New Book

A Short Story Written by Gregory Michael Maness

Yahoo! My taste buds are screaming with delight upon my first taste of fresh, sautéed Gulf of Mexico Red Royal Shrimp served over smoked Gouda cheese grits. It sounds kind of wacky, but things are a little different in Pensacola, Florida. It is a place where harmony exists and the sky rips open to often cleanse the land—a place where even a single grain of sand has meaning.

The Continental jet we are riding is about to land at the airport, taking us to a unique little coastal town in Florida known as Pensacola. As it makes a hard right turn, the sun glistens off the ocean bay water, and my wife begins to squeeze my left-hand fingers with the force of a pro wrestler using vice grips. She is like many other people who fly around this great country—not so much bothered by the flight as by the landings. Butterfly stomachs soon settle as the ocean water eventually turns to land and the flight touches down like a floating feather in the wind. She smiles at me and says, “Yes, we made it!” I look at her with a puzzled expression while vigorously shaking my still-numb fingers, trying to regain some blood flow, and I realize that all along I knew this is the safest time to fly in America with all the security measures in place. I would hate to be a terrorist on a flight right now—because, for sure, you’d get your ass beat up big time, and most likely be thrown off the plane at 450 miles per hour if you even showed a hint of weirdness.

Our flight from San Diego puddle-jumped first to Houston, where George W. Bush airport was filled with larger-than-life Texans who are cordial and speak with a very distinctive drawl that is both amusing and confidently Southern. After a few stiff cordials at the Bayou Bar and Grill, we were on our way to sunny Pensacola, where we were going to rejoin our longtime friends Donnie G and Sandi and continue our new friendship with Bill and Donna Clark. We all fit in like “peas and carrots” (if I remember the line correctly from the movie Forrest Gump). It is very unique to find a group of people so alike in thoughts and mannerisms. It is even more unique to find a group at the right time in everyone’s lives—after the children have finally grown—to become kids ourselves once again. In other words, we have paid our dues, and now it’s time to have some cotton-picking fun all over again.

As the airplane taxied to the final unloading spot, it actually crossed an auto-overpass bridge, which to me seemed very “Pensaculiar” as cars drove underneath. Then, after a quick zip around the airport parking lot, we were eventually directed where to park by attendants in nifty shorts and T-shirts, waving orange markers and having the plane spin what seemed like a full 360 degrees to achieve the perfect unloading spot. As usual, when an airplane stops, everyone is quick to unbuckle their seat belts—it almost becomes a contest of who can unbuckle first. Then everybody stands up so quickly as if they’re going to exit faster than the 30 rows in front of them. Stop it, you folks—you’re killing me. Eventually, the exit door opens, and a heat wave hits us. It’s muggy and steamy hot—kind of like a cappuccino fresh out of the frothing pot. You know the kind, don’t you? So hot that even a double-wrapped coffee cup still melts your fingers. It was “hotter than hell,” if you know what I mean. My wife looks at me and says, “Your mind works in peculiar ways, doesn’t it?” I think she’s right because, ironically, my mouth is already watering at the thought of that delicious local seafood. I guess it’s true that great minds are always thinking about too much, and people like me have been labeled as having adult attention deficit disorder. The gorgeous flight attendant at the exit stands next to the cabin with silky brown hair and hazel-colored eyes, proudly displaying a gold set of flight wings affixed to her blue uniform. 

The Captain peers at the exiting passengers next to the bolted cockpit door with focused eyes and says, “Thanks for flying Continental,” before giving me a nod. I think for a moment to myself and realize that, coming from California’s west coast, the weather there seems a bit cooler than here—but for sure the seafood doesn’t taste as fresh for some reason. The trees here seem much greener, the air purer, and the white-sand beaches are enough to make you never want to go home again. But then again, where are all the wineries in Florida like in California? I have grown accustomed to the Spanglish dialect spoken in San Diego, but here in Pensacola everyone speaks with a lovely Southern drawl reminiscent of Gone with the Wind.

On this particular trip, both our flight and Donnie G and Sandi’s flight arrived within thirty minutes of each other. And sure enough, after a long two-and-a-half-hour flight, Paula headed toward the front of the airport exit in a hurried fashion—like a woman running late for work but who can’t find her car keys. Airport security looked on in confusion as she dashed past them and flew out the sliding glass doors. As I passed the security guard posted up front right behind her, I told him, “Don’t worry, she just needs a nicotine fix.” He shook his head and gave me a look that said, “I know what you mean.” It’s kind of funny how, after so many years of living together, you come to recognize the little traits of “stupid is, and stupid does.”

Once we were all off the planes, we met up at the front of the airport and quickly retrieved our bags from the spellbinding revolving stainless steel carousel that inexplicably captured my attention. As sleek, modern aircraft continued to arrive, a glance out the front glass door windows brought a smile to my travel-weary face as I noticed that the Special Forces had come to pick us up. Low and behold, it was none other than retired Special Forces Captain Bill Clark. Now, Bill is an interesting bird—he likes to shake his tail feathers a bit and simply loves life. He is a lot like me—a nonconformist unafraid to speak his mind. He’s tough as old shoe leather, smart as a whip, talented with his hands, and still ruggedly handsome. Clever and mischievous, simple and complicated, you can always count on him to take care of your needs way before his own. He reminds me a lot of how America used to be when I was younger, when this country had real morals and genuine concerns for family and neighbors. I admire him very much—for he is the classic American success story, rolled up into a neat package like a string wound into a tight ball. Rumor has it he was shot three times while enlisted as a Special Serviceman and lived through it, calling it just a flesh wound. The years have been kind to him, and his sense of humor is infectious. He takes great pride in his home, family, and accomplishments, and Donna says his nickname—after too many cocktails—becomes “Earl,” a man you might find rambling around the city, handing out his hilarious, neon Special Forces business cards.

I was introduced to Bill through Donnie G about six months ago, and the three of us got along like the Three Amigos right out of a shoot. Donnie G is an ex-restaurant owner whom I have known for over twenty fascinating years, and the whacked-out town of Ocean City, Maryland, is where we first met; our paths have never been the same since. Donnie G is an extreme sort of fellow, and his personality is as deranged as mine. Some of his favorite things—mimicking voices and changing people’s names all the time—give him great delight. He finds immense pleasure in renaming words and phrases during TV shows—a real gut buster. For example, in the movie Forrest Gump, when a character says, “Run, Forrest, run,” Donnie G would improvise in a falsetto voice, “Run, you dumb bastard, run.” But kind is his heart and brilliant his mind when it comes to fitting into his dysfunctional lifestyle. He is organized as a hurricane, and his magnetic personality attracts you like a hungry red snapper to a shiny fishing lure. He sports a neatly manicured gray beard and a small mustache and is usually found walking around his house in a loose-fitting white cotton bathrobe, babbling innuendos about people in the Caribbean or singing in tenor Italian. He has warm brown eyes and is addicted to the wacky emails we send back and forth over the Internet. Like Bill and me, he never passes up a party to celebrate how short life really is. Gifted and talented, with the memory of an elephant, I once read a phrase that describes him perfectly: “The difference between madness and genius is a fine line.” I guess you can say that Donnie G is the master of the high wire.

His trusty sidekick is a lovely woman I wished I could have met years ago when Donnie G and I went our separate ways. I kept moving forward in my restaurant career, traveling across this great country, and that’s when Donnie G met Sandi. Sandi is a very talented woman who has made it her career to pick up the broken pieces of glass that come from walking beside a genius. She has a quiet confidence, a heart of solid gold, and a smile that can warm even the loneliest of souls. She wears her hair short to beat the Florida heat waves, and you could get lost in her amber-colored eyes. Kind and generous, she spent a good portion of her youth in the Miami, Florida area, where Bill and Donna Clark—and myself—spent many a good year. Perhaps that is why all of us “coconuts” like to hang out together. It is not uncommon for her to be dedicated and respectful, amazing and true, and she is loyal both to this special part of the country and to crazy Donnie G. Although Donnie G rarely admits it, deep in his heart he knows that she has made him a greater man than he ever was before. 

It is definitely true that behind every great man there is an even greater woman. Sandi has a funny, quirky personality that we all love because it’s so predictably adorable. She is the organizer and confidant to Donnie G, and together they make a successful team that has accomplished so much in so little time. She is both fragile and built of steel, and I admire her more than she could possibly know. Sandi has few faults to speak of, though she does possess a very shrill voice she uses to keep Donnie G in line when his whacked-out sense of humor gets a little out of control. She has so many great qualities that I can find only one flaw: she has been fighting cigarette cravings for years, just like my wife, and she really wants to quit smoking. She smokes those little frickin’, tiny, thin cigarettes that are like midget-sized versions—like trying to suck orange juice with pulp through a coffee stirrer from an unpeeled orange. Where’s the pleasure in that? I think to myself: if you’re going to smoke, be like me and light up a big, fat-ass imported cigar and get it over with.

We loaded our suitcases into Bill’s Malibu sedan at the airport—a car proudly displaying Special Forces license plates—and then headed north a stone’s throw up Olive Road by Scenic Highway, which runs alongside Escambia Bay, to Donnie and Sandi’s house on Winding Lane. The obscure comedy started right away as we were leaving the parking lot past the pay checkout gate. Bill said to the attendant, “We have only been here five minutes, so why do we have to pay?” The attendant replied, “Well, it’s still a dollar, sir.” And of course, with my twisted mind, I mumbled, “Ok pal, here’s a buck, but don’t make me come back here and take you out with the rest of this little shack you’re working out of, with a few rounds of M-60s and the Special Forces team.” The lot attendant wasn’t sure whether to give Bill his money back or crap his pants. Well, comedy isn’t pretty around here sometimes, and it felt good to be back in this wonderful little town—Paula and I were very happy to be reunited with our wacky friends from Mackey Cove.

Once we arrived at Donnie and Sandi’s home, I headed for the fridge to get a long-overdue cold one, and Bill mentioned that his wife Donna was at work until five. Now, Donna is a shining diamond in the rough. She is poetry in motion—like the fresh air we long to breathe. Like the smell of freshly baked bread out of the oven, she is good for the soul and always rises to help others in need. She is also known to be a closet pole dancer who likes to roll around on the pool tables at Chancey’s Night Club once in a while on a full moon or when the time is right. To me, she is a little bit of heaven right here on earth, for it doesn’t take long for her magical personality to rub off on you. She has a laugh that is both precious and obnoxious, and she is truly a woman of beauty. She is a lot like Sandi—the central structure of a family that usually has the final say in how things go. I didn’t know until recently that Donna and Sandi are lifelong friends, much like Donnie G and I are. Perhaps that is why we all get along so well—like peas and carrots—because we call things as we see them.

It feels so comfortable for Paula and me to return to Pensacola time and time again for our mini vacations, and we are thankful to our friends who put us up with room and board—and, most importantly, put up with our wacky personalities. They have big plans for us to move to Pensacola someday, and that, to me, sounds like a Martha Stewart endorsement: “It’s a good thing.” I hope their vision for us eventually comes true—it would indeed be a real good thing. Unfortunately, throughout most of our lives we’re taught that you can only have so much fun and joy in your lifetime. Well, I have to disagree; the opposite is true around these larger-than-life characters. When we all get together, life turns into a peanut butter and jelly sandwich—simply because life should be lived in a nutty and fruity way. And if you smoosh the flavors together, you will love the taste, and life’s friendships will love you right back.

I realize that time seems to move at a slower pace in Pensacola, unlike in San Diego—perhaps because I have no pressure or deadlines to sell a million cars here, and Paula is out of school right now. She’s taking a well-deserved vacation after finishing her Master’s Degree in Psychology. Soon she will begin her doctorate program, which means two more years of grueling forensic psychology training—in which I am sometimes the guinea pig. Both of us can envision eventually moving here or at least securing a second home, and if the stars and planets align properly, who knows what can happen. I sit back for a moment and think about a phrase that Paula always repeats to me, like a parrot with limited vocabulary. It rings like a beacon in the night—a good idea to live by: “Prior preparation prevents a poor performance.” Perhaps someone from up above has already carved our future into stone. It’s kind of weird—in a cool kind of way—how life lets you bump into people time after time, yet sometimes the sparks of friendship never ignite. Perhaps we have been drawn to Pensacola like magnets to steel, with a little twist of destiny thrown in to unite our long-lost and new friends. Or perhaps the big man up above is giving us our enlightenment call to start some prior preparation. We respect and love them dearly and wouldn’t change them or the balance of our friendship for all the money in the world. Who knows for sure—only time will tell if we will eventually walk down the same road.

It’s 6:30 Thursday night, and I Love Lucy is blasting on the television while Donnie G, in his falsetto voice, once again shouts, “Lucy, I’m hoooommmmeeee!” A horn blows from a car in front of the house, and in an elaborate gesture of pure class, Bill and Donna have summoned a white stretch limousine to escort us to dinner tonight. Thank God! I am starving and could eat a whole raw fish at this point. I ponder for a minute and think what a phenomenal idea this is, and I am grateful to be surrounded by such good friendship and love. One thing we all have in common is our love for good food, and tonight the champagne is going to flow, mister, as we joyfully cruise down Scenic Highway to downtown Pensacola—to Lou Michaels Restaurant.

We were introduced to Lou Michael Huss on our last trip, and we enjoy his restaurant and his company very much. Lou is a simple, tall man with stately-looking silver hair who runs his cozy restaurant with an iron fist. His eyes are shadowed by twenty-four-carat, gold-framed glasses, and his vision is focused like a hungry eagle. He is as energetic as an athlete, constantly flying around his recently expanded restaurant, saying, “Hello, Goodbye, Hello, Goodbye,” which oddly enough reminds me of a Beatles song. He is charming and personable, and Donnie G and I always exchange chuckles when we see him—reminding us of how we used to be many years ago in that business. His downtown restaurant is neat and successful, and his chef skillfully prepares for us pan-seared duckling, grilled veal chops with blue crab meat, and assorted fresh seafood—all enjoyed with some fabulous Van Gogh Raspberry Vodka Cosmopolitans. His staff is well trained, educated, and polite, reflecting his own image. Dinner was superb, and for dessert a marvelous Baked Alaska was prepared and served. Old Lou—whom Donnie G fondly calls “Miguel Louigi”—looked over at me and, with a twinkle in his eye, winked when we finished dinner. He knew that he and his staff had pulled another rabbit out of his Mad Hatter hat, and we were all content and somewhat bleary-eyed—just like the other clients who enjoyed another fabulous dinner with vintage wine and stellar cocktails. It was a marvelous evening, and it was great to see him again—especially as the Mardi Gras street parade out front, filled with whacked-out floats and crazed people throwing colorful beaded necklaces, slowly passed by. Then, suddenly, it was as if someone turned off a light switch, and the parade disappeared like dust in the wind.

Bill and Donna got the brilliant idea that maybe we should go to Chancey’s for a nightcap. The last time we were there, we got thrown out for pole dancing, table dancing, singing loudly off-key, stumbling around, having too much fun, taking two hours to play a ten-minute pool game, and drunkenly knocking over two tables’ worth of glass drinks. Well, we did have a few too many drinks last time, and the bartender remembered our names vividly; when we returned, she said, “Not you again.” We didn’t stay long this time because the drunken magic wasn’t there, and for some reason we decided to leave after only a few pops. We all climbed back into the limo like kids piling into a tree fort and eventually headed back down the 10—back to solid ground where we could all get some much-needed rest.

A thought occurred to me once we got back to Donnie G and Sandi’s home: interior designers with any talent at all are hard to find, expensive, difficult to deal with, and usually you are only somewhat satisfied with the final outcome. Well, Donnie G is an interior design kind of guy on the side, and his home’s interior design is astonishing. It is bold and brave, dynamic and innovative, clever and cool—and most importantly, his home is extremely comfortable for friends and guests, who all exclaim after their chins hit the floor. It is fabulous, just fabulous. On the other hand, if you could have a dream house on the water, it would be Bill and Donna’s beautiful three-story home. They have been fortunate enough to live there—Bill told me for over twenty years—and loved every minute of it. Their wonderful bayside home, built brick by brick and board by board, has been filled with expensive collections of eclectic furniture from around the world that they have carefully collected. There is a black baby grand piano in the middle of the second-floor living room that tells stories in silent whispers of younger days, and there are too many rooms to count in their comfortably large home. A few of my favorite rooms are Bill’s Special Forces room—filled with military memorabilia and items his father passed on for safe keeping—with a wall proudly displaying Special Forces plaques and memorabilia and, in the center, the Purple Heart for heroism. Then there’s Donna’s expanded clothing closet emporium. I nearly fainted from disbelief when I accidentally walked by and peeked in, realizing that she could give Imelda Marcos a run for her money with just her shoes—forget about the thousands of outfits, hats, and accessories. She is going to kill me for writing this, but it is just another part of her eccentric, charming personality that you grow to love—and of course, I always tell it like it is, no matter the consequences.

Romeo, her nifty dog, runs the show around the joint as he cavorts at a frantic pace. Eager for attention, he’ll even sit by your side when you’re deep in thought. The beautifully landscaped front yard—with white picket fencing, palm trees, butterfly bushes, and roses—leads to the backyard, which features screened porches, multi-level staircases, and cement statues that seem happy yet contemplative. Saint Augustine grass eventually gives way to a white-sand beachfront that disappears into Escambia Bay. I believe the white Adirondack chairs in the backyard, sitting silently in the wind under the cerulean blue sky near the incoming tide, could tell some stories that would probably make you blush. But I’ll save those thoughts for the next short story. You breathe in the purity of the ocean bay, and your eyes are drawn toward the water as you observe a very secure-looking dock built on the bay by Bill and his sons, Chad and Billy Junior (and I’m sure their lovely daughter Tiffany had a hand in it, too). The dock is like a fortress held up by hefty telephone poles sunk into the murky water that divides the ocean floor—a structure that could withstand any hurricane you might throw at a Special Forces guy. At the end of the dock is a cocktail bar, of course—a two-story deck overlooking the entire bay with the red, white, and blue flag of patriotism waving in the breeze, which still fills us with pride and courage in these turbulent times. Perched just to the left of the dock is an inboard-outboard sleeper boat that we were lucky enough to take for a spin around the bay. I took control of the wheel while Bill was “seeing a man about a horse,” and we went under the wrong bridge and got a bit lost. Good thing we weren’t drinking—because we might still be out there among jumping dolphins and funky flounder.

When we returned from the boat ride, I thought my vision was deceiving me—even after my recent LASIK eye surgery—because two houses down from Bill and Donna’s, I thought I saw Ernest Hemingway throwing a large casting fishing net into the sea from a pier extended out into the bay. There was an elderly gentleman with a salty fisherman’s appearance, dressed in baggy shorts, sandals, and an old T-shirt, dark-tanned, with his silver hair and beard blowing in the wind. He reminded me of Hemingway in his later years. He threw his 15‑foot casting net as though he had been doing it for decades in a smooth, flowing motion of perfection. As I watched with fascination—alongside Billy Junior, the Private Investigator—the old man pulled his net from the sea and hauled out a proper flounder and some purple and neon yellow grunt fish. “Holy cow,” I thought, “why do you even need a fishing pole around here?” I looked at Bill and mused, “What would happen if you fished with hand grenades? Then you wouldn’t need fishing poles or casting nets at all.” Another cast by the old man, and bingo—he netted some more grunt fish and a spotted trout. Billy Junior, a very observant young man with mysterious eyes, said, “Let’s go see what he caught today.” I was a bit apprehensive as I was introduced to the old gentleman, who turned out to be Bobbie—a key figure in the development of the Mackey Cove area and a lifelong resident (not Ernest Hemingway). Billy Junior introduced me as Grego from San Diego, California, and with clever wit, Bobbie said, “I won’t hold that against you, son.” From that moment on, I discovered yet another good American soul straight out of a Steinbeck novel, standing before me. He climbed aboard and eventually rode his rickety old bike over to Bill’s pier to help us fillet the freshly caught fish still flapping on the cutting boards. “That’s not how you fillet fish—this is how,” he said. 

The old dog taught the new kids a few things about gutting and cutting as he spoke in a unique Southern Alabama dialect—a drawl crossed with a bit of Cajun—and he shared stories of how things used to be around here. A charming, genuine smile spread across his face as he told the entertaining story of how, years ago, someone captured a medium-sized alligator, painted it white, and then let it go back into the bay. For several years afterward, people swore there was an albino alligator living right in Escambia Bay. He made me feel welcome with his Southern charm as Bill mentioned that someday soon I might move out this way. He smiled contentedly as he scratched his bearded chin, squinted in thought for a moment, and finally said, “Well, you can buy my house around the corner when you’re ready.” He reached out his weathered, calloused hand, looked me squarely in the eye, and firmly shook my hand. “Pleasure meeting you, son,” he said, and as he bid his final goodbye, I became caught up in the preciousness of the moment—especially when Billy Junior tossed a tiny fish back into the fertile bay. It was time to go, and those memories still shine in my mind like the glorious golden sun melting into a perfect afternoon. He looked back one more time, then rode away on his rusty old bike, disappearing into the hush of the early afternoon.

The days in Pensacola continue to roll along like a slow-moving train that isn’t in any hurry, and each day our joy grows more than the last. We traveled all over the city—even eating boiled peanuts down at the Trail Bar where we met Pete the Pelican, who was rescued and brought to a marina bar with some marshland where he could safely live. Pete was a curious pelican who liked his new digs but wasn’t big on conversation. We stared at his grayish-silver body for what seemed like hours, and then suddenly he just flew away. Later that day, we smoked hand-rolled Cohiba La Habana cigars on Donnie G’s back patio, told stories of our delirious pasts, and washed down the sinfully smoky taste with imported rum and American beers. 

As our journeys took us around this wonderful city’s highways and byways, one of the most memorable experiences was visiting Joe Patti’s Seafood Market. Joe Patti started his little fishing company many moons ago, and now—some 50-plus years later—it is the “Emerald of the Seafood Market,” providing an abundance of fresh seafood products. I was in awe when Bill took Donnie G and me there, because there must have been at least 30 different selections of fresh fish available, as well as oysters, clams, mussels, crabs, lobsters, soft-shell crabs, alligator meat, crawfish, a dozen different shrimps (including the Red Royals), and so much more—I can’t even begin to describe how much seafood there was. My pulse was pounding; it was truly a memorable experience. I believe his seafood market is the largest fresh seafood market open to the public on the East Coast that I have ever seen. I have got to stop talking about the fresh seafood indigenous to this area, because my mouth is watering again—this time drooling profusely like Pavlov’s dog when the bell rings.

There is another section of the seafood market that, of course, has all the accompaniments to season your fresh seafood. There is also a fully stocked wine cellar that would make a wino faint. Bill took me over to the barbecue seasoning section, and with his observant eyes, he noticed a seasoning for pork barbecue. It seemed a bit out of place in the store, but the name of the product had us rolling in the aisles—it was called “butt rub.” And that, for some reason, had us bent over with laughter. You grab a ticket at the front counter and stand in line until your number is called, and then someone assists you until you have all the seafood and supplies you could possibly need. It is like a madhouse of electric energy that one could easily fall in love with. The people in Pensacola have no idea just how good they have it here—or maybe they do, and simply accept that this is the way it always is, so just don’t tell anybody.

My stomach hurts from laughing too much every time I return here, and I am thankful to my good friends who introduce us to their friends with each new visit. The joy of laughter eventually turns to somber depression when Paula and I realize that our vacation is about to come to an end. It’s sort of like not wanting to go to a dentist appointment you’ve already made, constantly checking your watch, hoping time will never arrive—even though you know your tooth must be pulled. Each time I come to Pensacola, it becomes harder and harder to leave as the vacation clock winds down and time melts before your eyes. Sometimes, if you pay enough attention to all your senses, you can predict certainties in life. And each time we travel to this special part of America to visit our friends, my alter ego keeps whispering in my head, “What are you waiting for?”

The seafood we purchased from Joe Patti’s was loaded into Bill’s car trunk, and we headed back to Donnie G’s to prepare all of the wonderful dishes we love to cook. Shucked oysters turned into Oysters Rockefeller with baked Hollandaise sauce, while lump crab meat was seasoned and stuffed into crab shell bodies and smothered with a James Beard béchamel crème sauce. Red Royal Shrimp and Floridian lobster tails became cioppino seafood marinara reduced with fresh tomatoes, olive oil, garlic, and herbs—a little red wine then served over spiral pasta. It was a night of great food and conversation, ending with long-distance calls to long-lost friends in Washington, D.C., and Ocean City, Maryland. I jotted down their email addresses and numbers, and before I climbed into bed around 3 a.m., I thought, “God damn, we’ve got to get some of those crazy people we used to hang out with down here in Pensacola.”

The Mackey Cove area has become a secret getaway spot that everyone enjoys. I even got a chance to see my younger sister and her family after a short drive to Tallahassee one day. It was kind of weird at dinner that night in Tallahassee—meeting up with my stepfamily was a bit unsettling—and during dinner a girl approached our table and asked, “Are you Mr. Maness?” I replied, “Yes, I am.” She leaned over, handed me a signed baseball Hooters jersey with all kinds of girls’ names on it, and said, “From all of us girls at Hooters Restaurant, thanks for last night.” My wife’s chin dropped, and everyone at the table gulped in disbelief. The young woman abruptly winked, turned, and began to walk away; a few seconds later—an eternity—it turned out she glanced back one last time to see my expression before disappearing into the twilight. To me, it was obscure and quite comical, but even today I don’t know who sent that Hooters jersey signed by all the lovely ladies. Life is kind of inky sometimes.

The next morning we arose early, realizing that dawn brings forth a new day—a new beginning for each and every one of us—and I felt lucky to be alive in this age of splendor. It was wonderful seeing the old family again, and I am grateful to still be walking around on this amazing planet with my body and mind still somewhat intact. When we got back to Pensacola from Tallahassee, the morning crickets were chirping as ground squirrels playfully darted around the backyard of Donnie G and Sandi’s house. They flew through the air like circus acrobats from tree to tree with the greatest of ease. We decided that today would be a casual day to rest and reflect, but tonight was going to be the big one—a showdown under the big sky at the Fish House Restaurant with new friends to meet.

Our vacation had nearly come to a close, and the night before it ended we eagerly awaited the chance to visit every Pensacolan’s favorite restaurant—which, incidentally, is right around the corner from the world-famous Joe Patti’s Seafood Market. Bill told me another true story about how Joe Patti, a few years ago, was caught not paying his taxes. He was caught like a flounder in a gill net, and the county offered him a plea bargain with reduced taxes because he was such a model citizen. He said “no” at first—being the stubborn old guy he is—and wasn’t gonna pay a dime. So the County Taxation Department withdrew their offer, and Joe later woke from his stupor and came to his senses, realizing he should have taken the deal. But as with all things in life, it was too late. It was a case of lessons learned being like bridges burned, and it seems Joe Patti’s situation is a bit like deep Southern politics—or even a soap opera called Pensacola Seafood Blues.The outcome is not settled yet, but Joe Patti’s is surely selling a ton of fresh seafood while the verdict is pending. Like fishing boats out at sea searching for a new catch, bumper stickers supporting poor old Joe Patti and his bad decision are everywhere in town. I think the town wants to forgive and forget—and can you imagine Pensacola without his wonderful fresh fish market?

From the moment my wife and I arrived in Pensacola, Bill kept telling us about the Fish House Restaurant, and we had to try the unbelievable seafood they prepare there—and sure enough, he was right. He kept going on about, “You gotta try the Ya Ya Grits.” When we finally arrived, the Fish House was busier than a one-armed paper hanger, and beautiful people strolled around as if the place were their own living room. It is unique to find such a place where everyone feels comfortable—a secret spot you can call your own, where everyone knows the food is superb and the cocktails are stiff. My subconscious suddenly realized that if the fish and seafood here come from Joe Patti’s, you could probably bet your last wooden nickel that tonight’s dinner is gonna rock. “Jumping” is the word that best describes this bayside restaurant, as we met up with two more of Bill and Donna’s friends indigenous to the area—Rita and Will. Packed like friendly lemons in boxes, we couldn’t have been happier. There’s a saying I once overheard from an old restaurateur I knew named Dan Gutherie: “A crowd attracts a crowd.” It was the upper crust of the city that made this special place their secret hangout. The American Express crowd—built of platinum, gold, and titanium—continually supports this little slice of heaven right in their own backyard. So there we were, sipping martinis, aged scotch, and imported rum at the bruised and aged wooden bar that has surely served many a pirate before us. It became a memorable evening with the YaYa girls accompanied by Cleveland Indians fan guys, with conversations ranging from delivering babies to grand slam home runs.

All of us were hungry as tropical fish in a glass bowl that hadn’t been fed in a week, and we were ready to attack some super fresh Floridian seafood—just like those pesky pirates on coastal raids. The cocktails at the bar were drained like gasoline sucked into a 454 big-block engine, and the busy hostess gathered us and led us single file to a comfortable back dining room with a marvelous sushi bar. I love sushi, and from what I gathered, so does everyone else joining us tonight. My mind sometimes thinks a little differently than others, and out of the blue I began to hum a song in my head that goes, “If you knew sushi, like I knew sushi, oh, oh what a gal.” Sometimes old songs have to be adapted to suit the moment—don’t you think? Perhaps it’s just the “young at heart” side of me that keeps me silly and forever young.

Several bottles of select wine were brought by Will, one of the guests who made me feel at ease at dinner—because one of my closest passions is collecting and drinking fine wine, and unbelievably, so is his. Now, Will is kind of the silent type, with warm, trusting eyes that sparkle like diamonds when a subject captivates him. He is a man of few words, but kindness radiates from him, and he has great depth and knowledge of both grapes and the real world. He and I have found time in our busy lives to study and explore the complexities of wine and the art of viniculture. I admire someone who understands that it’s no easy job to create a 90-plus–point-rated wine by Robert Parker or other critics in Wine Spectator. I, too, am much like him in my ambitions and hobbies, and I’m sure we could share some great wine-tasting and collecting stories if we had a little more time. He’s also a big baseball fan—and you gotta like a guy who loves the Cleveland Indians. Perhaps, with a little more time on our next rendezvous here in Pensacola, he and his lovely bride Rita will rejoin our new circle of friends. I believe I overheard Donnie G and Will say they’re both from Ohio. Man, we all just fit in together like peas and carrots with this seafood man.

You know, there is nothing more flattering and painful than the truth, and I usually call it like I see it. I realize that Will is very fortunate to have married such a vision of beauty. The first thought that came to my mind when I met his wife Rita was, “Wow, that’s a tall drink of water.” She is a stunning blonde beauty of nearly six feet, and if that isn’t enough to make you flip your wig, daddy, she also has a God-given talent with her hands that brings new life to those around her. Combine that with a medical degree, a mind forged of brilliance, and a wickedly funny personality—she is entertaining and delightful, and a perfect match for Will, for opposites really do attract. What can you say when you have it all besides “The world is your oyster”? Rita shared with my wife Paula and me a few photos of her beautiful children—and, my friends, if you don’t already know, that can be a major trust issue that breaks down all the barriers of awkward first meetings. Gifted is her mind, golden is her skin from one-on-one time with the coastal sunshine, and deep are her thoughts from heavy job responsibilities. Happy is her heart from being able to provide daily miracles after a job well done, and she seems to take life like a grain of sand. I think she realizes that if you take all those tiny grains and put them together, they form a beautiful sandy beach. Like sand passing through an hourglass, each grain is a precious moment in time.

A waiter who brought more large wine goblets was clear-eyed and focused on his job, yet he had a “Cool Hand Luke” kind of attitude born of confidence in promoting a product he believed in. I noticed attentive waiters and waitresses everywhere, flying around the joint like charming bumble bees buzzing about the hive. Eventually, we settled around a large round table and proceeded to dissect the printed menu with the precision of a plastic surgeon. We discussed our orders like family at supper time, then ordered like commodity traders hungry for new taste sensations. We probably ordered too much—because as my mother used to say, “Your eyes are bigger than your stomach.” Be careful what you order, because you just might have to eat it. We were ready to tear into some super fresh seafood, and just after placing our dinner orders, Bill looked over at me and said, “Good choice—the Ya Ya Grits. You’re gonna like them.”

The dazzling appetizers arrived first—cracked blue crab claws, California and Dragon Roll sushi paired with drizzled calamari, half-fried oysters, and someone even ordered a marvelous seafood gumbo soup. The cocktails and wine flowed like the incoming tide, and as I glanced around the busy, funhouse restaurant. I realized that a comfortable warmth and genuine feel glowed from inside the Fish House. I wondered if it would even exist if old Joe Patti and his band of merry fisherman buddies hadn’t put this place on the map. Life sometimes takes you through magical situations—and sometimes through the bitterness of disparity. A second bottle of Oregon Pinot Noir was opened and poured, with new glasses replacing the old to meet everyone’s needs. The conversations bounced around the table like ping-pong balls, and I had trouble keeping up with all the wacky stories being told. What I noticed most was that everyone at the restaurant wore big smiles, like the Joker in a Batman movie, and every diner at our table seemed sinfully on their way to utopia, laughing joyfully.

Now, if you’re ready for this: tonight, Rita the OBGYN and Will, the successful businessman, have joined with Donnie G and Sandi—the Caribbean advertising owner–directors of Ameri Media, Paula the psychology major finalizing her doctorate in forensic psychology, and me—the hot-shot car sales manager/slash wacko painter/artist/slash short story writer—along with Bill, the retired Special Forces medical sales guy, and Donna, the social butterfly. If you think there were lively conversations at that dinner table, you’re probably right. I was in mental ecstasy just listening to everyone, immersed in the hustle and bustle of the busy restaurant. As the sun slowly sank into the murky ocean divide, those familiar sounds reminded me of the wonderful years I spent in the hospitality industry.

The appetizers were terrific, and when we finished, the plates were cleared away like the outgoing tide, and my hopes soared with anticipation to taste the Ya Ya Grits Bill said we had to try. When the entrées arrived, the seafood dishes were phenomenal in both color and presentation. Everyone turned into a race car driver at the starting gate, waiting for the green flag. Our expectations were running high, fueled by our desire for more good food. The green flag was waved, and then everyone dug in like pearl divers searching for the perfect pearl—when suddenly my mind snapped. I tried to keep it to myself, but I couldn’t—

Yahoo!… my taste buds screamed with delight upon my first taste of fresh, sautéed Gulf of Mexico Red Royal Shrimp served over smoked Gouda cheese grits. It sounds kind of wacky, and it is definitely decadent Southern with a Cajun twist. But sure enough, the dish floored me, and my twisted mind finally realized that things are a little different here in Pensacola. The background noise in the restaurant suddenly went dead quiet, and all I could hear were ooohs and aaaahs. It sounded like a food orgy as everyone wolfed down their dinners. “Try some of this,” someone said, and the response was, “Oh my God!” Overwhelmed taste buds bathed in precious sips of Big Red Wine—like a miniature masseuse circulating in our bloodstream—relaxed our tired muscles and overworked minds. “What a wacky flavor these Ya Ya Shrimp Grits have,” I told Bill, as he stared at me with fluorescent eyes, and I thought that Earl was about to arrive. The robust red wine had made me and the guests loose as a goose in summertime, so of course we ordered one last bottle of French Meritage Cabernet—Bonnes Mare ’97, of course. 

Suddenly, the bumblebees returned along with new wine glasses to replace the old. Surf-and-turf dinners and mahi-mahi specials went down like thunder, and we were having a rocking good time. Everyone was having so much fun that maybe we should stand up and start flapping our wings. I am so grateful for such an abundance of fresh seafood to be consumed, and both my wife and I are ridiculously overwhelmed by the generosity our new friendships bring. I have been fortunate enough to cook all over this great country, and I am happy to have learned from some of the best in the world. The food here at the Fish House rocks—it is Gulf Coast cuisine at its finest, mind-blistering and inspiring.

Someone asked, “Has anyone seen the new movie, The Ya Ya Sisterhood? You know, the one with all the chicks in it.” That opened up a whole new orchard of peaches to discuss. And as I was eating my dinner, I thought, “Forget about The Ya Ya Sisterhood—someone try these mind-blowing Ya Ya Shrimp Grits!” It was like discovering a new taste sensation. Paula tried some and said, “Wow!” With each savory bite, I realized what the city of Pensacola is all about: the old and the new, the red, white, and blue, and the goodness that friendship brings. Combine that with a quality of life enjoyed only by the magnetic few destined to live by the sea, and you have it all. You’ll realize that Pensacola is a special place you can call home—a destination oasis for those who seek simplicity and complexity at once. Tonight, I’m so glad I wasn’t born as a simple leaf on a tree by the river, because when the short season ends, the world might just blow me away, and downriver I’d be swept away for good. 

Life should be enjoyed slowly, and friendships should last an eternity. Unfortunately, life is lived in the blink of an eye, so it’s important to capture every grain of sand you can to build your own beach. On that beach, you will find all the magical possibilities life has to offer. Gather the sand falling through the hourglass one by one, and learn to appreciate the beauty all around you. These are the glory days of your life, my friends—and we are living on the edge of the world. So remember: “Life is a mind-blowing experience that teaches you something new every day.” Learn from what you see and cherish every precious moment. For life is like catching a fish on your first cast—“Baby, you gotta take ’em as they come.”

WRITTEN BY GREGORY MICHAEL MANESS D.B.A. GREGOART
DEDICATED TO ALL OF MY NEW FRIENDS AND OLD ONES IN PENSACOLA, FLORIDA, WHO SO INSPIRED ME TO WRITE THIS CANDID SHORT STORY.
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