“Rev. It’s Johnny O. Meet me on the pier in thirty minutes.”
“Sure Johnny,” I reply into the phone. “What’s up?”
“I tell you when you get there,” and he hung up.
That should have been my first clue.
Immediately the phone rings again.
I answer and he says, “Bring your robe.” And he hung up again.
That should have been clue number two.
So I throw on a tee shirt over my running shorts, grab my robe, hop on my bicycle and peddle to the pier. It is a Sunday and the beach is packed. Butler Avenue is a parking lot. The parking lots are fist fights of people looking for parking. Tybee Parking Services (Nazis) are beside themselves with glee as they happily write ticket after ticket.
I am careful with my robe. It is 30 years old and is coming apart in some places. I bought it from a Minister who was going out of business for $10. His name is sewed into the inside part of the collar. It is basic black and Puritan and has served me well (not so much the Puritan part).
On Sunday’s everyone of Hispanic heritage in a 27 state radius comes to the Tybee Island Pier to fish. Needless to say it was as packed and fishing lines had been thrown in every direction. There was a long line at the bar, another at the hamburger stand and another for the bathrooms.
I stroll up to the VIP section of the bar, which is reserved for Bored members, and there is Johnny O, Roma, Tudi, and several other people.
“What up?” I say.
“Funeral,” Johnny replies. “You’re conducting.”
“What?” I exclaim.
“Chicago Bob,” he says.
“Oh,” I answer.
Chicago Bob! Tybee has witnessed, experienced and survived many things, including hurricanes and the last fifteen political administrations but none were more influential than Chicago Bob. He was from Chicago of course, from the Rat Pack era, could work a crowd, sing a song and deliver one liners with the best of them. He was a member of the Bored, once threw my Mother and Sister out of his house during the Beach Bum parade, loved to climb in Hot Tubs with tourists, and for years Roma and I had to endure him and Johnny doing their act at Fannies-on the-Beach. He could occasionally shoot pool.
So I turned and there was his widow ready for the funeral. She was crying.
“Where’s Bobby?” I asked.
“Shit!” she said “I forgot him. I’ll be right back.”
Johnny O ordered another round. A few minutes later the widow came back with a Target bag. She handed it to me. Inside was a box full of Chicago Bob’s ashes. Johnny looked at me and said, “Let’s go.”
So we walked to the end of the pier, where the Hispanic populations from 27 states were fishing, many with crossed lines, and I put on my used black $10 robe. Johnny O said a few things about Chicago Bob then I did the “ashes to ashes” thing. Bob wanted to have his scattered at the ocean but near a bar. This was the perfect place as he could have his cake and eat it too.
The Hispanic fishermen from 27 different states were all Catholic of course and horrified. They all dropped their poles into the ocean, dropped on their knees and started doing the sign of the cross over and over again.
I opened the Target Bag and committed Chicago Bob to God.
A wind gust came at that particular moment and Chicago Bob’s ashes went in two different directions. Half towards the open ocean and the other half into the waves that would crash into the thousands of tourists who were body surfing, swimming, or just wading in the water.
“Hmmm,” Roma said. “I always knew he was schizophrenic.”
And that was pretty much Bobby!
