Well before the internet, when Key West bars were our “chat rooms” and waitstaff spread news faster than Twitter posts go viral today, the island was home to a large group of unforgettable bartenders. None of them could top Buddy Duncan when it came to drink-mixing skill and flat-out lunacy.
Buddy was from South Carolina and had a stocky build, a dark beard and a glint in his eyes that made him look like an unhinged leprechaun.
A capable carpenter, he helped transform what had been the New Wreckers Lounge — a seedy watering hole in the parking lot of the Southeast Motor Inn at Simonton and United streets — into the brand-new (but still slightly seedy) Full Moon Saloon.
After it opened in 1977, he transformed himself — from a carpenter into a bartender.
By the time I first ventured into the Moon, awed by its reputation as the “clubhouse” for Key West’s high-rolling renegades, Buddy was a legend. His ever-present smile, upbeat spirit and storytelling talents were matched only by his lightning speed behind the bar.
He was constantly in motion while he worked. Buddy could mix multiple cocktails, trade fast-paced quips with a waitress and make change for a customer at the same time — his nonstop movements as choreographed as a manic ballet. It was mesmerizing to watch, though I sometimes had to look away just to catch my breath.
Buddy might have been powered by constant caffeine, since tiny cups of the high-octane Cuban brew called bucci were a local favorite, or possibly by something less legal. I never knew and never asked.
On one particular day, his speed outran his common sense (and apparently his sense of self-preservation). Buddy broke a glass and cut his hand, but was so intent on making drinks at his usual pace that he didn’t notice. Those of us at the bar, however, couldn’t miss the blood flowing from the cut as he gestured with his usual abandon.
Finally Rick Lutz, who ran the Full Moon’s tiny kitchen, took control and slowed Buddy down long enough to apply a bandage. The bleeding eased, but the story grew with each telling — until it was forever memorialized in local lore as Bloody Buddy Night.
Even after he “retired” from the Moon, Buddy stopped by frequently. He was always welcomed as a customer, though that welcome was sorely tested one evening near closing time.
I was sitting at the bar next to the then-city manager (who we’ll simply call Ron). For some obscure reason, Ron had just bought me a large leather racquetball bag from a vendor who had wandered in with his wares.
I didn’t play racquetball, and Ron was never anything more than a friend. But he insisted I keep the bag, so I bundled it into my lap and started exploring its many zippered compartments.
Suddenly a commotion erupted from the hallway leading to the ladies’ room. A female patron sprang out of the hallway’s entrance like she’d been fired from a cannon, uttering incoherent squeaking noises. She was followed by two more women, sprinting and looking back over their shoulders as though a vicious hellhound was nipping at their heels.
Apparently believing he had some responsibility as a city official, Ron stood up and strode authoritatively across the room to peer down the hallway.
That’s when he collapsed in helpless mirth. The women weren’t being menaced by a hellhound — only by a highly intoxicated Buddy Duncan, crouched on his hands and knees, growling and barking at the ladies’ room door.
