At 2am I was walking down one end of Duval Street, heading for my car, headed home. I walked accompanied by the usual night-symphony of revelers raving and ambulance sirens and rooster calls, when I heard a ruckus.
A group of three crocked spring-breakers were stopped and gesticulating and cursing loudly at a doorway. I posted up by a wall, and observed. The trio caterwauled until finally out of steam they staggered off. From the entranceway emanated peeling guffaws. Gingerly I approached to investigate, and in the doorway I found two men on the front stoop of a small hotel. One guy, salt & pepper beard and beetroot skin, was seated protectively in front of a box of beer, he was chortling, and pointing at his friend. His friend was reclining flat on his back with his legs out stiffly in front like he was levitating. He had his hands folded over his orange teeshirt and he was spluttering, maybe even choking a bit, wheezing and rocking with laughter. When he sat up I saw his red face was streaming with tears. It was a face stuck all over with joy. Pure and infectious, and I asked if I might sit with them.
Al and Nick are a couple of Maryland lads in town for Nick’s 40th birthday. They traveled with their spouses and their motorbikes. Their last night in paradise, with the wives tucked in bed upstairs at the hotel, the men rigged a game with a toy fishing pole, a yellow plastic thing they bought for three dollars at the corner drug store.
Nick sported a crew cut and flame tattoos on his forearms, “They match my bike,” he explained, “I was having a midlife crisis.” Nick let out his line and sent his buddy Al to place the lure on the sidewalk, a dollar stuck with quarters, as sinkers.
The passing drunks were pitiably hilarious as they lunged at the money. Nick skillfully wound the reel, hauling in the bill as the sot snatched, with face contorting from confusion as the dollar flittered from a grasp. After each catch Nick slumped exploding with giggles. Al too, eyes closed, cracking up. Their elation transformed them and I saw them as carefree kids, before the pile up of life. Both Nick and Al were slung with shiny green party-beads. Nick’s game was luminously innocent, yet temporarily triumphing in this prurient town.
Eyes bugged as the dollar flew away. The bewilderment they expressed was priceless. Impaired minds followed the skittering bill before registering us, and our hysterical faces, momentarily sobering them, like a slap. “Fuckers!” decried an intoxicated girl, her high heels dangling from one hand. Later she returned and said, “I called you ‘fuckers’. I’m sorry.”
We watched a montage of stumblebum fishing all set to the melodic cacophonic track of our cruel laughter. At daybreak they packed up their equipment and we split the memories.