It is 6pm in Gulf Shores. I am sitting on the beach, waiting on Milady to get back from her walk with Little Miss.
One mostly-drunk fellow walks by at the waterline. He is carrying an almost empty gallon jug of whiskey of some sort, and dragging a white plastic tabletop missing all of its legs but covered in Sharpie signatures.
I have no idea what his story was, but I would sure love to know it.