KEY WEST, Fla. – We interrupt this annual sojourn to the Conch Republic for the NCAA Tournament.
That didn’t please everybody in our merry tribe of traveling companions, but on Monday, 2 1/2 of our party sat at The Abbey taking in a hoped-for Texas Tech national basketball championship.
That would be two buddies, Peter and Paul – a shell of himself by this 9:20 p.m. tip-off after pregame bar hopping, make that racing, that started around noon – and myself. Missing was Jan, who really would have preferred watching a contest of marbles between dueling 8-year-olds.
As Paul’s wife, she also knew too well what was in store.
Joining us were our new friends we met earlier in the day, the married Benfields of Greensboro, N.C., Matthew and Jennifer. Good people, here celebrating 20 years of marriage. We ran into them – Paul literally — at the renowned Green Parrot, home this month for the island’s poetry appreciation month. Local Jack Hackett, a literary type who got lost somewhere along the way in the 1960s, recites a poem every afternoon at 5:30 p.m.
The Benfields are our kind of people.
They buy tabs.
Matthew once some time ago, neutralized an assailant in Chicago in a random act of violence by gouging the guy’s eye out after being stabbed in the neck.
Needless to say, with credentials like that, we didn’t talk religion or politics.
Key West is still paradise for many of us, though as far as Buffets go, this place is now far more Warren than Jimmy.
That’s no lie. Berkshire Hathaway is a leading property management firm here, and they sell it at asking prices relative to Berkshire Hathaway stock. Word on the street is the monthly rent for one establishment we enjoy is $28,000 a month.
Matthew, our resident badass, can’t compete with that gouging.
Jimmy Johnson still lives here. Mike Leach has a place here. I believe Texas Tech coach Chris Beard spends time down here; he might have a place. He’ll soon be able to afford one.
The spirit of Captain Tony Tarracino, the saloonkeeper, boat captain, gambler and, yes, politician, still defines the place. As a matter of fact, our group met Captain Tony’s daughter, Toni, during pregame festivities on Monday afternoon. That was a brush with fame.
Ernest Hemingway was one of the island’s most famous residents. Key West was his inspiration for a time. The Hemingway house is a destination for tourists. It’s full of irony, too. On the ground is a space for wedding ceremonies, a bad symbolic start if you ask me, considering Hemingway put wedding bands on each of his left fingers, except the thumb.
Hemingway simply couldn’t be great at two things, so he chose writing.
If you’re in the land of Hemingway, you do Hemingway things, like drink and write, albeit something far less favorably received.
The times being what they are for writers such as myself, I have a contingency for when or if housing options run out.
I’m coming to Key West.
No one would be able to tell the difference. Distinguishing the less fortunate and the look and sometimes the smell of a local is at times difficult. That’s taking only, as our friends the Scots would say, a smitch of liberty.
Here, “it is what it is” is.
The Giokases, Paul and Jan, met in Johannesburg, South Africa. He’s Canadian by birth and at the time was playing and coaching hockey over there after his days as a junior in Canada were over. Those Canadian hockey players are wired differently, if you didn’t know that already. Jan was an accomplished figure skater touring the world. Her brother was an Olympian in 1988 or ’92.
Peter Whipple is a legend of sorts in Fort Worth. Mention his name in a bar, any bar, you will get a reaction. The emotions range from joy to nausea, depending on what part of the day it is.
This quasi-Lebowskian has never once run away from a good time.
“I went to Drake for one year and TCU for five,” he mentioned during this trip before recalculating to six or seven at TCU.
Peter is also this trip’s official observer. “JH, right shoulder,” he said pointing out the busty blonde sauntering down Duval. He also spotted a passerby wearing a UT cap.
“Get your guns up,” he shouted at the man, who glared at him.
Peter couldn’t stop laughing, those kinds of encounters this Horned Frog relishes.
Gumpian is also part of him.
In 1980, Ronald Reagan’s campaign called to the family car dealership in Fort Worth to inquire about loaning some cars for a campaign appearance in Fort Worth. Peter’s dad told son No. 2 to handle it.
“I said sure, as long as my friends could be the drivers.”
Peter loves his friends. Personally, I couldn’t think of a worse idea.
All passed the background checks, and all went smoothly that day, the then 20-somethings meeting the future 40th president.
It went so well that months later, in 1981, the dealership was hit up again for a visit to the city by Vice President George H.W. Bush. To whom it concerned was fine with the same arrangement. The visit was cut short because Reagan was shot that day.
“We met the almost 41st president, too.”
Peter and his brother decided about eight or 10 years ago that they had achieved all they could in Fort Worth, Texas. So, to Florida they set out, landing in a family compound in keys near Sarasota.
I began tagging along on this trip to Key West two years ago. On that maiden voyage were eight of us. Great times, though I once made a suggestion that we could stand to cut the trip by a day. It can be quite trying down here, particularly with people who are no longer exactly young treating the body like a fraternity house.
What I got in return was the same look of disgust you might get if you suggested to a Buddhist that Buddha could have used a set of Shake Weights.
Well, anyway, Paul and I took our bicycles from the Chart Room, stop No. 6 or 8 or some such on the day, and headed to The Abbey for tipoff. Peter had to stop by the condo to clean up a bit. He was meeting us there.
We finished the trip to The Abbey walking. Paul was in no condition to drive the bike. Think Terrance Williams early one morning in Frisco.
“Oh, we were wondering where his people were,” said a bystander on the sidewalk as I collected him. Apparently, this was Paul falling for the second time. I was up ahead of him for the first.
“Ah, don’t worry about him,” I said. “This was his first drink in six years. He’s just not accustomed to it right yet. Nothing that an IV, an intervention counselor and maybe an attorney can’t take care of in the morning.”
I took his bike and affixed it to a tree on Duval with a chain lock.
As we approached midway through the first half, Paul asked to be excused. He felt as if he were letting me, a Texas Tech graduate, down not being able to stay. Absolutely, I said, while my inside voice added that it was time, the entire island could see that.
Peter, having arrived, and I and the Benfields, having become Texas Tech fans along the way, watched the rest of the game and all of its triumphs and ultimate disappointment.
It was all OK. Someone has to lose these games. In the one we saw on Monday it requires a lot of good fortune. A call here, a turnover there, a silly video replay review. In the end, it was a hell of game. It was fairly obvious we had the right two teams playing.
By this time, we knew Paul had been reported missing, not in any formal legal sense. Jan, her early night interrupted, had alerted us that an hour and a half after leaving the bar, he hadn’t made it back to home base.
That caused no one any real concern. Our priority was watching the state of Texas’ first national championship since Texas Western.
We were only about a mile or so from our condo, and this wasn’t his first rodeo with Key West. Paul knows Key West like the back of his hand in any condition, and, in fact, he is a de facto tour guide for the other visitors we meet. He can tell you just about everything about the island.
This also wasn’t the first time he has had a run in with the spirits of Key West.
Again, he’s Canadian and a hockey player. You never like to paint with one of Bob Ross’ wide brushes, but you can take the boy out of hockey, but you can’t take hockey out of the boy.
“I found him,” Jan said, calling about 30 or 45 minutes after the game. “He’s asleep in the grass behind the First State Bank on Fleming.”
Could we come help get him home?
We assured her we absolutely would. What are friends for, after all? Then Peter ordered us two more drinks.
“Well, it’s not like he’s going anywhere.”
