Moon Over Pensacola

Warning: this story contains foul language

"C'mon, it'll be fun," Jack says, knocking back another Jaeger shot. I eye my own shot apprehensively, not sure if I need to be this drunk in a hurricane. 

We drank the whole way from Abilene, 12 hours and 26 minutes of lite beer and Jimmy Buffet's greatest hits ( the only tape Jack has left kicking around in his '84 Nissan 720) and him trying to convince me. Now, as the sky grows dark outside the tempered glass windows of the bar, I am far less convinced than I was back in Texas.

Everything in this bar is sticky. the bar top, the floor, even the jacket hooks.

"I think this is where spring breakers go to die," I say.

Jack signals the bartender for another shot and looks around, taking in our surroundings for the first time. 

Under the daytime blacklight, several obese men in at least partially open Hawaiian shirts sip colorful alcoholic slush from hurricane glasses. Their used-to-be-hot, overly made up female companions cling desperately to youth between shots. Every once in a while, they scream "Woooo!" but their hearts just aren't in it.

"Don't change the subject," he says, lifting his glass for a cheers, "you have to do this."

"Why?" we clink, then tap our glasses to the bar before downing the sticky, sweet liquor.

"Why? Fucking twelve hour drive? I can't- holy shit!

"What?"

"The bartender!"

I give the guy a good looking over for the first time since sitting down at the bar. Long gray mullet, tan, beer gut big enough to fill out an XXL Hawaiian shirt.

"Wait until he turns around," Jack mutters under his breath. I wait. I think he feels my eyes bore into his back, because he cranes his neck to see if we need anything, giving me a good glimpse of his face.

"Holy shit. That's Jimmy fucking Buffet."

"Or a dead ringer for him, shit. This is destiny! That we should end up in this bar, after twelve hours of his greatest hits- God's talking to you, Eric. You need to do this."

"Why? Why does it matter so much to you? Why did Jimmy Buffet come all the way to Pensacola just to convince me to-"

"Because you owe it to me! Not only do you owe me, you owe yourself! All of fucking highschool, man, you were the responsible one. The goody two shoes, the -"

"The pussy?"

"Well, yeah, since you put it that way, you were a fucking pussy. And now what? What if you die over there, man? What if you die without ever having had any fun? Just, just do it for Jimmy Buffett, ok?"

I catch a glimpse of his eyes, shiny with alchol and nostalgia. A tear slips out. I pretend not to see it.

"Ok, fine."

He claps me on the back, then orders up another round for us and opens the weather app on his phone.

"She should make landfall in about half an hour, and the nightly news films live at six, so we have some time to plan our route."

Jack is just an anonymous guy drinking here in Pensacola, but back home, he is the stuff of legend. Every September since junior year, he's loaded up the truck with lite beer and skunk weed and made the pilgramage to the Florida panhandle to stand in the middle of a hurricane during the nightly news. His bare ass has been on weather reports on WCTV, WTVY, and WHGJ, to name a few. A whole Youtube channel has been dedicated to his pale, scrawny cheeks. When I asked him, after his first time, if he was going to go back, he told me of course, because "Even in a hurricane, those people deserve to see the moon."

Now it's 5:56, and rain slaps the roof like two college freshman are agressively fucking upstairs. Wind buckles the windows. I am inebriated.

Jack grabs me by the shoulders. "It's time," he says, his tone both sombre and slurred. 

"It's time," I agree. For the past hour, I have been doing mental gymnstics, trying to weasle my way out of this, not coming up with anything. He's my best friend. This is important to him. He's my ride home.

I get up off my very sticky stool, wobbling. All the blood rushes to my head, and I have to steady myself on Jack's bony shoulder. Strong and and tall against the pull of booze, he leads us to the exit.

Outside, the wind almost takes us down as it slams the door closed behind us. We hold on to eachother like brothers in arms, trying to make it to safety on the battlefield. Drops sting my skin through my thermal shirt as we grapple our way down the block to the beach, where WKRG's cameras are setting up. We dig our heels into wet asphalt, closing our eyes against the heavy gusts. We follow the light eminating from the weather team, who are about to start filming. Any minute now. 

Jack guides me down a path onto the beach about five yards away from the action. as soon as we turn, sand kicks into my face. I crunch it between my teeth, then swallow. Salty.

Our footprints make a parabola as we approach the newscast, or they would if they weren't constantly being replaced by windblown flotsam. Jack pulls me closer so I can hear him over the wind and scream whispers, "this is it!"

He lets go of my shoulder and digs his legs into wet sand. I do the same.

"One," he hisses, going for his belt, "two," I don't really have to do this, I could just pretend. reputation unsullied, friendship still intact, I could just-- "three!" I pull down my sweats and wave my bare ass into the wind, sand stinging my my nut sack. Jack and I are both laughing maniacally, falling over into the sand as we pull our pants back up, rolling around in the freedom only a hurricane can provide.

"Hey," he turns to me, still giggling, "Did we pay our tab?"

"Nope!" I holler into the wind.