I've been to his concerts, subscribe to Sirius Radio just to hear Margaritaville Radio, have every one of his songs in my IPhone -- and still enjoy his lesser known gems, i.e., Biloxi, Oysters and Pearls, He Went to Paris, as well as Margaritaville of course, and the big favorite here in South Florida, Why Don't We Get Drunk and Sue.... 

Oh, and, his cameo appearance in Alan Jackson's Video  "It's Five O'Clock Somewhere" made an already great video even more memorable for all the right reasons.

So, imagine the tectonic crash in my life when I asked my wife, "So, how was your day?" (A required-by-law daily question that married men must ask their wives.)

"Fine," she replied.  Then added, "Oh, while I was driving to work, you know right there where the road parallels the ocean, I nearly hit Jimmy Buffet."

My mind was unable to properly process this information; this was emotional overload -- as if someone sneaks up behind you and suddenly blasts you with an air horn.  I gasped for air and clutched at my chest.

The soundtrack from Psycho began playing. 

I pictured a flat Jimmy Buffet face complete with outstretched hands and a look of frozen-horror pressed onto the windshield of my wife's car.  I imagined all the music left unwritten, the the empty concert venues, and a funeral procession with mourners solemnly walking while making a slow, sad "Fins to The Left, Fins to the Right" gestures.

I managed an intellectual comeback: "Huh?!" I gasped.

"Yea," she explained -- almost nonchalantly, "I guess he and his son had been surfing, and they started to cross the road to his house from the beach and he stepped out directly in front of my car without looking because he was looking back at his son to get him to cross the road safely." 

Fortunately, she hit her brakes instead of the world's flower shirt and metal-drum hero.  He stepped back out of the way, and gave her the very typical Buffet smile with a wave acknowledging the close brush with death.  Hey, no stranger to danger, Buffet flipped an amphibious plane on takeoff once but that is is nowhere as dangerous as stepping in front of Mrs. Culture's car.

"So," she said," I just waved back at him and they crossed in front of me and he waved again."  Then, they disappeared into the hedges of his Palm Beach home like the baseball players fading into the Field of Dreams cornfield.

"But, -- he's OK?" I asked.  

"Yea, no problem," was the reply.  She chuckled and said comically, "so, guess who I ran into today!"

"Not funny," I replied sarcastically but I was twisted into morbid thought; and anguish; no concert beach-balls, no shark blimp marauding overhead, no throngs shouting  “Salt, Salt!”   That night as I slept, the nightmare began. I was tormented by the unfolding  "what if" scenarios -- what if she had wacked JB?  Aside from the immediate tragedy, just how long would it take before the villagers were at my door with pitchforks and flaming torches?  I watched revengeful Parrot Head hit teams pouring from Margaritaville searching for me like scurrying angry ants -- yes, looking for me because as married men know,  if anything bad happens in the relationship, it is your fault.

I could never go out to dinner again -- are you kidding?  "They" would be waiting.  Hire security?  Huh?  Who would want to protect the guy who was responsible for killing the Bama Breeze?  

My mind raced out of control; I would have to flee the country. 

In my Ambien-induced sleep that night, I was trapped in a nightmare.  Populations worldwide were singing the new Margaritaville lyric, "some people claim that Dr. Culture's to blame, but we all know, its surely his fault."  Samon Rushdi even sent me an email offering advice....

My nightmare continued in Billy Pilgrim fashion slipping from place to place instead of across time.  Now, I was in Spain begging King Juan Carlos for political asylum but he refused me with a distasteful insult, “repugnar a asesino de música buena de tiempo,” then I was pleading my case to a French government panel of bureaucrats -- happy to welcome exiled genetic-garbage-despots like the Duvaliers -- they turned me away with upturned noses and a patronizing accent, "Monsieur Buffet sang beautiful songs about love, about Paris, about French wine and cheeses, you -- sans classes reptilian Americain -- you must go."  This was my personal Tampico Trauma.  Now I slipped to Italy where I was also told by a skinny guy “we even named a pizza -- the Margarita-villa --after il caro Giacomo Buffet; you come back next time, signor, we may not be friends -- no gelato for you, assassino di musica.” 

Suddenly, it was peaceful, tranquil.  I saw trees and beautiful flowers.  I was in Japan, where I was welcomed to a lovely country inn by a naked Japanese movie star serving me tea. She leaned close to kiss me and abruptly morphed into a masked ninja warrior complete with Samurai sword screaming “Buffet KIrrer!”  and throwing a hundred slow-motion-spinning, ninja stars on a trajectory destined to pin me to the wall like a butterfly collection -- and suddenly I jolted awake to another lovely South Florida morning.  

I was shaken, yet cautiously optimistic.  All seemed well.

I went to the garage and checked the front of the wife's car -- no damage. The music was still alive -- and so was I.

The wife came in for coffee and asked, “How 'bout ‘burgers tonight?”

“Sure!” was my answer, and I thought, “I like mine with lettuce and tomatoes, Heinz 57, and french fried potatoes, big kosher pickle, and a cold draft beer .... So glad it was only a dream, my dear.