New York is notoriously full of moments you can't quite believe happened. None so much more than when I inadvertently ended up in the middle of a Jimmy Buffett party...on the subway.

I'm heading home on the train from work to Brooklyn one day in late summer.  Hightailing it across the platform to catch the express train, I look up and find myself in the middle of what  could only be described as a train-beach shindig.

About ten individuals of all ages who sort of look straight-out-of-the-reject-pool for a Land's End catalog are gathered in the car, wearing shirts emblazoned with "Cheeseburger in Paradise" and "Parrothead Forever." Some are wearing sunglasses; others are clad in cheap flip-flops. They've practically surrounded me, grinning and joking, all drinking out of disposable plastic cups.  One man, who seems to be the closest the group has to a ringleader, stands around carrying on his shoulder a large bucket with a spout.

I immediately see where this is going -- I've stumbled into a Margaritaville party. Cripes.

The group inexplicably chooses this moment to all gaze in my direction, smiling goofily. In New York City on a normal day, unwanted gazes of any kind would be enough to make any New Yorker blanch, but I am pretty sure that there is real tequila in the cups that they've been drinking out of for God-only-knows-how-long, so I gave them a pass.

Now, before I explain why I decided to engage this group in any form of discourse, I'd like to explain two things. One: with the possible exception of "Come Monday," I'm not really a Buffett fan. Two, my most prominent prior Jimmy Buffett-related memory involves being in a seaside bar in Rockaway Park (perhaps my first mistake) with my friend and having a middle-aged man sit at the end of the room, feeding quarters into the jukebox so it would play "Why Don't We Get Drunk and Screw," on repeat, staring at us without breaking eye contact in case we didn't get the message.

We did. And we left.

So suffice it to say that Jimmy Buffett does not inspire incredible memories in my mind. Even so, if nothing else, I'm a glutton for punishment (and let's face it, sometimes it's fun to engage the unwitting), so I asked:

"So. You guys heading to a Jimmy Buffett show, I presume?"

The male ringleader's face lit up like a 14-year-old raver's drugstore glowstick. "Guys!" he yelled frantically at his cohorts. "She figured it out!" he exclaimed, as though I had cracked the Rosetta Stone of beach pop (not even close to surf rock; Dick Dale would have something to say about that).

Ten heads swiveled my way, nodding in excitement.

"Hey!" says a teenage kid who apparently decided to take cues on what's cool musically from his parents. "So you a Buffett fan?"

"Um, well, no. I just--"

"Because we're actually going to see his drummer tonight, and then him tomorrow!"

"Oh...wow..."

A woman sporting a Midwestern bouffant pipes up. "We see him every year."

I nod and gesture to the bucket. "So this is...uh...your annual Buffett booze cruise on the subway?"

The groups reacts as if an applause sign has been lit and laughs in unison.

"Yes!" says the woman. "We've been doing this since this morning. We've ridden the trains all over town," she continues, swaying slightly. I catch the aroma off the bucket and am nearly impressed at the sheer endurance of this crew. Cheap tequila, my alcoholic Achilles' heel, only has the tendency to make me break out in hives.

"So no problems from the cops?" I ask.

The ringleader laughs jovially. "No, we've outrun them." I imagine the spectacle of this portly man teetering off with his bucket o' booze, his posse trailing after him.

All of the sudden, the ringleader calls out, "To Jimmy!" and each member of the group hands over their cup (including the teen). The man pours his makeshift margaritas for everyone from his omnipresent bucket, happily refilling everyone's glasses. That thing is bottomless, I think to myself. It's practically the subway equivalent of ever-multiplying fish and loaves. The group raises their glasses, silently toast, and collectively down the entire thing in what appears to be two gulps. For some reason, I suddenly can't help thinking of Jim Jones.

As though nothing out of the ordinary has just happened, the man continues. "We've been seeing Jimmy for years and years now," he says dreamily, wiping his chin. "I've probably seen him 50 times. No one on the train has ever figured out what we were doing, though. You're the first."

No one's decided it'd be a cool idea to strike up a conversation with you until I opened my mouth, I think, but I keep it to myself. I take a quick glimpse around the train to see if this group is my own personal hallucination, but everyone else is doing the typical New York avoid-eye-contact thing.

"Hey!" says the man, snapping me out of my investigation. "What are you doing now? It'd be great if you came down and rode into the show with us. We're going to Coney Island!"

There are several options at this point, but none of them involve laughing, so I try not to.

"Ummm....I can't. Thanks for the invite, though."

"Have a drink, then!" he exclaims, thrusting a cup full of the concoction in my face. It's so strong I was sure half the car could smell the fumes.

"That's okay. Save it for the rest of your journey."

The group looks forlorn. Then the woman pipes up. "It's our stop, guys -- we have to transfer!"

They proceed to turn around and look at me in a this-is-your-last-chance kind of way. I do my best to give them an apologetic smile and rueful shrug.

"It's not too late! You can still come!" says the ringleader. It was all very Scientology, I think, the way Parrotheads are borderline evangelical about their beloved Jimmy.

The doors open and the group steps outside and proceeds to turn around and look at me.

"Are you....sure?" says the man, balancing his bucket on his shoulder. I shake my head.

The doors ring and close. I wave from behind the glass and keep doing so as the train pulls away. God speed to Margaritaville, I think. God speed.

---

Spread the word

Average user rating

   (0 vote)