While living down in Turks and Caicos with my ex boyfriend, a man stumbled into our lives through his job at the bar. There isn't a lot of time that passes without me wondering where he is now, good ol' Jeff, and it has been ten years since I saw him last.

Joe was a wild son of a bitch that looked very much like Jack Black with a wicked and perpetual hangover. He lived down the scariest, winding-est, piece of nowhere road available on the island of Providenciales. When I asked him "Why the fuck do you live out here?", as I listened to god knows what bounding around in the dark bushes around his house, he answered simply "I like to be able to do lines with the windows open. And I hate wearing pants.".

Solid reasoning.

I am sure it seems odd to many for two eighteen year olds to be hanging out with a forty year old in the darkness of an island night surrounded by hills of clay and sand (STRANGER DANGER), but in a small area, when you find someone you click with, you latch on with all your might. And Jeff was one of those guys that was too hilarious and unpredictable to NOT have around.

I remember the first night we met up with him at his place. We grabbed a cheap bottle of rum (since the island is technically part of the UK, the drinking age is 18) and headed down the dark road to his house, excited to spend time with someone other than my then-boyfriend's family. Being as there was no cell service to speak of, we were "old schoolin' it", slowly cruising the pitch black, struggling to read scrawled directions on a beer stained piece of paper. We got lost in the bush at least twice before we came across a small house settled in the shadows, his beach shorts hanging on line, a stack of empty bottles of booze by the door, and loud music rumbling away inside.

Yep, that's the place.

We unloaded and headed up to the glass door at the side of his house. The first thing we saw was his blaring white ass flouncing around the kitchen. My boyfriend guffawed and Jeff was alerted to our presence.

"Oh, shit! Sorry, man! Cover your girl's eyes, we don't want her getting the lust!"

Off to a hilarious start. Definitely felt good about this guy.

Jeff covered his shame and we entered his house. It smelled a little like stale cigarettes, but more surprisingly, the lingering smell of mingled meals made in the past. It smelled... homey, and it was comfortable with a decent amount of furniture and knick knacks adorning the space. I didn't expect a man that was always sloppy drunk at the bar to have a HOME, at best, I expected a house he just simply occupied.

He returned to the room, with a stack of CDs in one hand, a large and ornate acoustic guitar in the other, and invited us to sit. As he sat the CD cases down, I noticed a fat, thick rail of white powder. Sure, I was exciting for a teenager but I had never been THAT exciting. I watched, intrigued, as he snorted half of the hulking line, and offered it hospitably to me. I reached out automatically and my hand was smacked away by my boyfriend. I had almost forgotten he was there, while witnessing something I'd only seen in the movies prior.

Jeff wasn't to be fucked either way, shrugged, and did the rest of the line himself. He let out a guttural growl, slung his guitar over his shoulder, and started strumming away.

Not long after he began running through different riffs, completely absorbed in his playing, while we lit a modest joint and passed it back in forth, he starts with a new purpose. Leaning down and focused, I begin to hear a tune I know. I got excited for hearing the acoustic version he was beginning to work out.
And then something magical happened.
He opened his mouth.

And out of this beach bum looking man, whose sunburnt frame was sweating over the guitar with a bit of cocaine smeared on the fret, came a voice that could shred the panties off men and women alike. If I hadn't known any better, I would think Johnny Cash with a throat made of velvet had begun crooning in my ear. It was deep but floated in the room, lilting and lulling, rising and falling, an awe inspiring version of Ring of Fire formed, filling the room and holding his small audience enthrall.

As he finished the final notes, I barely had time to raise my hands to applaud his performance before he launched into another song. Song after song, he played for us. Crooning with his eyes shut tight, he was alone in the room, despite our rapt attention. He commanded it and we were willing to oblige, how could we not?

He finished his performance with one final song, a song that, because of him, I have an incredible fondness for to this day. We had all moved to the porch to smoke a cigarette, his pressed tightly in the corner of his mouth, giving his heavenly voice a bit rougher of a twang that suited the song well. It floated out into the blackness of the island and drifted back to us with soft delay.

"My daddy left home when I was three, and he didn't leave much to maw 'n' me, 'cept this old guitar and an empty bottle of booze..."

The hilarity of the lyrics making us smile and bob our heads along with the rhythm. Another song by the late and great Johnny Cash, A Boy Named Sue.

He finished his last song with a deep sigh, smacked his guitar, and opened his eyes. He looked over our star struck faces and said:

"I don't know about ya'll motherfuckers, but I think it is margarita time!"

We followed him into the kitchen, the idea of a cold, slushy drink in such an hot climate sounding like the ultimate finish to the performance of a lifetime. Not to mention, a cure for an insane case of cotton mouth. I went to the fridge to fetch him some ice, as he was wobbling and considerably more wasted than I was. He shouted over his shoulder "No need, you're having them Jeff style!".
I turned around and watched him pour four different kinds of straight alcohol with a a couple slices of lime into a blender, turn it on, and grab some glasses.

Jesus Christ.

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He may have been a musical genius, but a bartender... he was not.

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