One long leg followed another as a very tall bearded man heaved himself our of the car.
Wearing thick glasses with Coca-Cola lenses he used the cane to tap himself to the door marked "Exit Only" and took his normal stool at the counter beside us.
Of course we're laughing our asses off as the waiting crowd whispers, "They let blind people drive on this Island?"
They used to but they don't anymore.
Tybee Island was different then.
Obama stimulus funding flooded the city with workers, cops, parking service employees and dog catchers.
The funding's gone away so everyone has to generate revenue to maintain their positions so the Island's one big cash cow ... "You come, you pay, we take. ENJOY PARADISE!"
That's the tag.
Or should be.
Back in the day blind eyes were turned to most everything and things were looser, laid back, spontaneous, simpler and pure.
Of course that's most every memory of most every place and time.
The last thing Blind Mike did before he died was get our friend Chela Gutierrez to replicate his baby picture.
From seventy years earlier he had his baby picture.
In black and white he laid on his stomach with his head facing the camera wearing a Gerber Baby smile and a bare ass.
She shows up, Mike drops his pants and lays on his stomach striking the baby pose.
Chela throws up a little but swallows it back down and gets the job done.
Blind Mike brings them to The Breakfast Club to show us and proclaims, "See! You can go back again."
I don't know and while there are lots of funny stories, I really don't want to go back ... in spite of too much Government, terrorist cops, parking services run with Nazi efficiency and dog catchers who bring police backup.
But Blind Mike's ashes are scattered on this clump of sand (we got around to throwing them in the ocean breeze six months after he was cremated ... until then he rode around in the back of Susie's car but he always liked being out).
Unless you're blind to it, things change.
Some things are better while others are worse.
I wouldn't want to go back though because in spite of Government mandated hiccups life is far better.
Though tomorrow I think Johnny O, Whitley and those of us still here from those days should all park in front of the line at The Breakfast Club not quite hitting the parking space, open the door and throw out an orange and white collapsible cane, heave ourselves out of our cars wearing thick glasses and stumble inside the door marked "Exit Only."
A lot of drunken heavenly Angels would rain laughter down upon us and, for a moment anyway, the island would be like it used to be.
