Everyone is running from something. Some are just better runners than others.
The Dolphin Breeze Resort’s pink stucco betrayed its age and the fact the resort was past its prime. Nestled squarely in the middle of the Redneck Rivera, the Dolphin Breeze catered to working-class families desperately seeking Jimmy Buffett’s version of paradise. The sand was white. The water was aqua green. And the beer was cold.
It was mid-July and a warm breeze blew in from the Gulf. Joe Crabshack (his stage name — even his alcoholic mother wouldn’t have named him that), carried his amp and trusty Martin guitar out to the pool. It was a solid gig, one that he had had for nearly 25 years. Joe would set up and play Buffett songs as the guests slowly headed off to paradise. The women got younger and the pay smaller. But Joe hung in there. It beat working.
He tuned his Martin and strummed a few chords. A sunburned lady slathered sunscreen on her rather large belly. A bald man’s head reflected the noonday sun. Joe was a master observer. He could tell the guest’s lives just by watching them. The conventioneer trying to pick up the daughter of another conventioneer — he noted the white line on his ring finger. Everyone was running from something, Joe thought. Some are just better runners than others.
He began to play Crosby, Stills and Nash’s Southern Cross. “She’s all that I have left, and music is her name.” Joe smiled to himself. How true that was.
Bob the Bartender (not to be confused with Bob the Builder) poured another beer and looked out at Joe.
“We’ve worked with Joe for over 20 years and I don’t know a damn thing about him.”
Jenny, a new waitress, looked up at the little hut where Joe sang all day. “I was about to ask you about him.”
Carolyn, who had managed the poolside grill since the resort had opened said, “It’s easier to give a cat a pill than to get Joe to talk. He’ll ask you a thousand questions but you ask him one and he just shuts down. But still, there’s something familiar about him.”
Six o’clock rolled around and Joe carefully put his Martin its case. It was a daily ritual for him. He’s pack up and practically evaporate. No one knew where he lived. No one knew anything about Joe.
But Jenny was determined to find out. She sat in her Mustang in the shadow of the resort’s parking garage. She watched Joe pack up his Honda CR-V and turn right onto Beach Highway. She carefully stayed two cars behind him. Seven years as an investigative journalist had taught her to disappear into a crowd.
She was going to find out Joe Crabshack’s secret.
Joe turned right onto Jellyfish Court and drove to the large metal gates. Jenny looked at the huge beach homes. You can’t afford a place like this as a beach singer. Could he be who she thought he was?
The next day, Joe parked his SUV and unloaded his case. And once again he started with Southern Cross.
“And we never failed to fail, it was the easiest thing to do.”
Jenny wanted to tell Bob about what she had seen. But she wasn’t quite ready to blow her cover. She still had a mystery to solve. Who was Joe Crabshack? She carried a burger and fries to a man covered with tattoos and listened to her mystery man sing. This guy was too good for this place. What was he doing here?
She noticed his left arm. The skin was crinkled with the consistency of a pork skin. Burn scars. Joe Crabshack had been burned. But how?
During his break, Jenny walked past Joe and said, “Joe, I can’t help but notice your arm.” She could see him tense up.
“It’s nothing,” he said curtly. His tone said it was something.
“Bob,” Jenny said when she returned to the bar, “How did Joe get burned?” Bob looked over at the singer and shrugged.
“Dunno. He won’t talk about it. Must cause a lot of pain on the inside.”
A middle-aged dad walked over to the hut and requested Joe play a song. The song was “Tropical Breeze,” a song by an up-and-coming singer named Bob Seattle. Joe stopped in the middle of the song he was playing and loudly yelled, “NO, THAT SONG IS CRAP! I’ll NEVER PLAY THAT SONG!!!”
Everyone around the pool looked at Joe and wondered what they just seen.
Jenny knew exactly what had happened.
She pulled out her phone and Googled Bob Seattle. Bob Seattle had just signed a huge record deal with Atlantic Records. He was selling out arenas and was working on his second album. But writer’s block had gripped him. Then there was the car crash. Two bodies were burned beyond recognition. One was his wife. The other was Bob Seattle.
Or was it?
She looked at the young man with the bushy hair and cheesy mustache. Then she went to YouTube and listened to Tropical Breeze. Joe Crabshack was who she was looking for.
Jenny walked up to Joe at the end of the day and approached him. “Joe,” Jenny said, “Or is it Bob?”
Joe turned around quickly and said, “WHAT DID YOU JUST SAY?”
Jenny went back on her heels and then decided to press forward. “It seems I’m not the only one who has a secret.”
“Look, I don’t know you and I don’t care. But my name is Joe Crabshack, OK?”
“No, you are Bob Seattle and I am going to prove it.”
“And you’re a nosy reporter form Today’s Music Magazine. I’m not the only one who knows how to use Google.”
Both stood a few inches from each other and stared at each other. People who walking by would have thought they were having a lover’s quarrel.
“No, Bob, I am more than that. I’m your daughter. You know, the one who was raised by your sister after my Mom died and you ran away.”
Joe’s knees buckled.
“Uh….um.”
“Don’t worry, Bob, I have plenty to say. Why did you run? Why have you hidden in this flea-bitten resort for so many years?”
“I was scared.” Bob Seattle looked at his feet. The truth, in the form of his daughter, had finally caught up with him.
“Who was that in the car?”
“I was in the car — in the backseat. I caught your mom cheating on me and hid in the backseat. I was punching her boyfriend when the car ran off the road. He was burned beyond recognition. People assumed it was me.” I stumbled home, burned, and scraped together all the cash I had at the house. I left you my royalties and then disappeared into the night. Your aunt knew I was alive. She’s about the only one. She would send me money to live on.
“I’ve looked for you my whole life.”
“And now you’ve found me. Now what?”
“I hate you.”
“You’ll have to do better than that.”
Both stared at each other. Then Jenny began to cry. She fell into the arms of a man she had only dreamed of meeting. A ghost. A minor legend.
“Can you sing? I always dreamed that someday you would sing.”
Jenny could sing. Her voice was quite splendid. But she never wanted to be compared to her father. In fact, no one at her boarding school knew she had a famous father.
“Yes.”
“Then I have an idea.”
Joe Crabshack walked back out to the pool and picked up the mic. “I have one more song to play today. It’s a request — from that man over there. It’s called Tropical Breeze.” The stunned middle-aged man who had previously had his head bitten off just nodded.
Joe then continued, “Except, I want my new friend Jenny to sing along with me.”
The people around the pool stared at the waitress. Who was she again?
Joe picked up his guitar and played the familiar song. His fingers danced up and down the neck of the guitar. A quarter of a century of running evaporated before everyone’s eyes. And as he began the lyrics, a beautiful waitress began to harmonize with him.
Bob Seattle came back to life that day. He stopped running and started living. And while he would remain Joe Crabshack, he gained a daughter.
It was just another day the Dolphin Breeze Resort.