Heaven and Hell - Night 4

Night 4*

At the end of a long day 4, I asked a kindly check-out lady at the Piggly Wiggly where on St. George’s Island I should go to watch footb—-

”Paddy’s,” she answered before I could finish asking. And let me tell you…

Paddy’s is Heaven. Paddy’s is my spirit animal. Paddy’s is where I plan to have my ashes spread after they’re soaked in beer and mixed with salsa.

This is Paddy’s.

Fig. A: Guy with a guitar playing Buffett - CHECK


This is Paddy’s.

Fig. B: Small bar with lots of character, and lots of characters - CHECK


This is Paddy’s.

Fig. C: Sandy outdoor space overlooking the water - CHECK


Sure, Paddy’s has its drawbacks. It is not the most diverse crowd on the planet – and I do like me some diversity. At Paddy’s, you’ve got a diverse crowd when the bald white men and saucy white women are in their 70s and 80s.

Actually, that lack of diversity is the only drawback to Paddy’s (plus it’s a $2,784-dollar round-trip Uber ride from my house). Otherwise it’s perfect: open air, some guy with a guitar playing Buffett and Buffett-adjacent tunes on the front patio, picnic tables on sand out back overlooking the water between the island and the mainland.

The best part of Paddy’s is it is a small bar. I love a small bar, because I go to a bar to drink and talk to people, and a small bar makes it possible to talk to anyone in the place. I used to hesitate starting up a conversation with someone sitting at a bar, but I realized that anyone who wants to drink and not talk could do that a lot cheaper at home.

Most importantly, at a small bar, everyone can hear my jokes. I have certain folks very close to me who hate how, as I go through the night in a bar, I begin getting louder with the unconscious (or conscious) intent of playing to the crowd. I don’t blame these loved ones. But I am who I am. And, by the time I was done with Paddy’s, I was an honorary member and official Grand Jester of the St. George Island Three-Quarter-Century+ Club.

As the sun sank toward the western horizon, I tore myself away from Valhalla and headed back to the campground. I started a campfire, put the great movie Moneyball on my iPad and settled in. The warm day had fled south, and soon I was sitting so close to the fire that Brad Pitt was sweating.

For several minutes I was hearing noises in the pine tree next to me. I would look up but, blinded by the fire and Brad Pitt’s movie-star good looks, I couldn’t really see anything. Finally, after about a half-hour, I switched on my flashlight and looked up and was immediately rewarded with four eyes looking back at me from a branch directly over my head.

Fig. D: This is exactly what I saw.

Raccoons.

I checked in with my outdoorsman brother-in-law Lee, who theorized the raccoons were after my wine.

My wine? It was settled then. Tonight I would die. Now I knew how Davy Crockett felt at the Alamo.

Turns out Lee was joking – raccoons are more the IPA type. I felt bad about having kept them treed so long, but Lee assured me that living in this campground was Eden for these raccoons. If they were Jimmy Buffett, they’d write a song about this campground. That’s when I heard them coming down the tree.

Maybe I’ll watch the rest of the movie in the car, I thought to myself.

As I pulled my lumpy caterpillar body up into the back passenger door of my chrysalis, I looked out into the dark, following the beam of my headlamp. There, TEN FEET AWAY, were the two raccoons, tippy-toeing closer to the campsite.

I shut the door like it was a basement safe room on the Night of the Apocalypse. We’ll see if anything is left out there in the morning.


* Moment of Truthiness: I’m already back from my walkabout. In fact, it occurred LAST year about this time. I was going to post about it after the trip, but I sort of ran out of steam. So now I’m going to pretend I’m posting about my walkabout real-time, just like a reality show pretends to be reality.

Take the whole trip! I’ll even cover the gas!

TravelChuckBuffett, Buffet-adjacent, Racoons, The Perfect BarComment