Parrotheads

"Are you here for the Parrothead convention?"
"Not in a million years."
Oh, shit, this really was my own personal hell.
I had just flown to Tampa from New Orleans to retrieve my half of my mom's ashes from an estranged aunt.

My mom had been missing for years. The last contact was a mysterious package containing her favorite pieces of art. Six miniature ivory paintings of the Mongolian royal family members who invaded India in the fifteenth century, a Japanese woodblock of a frog jumping into water, and an English seascape watercolor. The enclosed note read " The car died, I haven't."

The Holiday Inn clerks laughed as they handed back my Key West, Fl state id.

I have had my fill of Parrotheads. It was a common belief that Jimmy Buffett did more to destroy our small island life than anything else possible. He announced to the masses what was magical in our world. With this came higher rents, chain stores, cruise ships and development.

The Keys and Key West would let out a collective groan when Parrotheads would arrive for their yearly convention. The sound off section of the Key West Citizen and other local papers would light up like a eyes of the strippers at the Red Garter Saloon when the Navy ships dock. The business owners loved the Parrotheads because they always came off season, the rest of us wished we could afford to sail to the Tortuga's for the week. Parrotheads are notoriously bad tippers, right up there with the German and French. The Europeans had enough sense not to run around in grass skirts and plastic lei's, which gave them bonus points in my book.

Thanking the clerks I grab my key, head to the elevator.

Surprise, surprise, some body's wearing those damn two beer/straw contraption hats with another Budweiser in his hand.
" Ya here for the show?"
"Whoo Hoo"
" No, I am here to pick up my mom's ashes, she has passed."
"Oh man, ya want a beer?"
"No, baby, I'm in recovery " I sigh, adding, "Just friggin' tip decent while ya'll are here, okay?"
Entering my room, I flop on the itchy hibiscus printed bedspread and burst into tears as "Son of a Son of a Sailor" blares from the room next door.

Momma was right about Buffett.