extended his arms above his head in a way he seemed to think meant "Welcome;" but with his chapped palms facing outwards and his peppered beard unraveling beneath his chin, he looked much more like Moses parting the Red Sea. 

"Yeah I'm not sure." 

"Us Conchs ain't got no politics. Don't be an asshole and respect those who call this place home." He smiled.

I quickly changed the subject. "Hey, there's no way a wolf would make its way down to the Keys right?"

It was my third night in Key West and each night I had heard the faintest sound of a wolf howling. I heard it while I was walking along the street on the first night. I heard it inside my hotel room on the second night. And now, just a minute ago, I heard it while sitting at an oversized tiki bar next to the docks on the other side of the island.

"Wolf?? Boy, that's about the dumbest thing I heard today. Ain't no wolves in Key West. Nonsense. Don't you know what a rooster sound like? Check your watch, betcha it's 3AM."

I pulled out my phone and, sure enough, it was 3AM with the first brigade of roosters crowing right on cue. I convinced myself they were the animal cry I'd just heard. I was also taken back a bit by the time. I'm not typically out this late. The bars in Philadelphia close at 2AM and even then I'm usually out the door much earlier. But when in Paris you make lemonade or whatever.

"Told ya. 3AM," the old man boasted as he sloshed the last sip of his drink around his glass once, then twice, before gulping it all down including the remaining two ice cubes. "Those first roosters always blow at 3AM when it's still damn dark out. Used to help me when I'd take the boat out. I'd be in the fish's bedroom by the time they woke. Now I can't stand those dumb cocks. Can't do nothin' 'bout 'em though. They're protected."

"What do you mean?"

"The government or whatever protects them. Only time I ever seen someone get put in han'cuffs in this town was some jackass from a bachelor party. He was wearing nothin' but a fedora and went runnin' down Duvall Street with a rooster raised 'bove his head."

"You don't think he was arrested on account of the fact that he was naked?"

"Oh hell no. Most cops 'round here toss a duffel bag of sweats in the backseat. They see a guy walkin' down the street butt naked, they toss 'im a pair of pants just so they ain't gotta do the paperwork." He took a big swig from an empty glass. "But if it's a girl walkin' 'round nude they honk and throw beads out the window!!!" The old man yanked his stained shirt up to cover his leathered face and expose his concave chest. Then he started hysterically laughing, which was really more of a series of hacking coughs mixed with deep breaths.

"What did you mean when you said 'sometimes you want to do something about the roosters?'" I finally managed to ask when he had calmed down a bit and his face turned from crimson to a lighter pink.

"Oh oh I don't know sometimes they're in your way..." He glared at the ground in front of him and steadied himself. "And ya just wanna KICK the damn thing!" The old man made a violent kicking motion that nearly threw him from his barstool and we both laughed.

"Sorry about my laugh, son, I've got the ole sailor's lung."

I was pretty much ready to hang it up for the night as I sipped the last of my Miller Lite. But the old man kept me intrigued just enough. "What the hell is sailor's lung?"

"I don't know but it's a helluva lot better than having seamen's throat!! HA HA *cough* HA *cough cough cough* HA!!!" Between breaths the old man managed to squeal "Hey Rosie, how about another round for me and Junior here."

AwwwwwOooooOOOOOoOOoo

2. The Old Man & The Sea

The headache and dry mouth upon my waking up was to be expected. As I stood up for the first time that morning, the boat beneath my feet and futon I dizzily looked down at were both surprising. And the lack of people on said boat was both a bit concerning and relieving. But it all turned to panicked confusion when I stepped out onto the houseboat's deck and noticed I was at least two miles from land.

Did I steal a boat? There's no way I stole a boat. I'm not a saint but I'm also not a felon. I also can't drive a boat and doubt that I learned on YouTube sometime within the last five hours. So I couldn't have stolen the boat. Where is the person that drove this boat? Who is the person that drove this boat?

After spiraling and throwing up once (or twice) in a toilet that leads to, I don't know, the ocean I guess, I could finally see a smaller motor boat headed in my direction.

Sure enough it was the old sailor from last night which gave me a sense of familiarity, but still not necessarily relief. "ARGGGHHH" he yelled to me from behind the wheel of his vessel. 

"arg" I managed to groan with zero passion.

"Ayy what happened to me first matey?" 

The old man and I must've been playing a pirate bit last night. I do love the pirate bit. But not while hungover.

"Umm. He be confused, and tired, and hungry, and a little worried.."

"Nothin' to be worried about Smee! Here," he tossed me two oranges, "to fight the scurvy!"

Then the old man and I enjoyed a breakfast of Florida oranges and black coffee (with the pulp) out on the deck of his houseboat as he alternated breaths between sea air and a Marlboro Red. 

When we had nothing but the orange peels and three cigarette butts sitting on the table between us, the old man stumbled inside. Despite there being just a light breeze and subtle tide, the old man steadied himself with one hand every step as he traversed into the depths of his abode. When he came back up, he plopped down a bottle of rum between the two of us and started slicing a lime with a knife that had probably cut through the gills of a thousand or so fish since the Reagan administration. 

My stomach turned a bit when I caught a glimpse of the rum. I don't drink in the mornings, I'm not a degenerate. The old man turned back downstairs again singing "yo ho yo ho, a pirate's life for me" as I looked around to plot my escape.

There was the motorboat the old man had taken out here which was tied up to the side of our ship. But again, I can't drive a boat and I can't learn on YouTube in the next 45 seconds. Swimming, not an option. Uber? Uber boat?? Worth a look. Open the app, no luck.

Lost in my thoughts again, I hadn't heard the old man speak to me. "Do you want to leave?" he asked again with palpable disappointment.

"No no...I don't know...I mean kind of yeah."

"No problem by me Junior. I'll fire up ole Sally," he said with manufactured enthusiasm while gesturing towards the motorboat. "Probably ain't my business. But whatcha gotta get goin' for?"

I thought about that for a minute. Nothing. There's nothing on my agenda, there's no one waiting for me at my hotel room. What do I have to get goin' for? "Nothing" I said. Then I picked up the rum glass that the old man had poured for me, squeezed a lime into it, and handed him his. "Whaddya say, Cheers Cap'n!" I clenched one eye shut hard and clanked glasses with the old man before tasting the sweet sting of Jolly Roger juice.

AwWWoooOoOooOOooooooooooo

3. To Have and Have Not

Call me a land-lover if you want (the old man did, a couple times), but two nights on a boat is enough for a city boy susceptible to a gnarly case of sea legs.

The old man dropped me off at his dock and left me with a warning. "The island can suck you in if you let it. Most run away from it. Others ride the wave." It was cheesy as anything I'd ever heard but it was also the only time I had heard the old man pronounce every letter in every word. And he was still hammered off rum.

I used my sea legs to trudge a mile and a half back to my hotel room, spitting out the taste of lime and fermented sugarcane off my tongue every block, until I could collapse into the chair sitting at the end of my bed. 

In a fit of intellectual inspiration, I grabbed the copy of Vonnegut's Slaughterhouse-Five that I had rented from my local library before flying down and opened to where I had left off. 

What the Englishman said about survival was this: "If you stop taking pride in your appearance, you will very soon die." He said that he had seen several men die in the following way: "They ceased to stand up straight, then ceased to shave or wash, then ceased to get out of bed, then ceased to talk, then died. There is this much to be said for it: It is evidently a very easy and painless way to go." So it goes.

I let out a small sigh, sniffed my armpit, and immediately winced at the stench. Body odor and booze found happiness together in my sweat glands and it was time to treat their marriage like Kim Kardashian and Kris Humphries'.

A glance at my bathroom triggered a memory from my first night. After leaving Willie T's there was a hot dog stand sitting at the end of the block calling my name like an oasis in the smallest desert ever. A few beers must have had me feeling generous because I bought a hot dog for myself and a fellow leaning against a wall near the stand.

I guess I had a rougher night than I thought because he started letting me in on a few tricks and tips for surviving the island on a tight budget. The only one I remembered was his shower trick. 

He's scouted out the houses of snowbirds, figures out when they're not in town, and checks the outdoor showers for a free rinse. "Haven't paid more than $20 for a water bill since I moved here in '08." Then he pointed out a house down the street that he'd been using for the past week as we munched the last of our sausages and parted ways.

Seemed risky for a shower-hopping virgin who had a perfectly good indoor facility just 25 feet away. But 'ride the wave' or whatever that old drunkard had spouted. So I opened google maps, packed a backpack with a towel and some clothes, and assured myself I was invisible, I was human camouflage.

Quick shower. Super quick shower. Like the quickest shower. Shampoo, quick lather on my top half, let the soap run down my bottom half. No funny business. Spacious for an outdoor shower though. No time to take in the scenery.

I rifled through my bag and put my clothes on while half wet thinking there's no way this shower will take, I'm going to sweat the whole way home. The whole process from arrival to departure took 3 minutes in my mind which made me feel like 007. I slithered my way against the back wall to the side of the house, poked my little prairie dog head out just slightly, and deemed the front clear for exit.

What I had missed in my state of tunnel vision, though, was the next door neighbor pulling up in her golf cart wearing a Lilly Pulitzer dress that's been out of fashion for a decade. If she shouted anything at me, I don't know what it was. I didn't hear nothin'. I just started runnin' and sweatin' out the rest of the rum.

AWWWooooOOOooooOO

4. A Farewell to Arms

After a nap, another shower, and a smoke of something sour that I'd acquired from a bartender a few nights ago, I was ready to see what the Key had in store for my next adventure.

As I walked down Duvall feelin' a little funky, I let my next endeavor call out to me, reign me in, but each block felt longer than the next as I slowly strolled along past honeymooners, bachelor and bachelorette parties, elderly lovebirds, and young families. Nothin' reached out and pulled me in until the sweet sounds of Fire on the Mountain escaped a bar on the side street, weaved its way through the crowd of walkers, barreled through the noise of all the other live acts, nosedived directly into my eardrums, and led me to where I needed to be.

I followed that north star, hunkered down at the corner of the bar, ordered a brewski, and let the Grateful Dead cover band take the night away.

One beer. Two beers. Holy shit is that Richard Branson across the bar? Three beers. "Hey there man, anyone ever told you that you look just like Richard Branson?" Four beers, the fourth bought by a billionaire himself! Five beers. Never mind it's not him, just a snowbird who takes nature photos in his retired years. Six beers. That's still cool, though. "I actually took a photography class in high school. Yeah it was cool, yeah. But somehow I got a C-."

Seven beers. "Alright see ya later man, enjoy the rest of your stay." Eight beers. "Yeah I'm down here on vacation oh you're a local that's awesome every local I've met has been awesome I love it here." Nine beers. "Haha yeah a lot of the tourists just don't appreciate this place for it's real magic but I'm tryin'." Ten beers. "No way you work at the bar they filmed The Beach Bum at? I love that movie." Eleven beers. "Nahhh I'm never going back. I'm gonna be the Mooooondog" Twelve beers. "I'm staying here, for *burp* fuckin' ever."

AWWWWWOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO