This must be the place: ‘Buy me a drink, sing me a song, take me as I come ‘cause I can’t stay long’
Downtown St. Augustine, Florida. Garret K. Woodward photo
Nearing the midnight hour, I found myself sipping on a cold Coors Light can in the depths of the Tradewinds Lounge in downtown St. Augustine, Florida. This was last Tuesday, but the classic rock tribute onstage that evening was rockin’ out as if it was Saturday night.
Kicking into a rendition of Tom Petty & The Heartbreakers “Mary Jane’s Last Dance,” a whirlwind of emotions and visions came into focus in my mind. First and foremost, came the image of myself as a teenager running around the local bowling alley in my one-horse hometown on the Canadian Border in rural Upstate New York.
Though the bowling alley closed down years ago, back then, in the early 2000s, it was the place everyone from my high school went. At 16, I was driving a rusted out 1989 Toyota Camry with 200,000 miles on it that I paid $300 for (money saved up working at McDonald’s).
With my best friend in the passenger’s seat, we’d cruise to the alley, in search of nothing and everything, but mostly shenanigans and youthful transgressions — all in the name of irresponsible enlightenment. “Load up the bong, crank up the song” was the ethos, or so Bradley Nowell of Sublime sang in the seminal tune “Get Ready.”
Wandering into the Bowl Mart, it was pinball, billiards and foosball in the game room; Tom Petty, The Tragically Hip and Bob Seger on the jukebox; shitty weed joints and lukewarm domestic beer stolen from our parents’ garage refrigerators consumed in the dimly-lit parking lot. Every now and again, we’d pony up money to actually go bowling, instead of merely loitering and waiting for something, anything to happen.
The hope was for something wild to transpire or someone cool and unknown to cross the threshold of the establishment, perhaps in an effort to finally take us out of our John Mellencamp “Jack & Diane” chili dog, tastee-freeze, farm town existence. But, mostly, it was to have some tall tale to spin come the first period of school Monday morning. That, and maybe finally meet that cute girl from science class under the bright fluorescent lights of the foosball table or cozy neon glow of the pinball machine.
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“Holdin’ on to sixteen as long as you can,” Mellencamp’s voice would echo out from the Bowl Mart jukebox. “Changes come around real soon, make us women and men.”
That ole Johnny Cougar Mellencamp was right, too, that “life goes on, long after the thrill of livin’ is gone.” And there I sat, some 24 years later from that 16-year-old reality, tossing back a Coors Light in a North Florida dive bar, the sounds of those Bowl Mart Jukebox melodies roaring out from the stage, the gritty dudes holding the instruments now pushing 60 years old or more.
And it dawned on me, in that moment, that pretty much every memento, trinket and photograph of my youth, teenage and subsequent college years is long gone. Destroyed by the ravaging flood waters from Hurricane Helene last fall. Covered in mud and ripped apart in my former storage unit in Canton along the Pigeon River. The remnants of which are now somewhere in a landfill in Haywood County.
Who knows, eh? Who cares, I suppose? It’s just stuff. The memories in my head remain and cannot be washed away by Mother Nature. The only thing one can take with them to “The Great Beyond” that is the afterlife are those visions of people, places and things you’ve experienced in your life and how you felt in doing so. The love. The heartache. Sorrow. Joy. Sadness. Bliss. Tragedy. Triumph. The whole ball o’wax that is a life well-lived.
Finishing up my beverage, I waved goodbye to the classic rock act onstage and moseyed out the door onto Charlotte Street. Head north towards my folks’ spring vacation rental, this bungalow a few blocks away from the Spanish ruins that launched the 16th century city itself. The slow pace in walking back to my bed was on purpose. I was in no hurry, nor should I be. Existence is too crazy as it is to keep tabs on.
The cobblestone streets of “Ancient City” were pleasantly silent in the midnight hour compared to the normal chaotic hustle and bustle of midday tourists from every corner of the world. I found myself alone, the only sounds being my boots traversing the cobblestone. Gaze up every so often at the surreal, stunning majesty and splendor of the old live oak trees hovering above your trek, pondering what these magical trees have witnessed over the centuries.
With one block to go to the bungalow, my mind drifted to the here and now. It’s late March and it feels like 2025 is flying by. Spring just showed up last week, at least on the calendar it did, and here I stand, wondering what’s next? Where to from here? And with who? Another solo excursion out west this summer? Maybe not? Hopefully not, seeing as, at age 40, I prefer a partner-in-crime and not the single life.
Incoming phone calls and text messages from people in New England, Montana, Texas and around Southern Appalachia. “Can you cover this event?” “Can you write about this band?” “Can you help me out?” The white noise of journalism in the endless perpetuation of a craft that I’ve used as a vehicle — literally and figuratively — to wander towards the unknown horizon of tomorrow and every day thereafter.
The work is bountiful and fulfilling. And just as stressful and constraining. Assignments and deadlines. But, no matter, for what else could I actually see myself doing with my time on this planet? Nothing. That’s an honest and hard truth. Even when it all is shiny and jovial, there’s still the actual work and grinding it out to do. Luckily, I remain inspired and steadfast in my intent. More so today than ever before.
“Seventeen has turned 35, I’m surprised that we’re still livin’,” Mellencamp croons in an introspective tone during “Cherry Bomb.” “If we’ve done any wrong, I hope that we’re forgiven.”
Life is beautiful, grasp for it, y’all.
