"Key West is Cool": A Novella by ADL

Synopsis
A group of Midwestern misfits, ruffians, and amateur street performers travel to Key West, Florida during the spring of 2006 for a wedding. Tomfoolery ensues. The story is told as a first-person narrative from the perspective of a borderline alcoholic with foot problems and too many t-shirts.

Cast of Characters
-Kyla - the bride
-Alex - the groom
-Me - me
-Jester - my beautiful wife
-Ari - my sister-in-law
-Brian - friend/groomsman, shared suite with Ari and Alleycat
-Alleycat - bridesmaid from North Cakalaki, shared suite with Ari and Brian
-Joe - friend of bride and groom, Katie's boyfriend
-Katie - friend of bride and groom, Joe's girlfriend
-Dave - friend of bride and groom, Sox fan, Julie's boyfriend
-Julie - friend of bride and groom, Sox fan, Dave's girlfriend

Chapter One: The Awakening and Journey
When my alarm went off at 4am last Friday, I was as close to murdering an inanimate object since I shattered a LaBamba's burrito man bobble head doll over Christoff's head. But alas, I jumped out of bed and greeted the day with vigor. Up front, I'd just like to let you all know that last week I pulled a reverse Daniel Day Lewis and messed up my left foot. Not only could I not paint with my left foot, but walking on it generally felt like I was walking on golf balls. Thanks to my co-worker Katie "I Ran Cross Country and Track in College" Miltner (who I asked about it, despite the fact that she does not have a medical degree or any sort of experience in podiatry), the preliminary diagnosis was that it might be a stress fracture, since I had been running more than usual in order to get a total hard body for Key West (I failed, by the way). I had no reason to believe that she was wrong (and still don't).

Since airlines generally treat nonstop flights from Dayton like Rick James treated cocaine and women (abusive and with little respect), our flight path was exactly as you would guess: Dayton to Dallas to Fort Lauderdale. On the way their, we had a 40-minute layover in Dallas. And of course out flight out of Dayton was delayed for about 35 minutes, which meant that we had to truck it once we got to DFW. Since everything is bigger in Texas, including airports, we had to go to another terminal, and the slightly helpful American Airlines rep that we talked to felt that walking would be fastest (as opposed to an interterminal tram). While that might have been true, it was still hell on my foot, and indirectly resulted in an escalator taking a nice chunk of skin out of my heel. Luckily the flight to Fort Lauderdale was delayed a few minutes, so Jester and I made the flight with about 5 minutes to spare.

Chapter Two: Fort Lauderdale to Key West
Upon our arrival in Fort Lauderdale, Ari and Brian were waiting to take us to Key West in a Ford Taurus, which they had apparently somehow arranged with a company to temporarily use in exchange for a predetermined sum of American dollars.

The drive through the Keys was better than expected. There were no croc or gator attacks, and we saw a couple pelicans. We stopped in Marathon at the Seven Mile Grill to quell our appetites and quench our thirsts. As it turns out, fresh seafood tastes even better than Gorton's fish sticks.

We stayed at a place called the Merlin Guesthouse, which I highly recommend. It was on Simonton Street, which is a block from Duval Street, which is the main drag of bars and shops. And as an added bonus, the lady who showed Jester and me to our room told us that the Merlin used to be a bordello. I forgot to ask her how many hookers had been killed in our room, but it had to be at least seven. Our room was the second one from the right in this picture.

Chapter Three: Friday Night
Everyone convened Friday night at 9 at the world-famous Sloppy Joe's. It was clear from the very beginning that this was going to be a ragingly drunken night for everyone. Shots of sambuca and Jager began to show their mischievous heads within minutes of arriving at Sloppy Joe's. By the time we arrived at Irish Kevin's around 11, I was well on my way to sleeping on the sidewalk with a three-toed cat.

Irish Kevin's features solo guitarists playing a variety of hits to a rowdy crowd. While there, I realized that I had not eaten since Seven Mile Grill (8-10 hours earlier), so I left to get some pizza, since I thought I remembered seeing several pizza-by-the-slice places on the walk there, so I took a left out of the front door and headed south on Duval. I should note that alcohol has a wonderful numbing effect on foot pain. The speed with which I was walking down the sidewalk and the look of gritty determination on my face caused many a fellow walkers to get the hell out of my way. As it turned out, the pizza places I thought I had seen must have been bars, because I walked for blocks without seeing any pizza. Concerned about why I was walking about 8 times faster than everyone else on the sidewalk, a nice gay couple asked where I was going. I managed to slur together, "Just want pizza," and they pointed me to a place a couple blocks down called Upper Crust.

I arrived at Upper Crust, both relieved and eager. I walked up to the counter and order two slices of cheese, to which the girl behind the counter says, "We stopped making pizzas at 11, so all we have is our daily special." "And what might that be," I ask. She replies, "Spinach and ricotta." The look on my face must have screamed "if I wanted my mouth to taste like puke, I could just stick my finger down my throat" because when I asked where else I could get pizza, she said, "I don't know, but you can go to Wendy's." Bitch.

So I kept on movin' down the road, finally coming to Pizza Joe's, a delightful place that sold pizza with non-vomit-like toppings. I grabbed my two sliced of cheese, and headed back toward Irish Kevin's, which was about 8 blocks away. By the time I got back to Irish Kevin's (about 45 minutes after I left), I was satiated and satisfied. I arrived in time to hear the current guitarist play some "Wanted Dead or Alive" by Bon Jovi, which Brian and I sang along with at the tops of our lungs. This picture accurately portrays everyone's state of mind at the time.Chapter Four: Late Night Friday
After Irish Kevin's, the ladies wanted to go dancing, so we went to a place across the street called Rick's. It was at this point that I realized, had I gone right out of Irish Kevin's and crossed the street, I could have gotten pizza in about 43 fewer minutes than with the path I chose.

Somewhere between the time we left Irish Kevin's and being at Rick's for 38 seconds, we lost Joe (or more likely, Joe lost himself). Given that Brian, Alex, and I were pretty sober at that point, we decided to scour the bar looking for Joe, as well as the bars below Rick's, one of which conveniently was a strip club. It took some long searching, but Joe was nowhere to be found. At some point, we gave up and decided that our happiness was more important than helping others. By the way, how many brides do you know who are triple fisting at 3am the night before their wedding?

And I'm not sure what was going on here, with some random dude, Alleycat and Jester striking some fucked up pose.

The walk back to the hotel was going so well until the ladies decided to go to a country bar, leaving Brian, Alex, and me to walk the rest of the way by ourselves, which meant that no one was there to stop us from going into another bar, where we would have a shot and a beer to help us get to sleep.

I'm not sure exactly how we made it the rest of the way home, but I'll assume it was by hovercraft. Back at the hotel, I was falling quickly and firmly into an alcohol-induced coma when Jessie got back and said that she and the others were going to be taking a 4am dip in the pool. Perfect way to sober me up, I thought.

The pool was a bit small and a bit shallow. Feeling threatened, I decided to get into a fight with the floor of the pool while I was swimming a few laps. As is always the case in these types of situations, the pool floor won, and I have the wounds and scrapes on seven of my fingers to prove it.

As of bedtime (approximately 4:30am), Katie, who was staying at a different hotel and was text messaging Kyla, had still not heard from Joe.

Chapter Five: Saturday
If you thought I was pissed at my alarm clock on Friday morning, imagine how pissed off I was at the sun on Saturday morning. More pissed off than hooker who accidentally walked into a Promise Keepers rally.

I pulled myself together and headed out to the pool, where the ladies had been apparently for several hours. It was then that we learned about what happened to Joe. This is awesome. Apparently, he strolled into his and Katie's hotel room 'round about 6am, soaked head-to-toe, with his shins scraped to all hell. He told her that he got lost and went swimming in the Gulf, and then refused to say anything else and went to bed. Oh yeah, I forgot to mention that Katie paid for Joe's trip.

Anyway, Kyla, Jester, Alleycat, Ari, and I decided to go get some lunch, since that's the custom in those parts. Our destination was Willie T's, a delightful shanty with a list of mojitos longer than Tommy Lee's wang. Since I don't like penis, I went with a beer.

After lunch, I spent a good part of the afternoon in the hotel room, icing my foot and watching the History Channel's "The Presidents" series. Man, that James Buchanan sure was a shitty President. What an asshole. Meanwhile, Brian was essentially doing nothing as well, since he could barely walk on account of his back pain.

At some point during the day, Kyla found out more of the Joe/Katie saga. According to Joe, he was hammered, left Irish Kevin's and went to another bar, which he then got kicked out of because he was too drunk, but he snuck back in the back entrance, had a couple more drinks, and then wandered aimlessly around Key West for a while. Eventually, he came upon some water, so he decided to take a swim. It was unclear to him exactly how he gashed the shit out of his shins (they honestly looked like someone had taken a peeler to them), but he guessed that he must have hit some rocks. And then somehow he made it back to the hotel. Makes perfect sense.

Chapter Six: The Wedding
The wedding itself was awesome. Our only directions were "Smathers Beach, staircase 8, palm trees," which were actually perfect directions. It was the first, and hopefully not the last, wedding I have attended where I didn't wear shoes.

Kyla and Alex exchanges vows and pleasantries in between two palms trees, with the audience facing the ocean. Of to the left about 20 yards was a classy lady who was sunbathing topless (she was lying on her stomach guys, so get your heads out of the gutter--her two gigantic lucious melon gutters). She of course waited until after the ceremony to put her top on and move to a different spot. Notice her in the background.

After the wedding, we all went to the reception, which was at a delightful restaurant nearby called Shanna Key. I ate more shrimp than should be allowed, while the bride and others rocked the sambuca shots. Also, Kyla's mom (a nurse) wrapped my foot for me.

That night, we tried our damnedest to go out, so many of us went back to Irish Kevin's. We muscled down a couple beers, then decided that we were tired as shit, so we all went back to the hotel after an early night. I, of course, laid awake in bed until 2 watching the History Channel's "The Kennedys." Man, that Joseph Kennedy was one cursed motherfucker.

Chapter Six: The Walking Wounded
Upon awakening with the foot wrap on, I could barely walk. It hurt more than when you get soap in your pee hole. It turned out the Brian could also barely walk. Ergo, we both made out way to the Truman Medical Center, a delightful little urgent care center only a few blocks from our hotel.

The doctor informed me that it may be a stress fracture, but that if it was, it won't show up on an x-ray for another couple weeks. He prescribed me a sweet anti-inflammatory and a pain killer for the meantime. Meanwhile, Brian found out that, in addition to his back pain, he had strep. He was also given several prescriptions. Both of us had the foresight to ask about our respective drugs' interaction with alcohol, and both of us were given the green light to mix away.

Chapter Seven: Sunday Night
Sunday evening can only be described as pleasant. It started at Alex and Kyla's hotel, which is probably better described as a little apartment. They had a private patio and a grill. Hence, we had a cookout, complete with cheddarwursts (I was surprised they were available south of Kankakee).

After the cookout, we all headed to the Green Parrot, which is apparently owned by some former Chicagoans. They were showing the Cubs game, which interested most of the others, but certainly not me. What did interest me at the Green Parrot, however, was a plaque that commemorated the fact that at some point in 1959, Elvis slapped Hemingway at the bar. Seems to me that Elvis must have immediately run away after the slap, since I'm sure Hemingway would have pounded Elvis to the ground. Unless of course Hemingway was already passed out when Elvis slapped him, which is entirely possible. I took a picture of the plaque, which you can't read, but I think the fact that it's there is good enough. Also, Brian labeled me a hippie.

After the Green Parrot, we headed to Captain Tony's, which is apparently the original Sloppy Joe's, and is the bar where Hemingway hung out the most. The walls are covered with business cards from patrons throughout the years. Since I have never had a reason to give someone my business card, I of course didn't have one with me. But I did sign and hang up my betting slip from Caesar's Palace that had IU winning the 2006 NCAA basketball title. Thanks for nothing guys. But there was a great sign outside the men's bathroom that strictly forbid peeing on the floor. I assume that was because of Hemingway. Below is a picture of Jester, me, Alex's friend whose name I can't recall, and Kyla pimpin' it at Captain Tony's.

After Captain Tony's, we went to that country bar that the girls went to Friday night. I hate country music more than AIDS. They really took the country theme to heart because the only bathrooms were port-a-potties. Nothing like being hammered and taking a piss in the dark in a fucking port-a-potty. There was also a cowboy hat on the wall, so Jessie insisted that I get her picture (left). It totally looks like she's really wearing a cowboy hat, doesn't it? Crazy Key West country bar, what will you think of next?

Like Captain Tony's (and several other bars in Key West), the country bar allowed patrons to hang shit up on the walls. So, Brian hung up an index card that said "The Dude Abides." For some reason, I decided that I needed a picture of this, so in case you think I'm bullshittin', I have this picture to prove that I'm not:

Apparently we also got pizza at some point that night, much to Jessie's enjoyment.

Chapter Eight: Rendezvous in the Keys
Monday morning I woke up still a little tipsy. Luckily I had sobered up by the time we got to the Alamo Rent-a-Car. We reserved a Geo Metro (I don't know what the hell I was thinking), but luckily they had no compacts, so they gave us a Buick Rendezvous. We hit a Dunkin Donuts on our way out of town. Word of advice: don't get an egg and cheese sandwich from the Key West Dunkin Donuts. It tasted like sidewalk chalk covered in stale dog vomit. And yes, I have tasted that.

The drive back was relatively uneventful. As expected, we got stuck behind idiots going less than the speed limit on a 2-lane highway. We did stop at a sweet restaurant right before getting on the Florida Turnpike called the Mutineer. Yes, as in someone who mutines.

Chapter Nine: Going Back to Dayton
At the Fort Lauderdale airport, we had to take a shuttle from Alamo to the terminal. Apparently Jessie and I were wearing signs that said "If you're a fucking nut job, please talk to us." On the shuttle bus, this middle-aged couple sit next to us. The wife must have been psychic or following us because she asked what part of the Midwest we were from. Here's how the conversation went from that point on:
Me: We live in Dayton, Ohio.
Crazy Wife: Oh, my husband's sister lived in Cleveland. Small world.
Me: Where are you guys from?
Crazy Wife: We live just outside Rockford, Illinois.
Jessie: Oh, we're from Chicago, and we're actually moving back in a couple weeks.
Crazy Husband: Ahh, the crazy town. [It was unclear to me whether he was calling Chicago a crazy town or talking about the shitty rock group Crazy Town]
Me: Yep.
Crazy Wife: My brother and sister-in-law used to live in the suburbs.
Crazy Husband: Yeah, but they're dead now.
Me: Oh.
Jessie: So, where outside of Rockford are you from?
Crazy Wife: A town called Byron. I have a sister in Rockford, though. A Mexican family just moved to their neighborhood. There aren't any black people or Mexicans in their neighborhood. The daughter's really pretty and outgoing, though. So they should be able to make it there.
Me: Yep.
Crazy Husband: Yeah, we moved to Byron from Cleveland because my sister was there. She got cancer last November, though. Then she died in February.

It was at that point that we stopped responding to them.

Anyway, the flights back were alright. Then we get into Dayton at 11pm. At the baggage claim, American sends out about 25 bags, then shuts the baggage claim doors, then makes an announcement over the loud speaker that says, "American Airlines Flight 1234 from Chicago and Flight 5678 from Dallas/Ft. Worth are on Baggage Claim 4. If your baggage did not come out, you can file a claim with the American Airlines service counter." I don't know if they just like to fuck with their passengers, but it proved to be an unnecessary announcement, since 5 minutes later the rest of the bags came out. But for that 5 minutes there were about 300 confused and borderline riotous people.

Then we got home and went to bed.