I came to learn there is nothing funny about Margaritaville. The ambiance is twangy and full of parrots. There are lanterns that look tarnished but are truly clean, well-lighted, and polished. God lives here.

Can’t you see the way the assemblage sparkles? Everything broken has been made new at Margaritaville. There is a sugary slush they encourage you to slurp down by the bucket. Oh, that slurry intoxicant, that sloppy ambrosia given to us by Jimmy Buffett, the one true chiller. Even the thought of it rots my teeth and fills my heart with a breezy island tune.

I’m nearing my twentieth day here. The thought of leaving is a hazy memory, too labyrinthine and elaborate. Why leave when one could stay? The inertia is here in the nectar and the joyful sounds of Mobile, Alabama. For us it is simple; we all wear bright Hawaiian shirts, bucket hats, and socks with sandals. The trouble is that though this place is very permanent, the others are not so compelled to stay, aside from the handful of staff members, who all wish me ill.

Zachary Swezy is a wretch and a liar. He skulks around Chicago most days.