So two mayors walk into a bar.
Okay, actually it was a restaurant, Tampa's of-the-moment Ulele on the winding Riverwalk that is a major city amenity these two particular mayors had seen to completion.
One of them, Bob Buckhorn, was already there, high and dry despite the day's rain. As the person currently running the city — though not for much longer — he has a driver to deliver him to the door, his ever-present pocket square unmussed.
His dining companion, prior mayor Pam Iorio, arrived under a dripping umbrella. Now a private citizen, she had driven herself, even though in post-mayorhood she is head of Big Brothers Big Sisters of America, nothing to shake a stick at.
"You're going to miss this the most," she told Buckhorn, meaning the handy VIP car service. Though, seriously, is there anything about the job Buckhorn won't miss?
He lost elections before he got to this, the only job he ever really wanted. He evolved from the tin-eared guy who once championed keeping strip club dancers apart from customers into the right mayor for the right moment for post-recession Tampa, a city that could have trundled along or leaped forward, depending.
And even his political foes can't deny that under his relentless cheerleading, it's the latter. Buckhorn says it's not just brick and mortar, it's "the sense of optimism and hope." (He does sound bites like that.) Downtown is an actual downtown, centerpiece parks thrive and miracle of miracles, the citizens of the city and county just agreed to tax themselves to improve transportation.
On his watch we had a Republican National Convention, improbably hosted India's Bollywood Oscars, avoided the worst of a hurricane and arrested a serial killer.
Yes, the mayor really did tell police to "bring his head to me." (Somebody made T-shirts with that slogan on them.)
He flirted with running for governor. He didn't ride VIP style for the big Gasparilla parade but walked it so he could talk to people. Right up until May 1st — his last day — he can continue making that joke about how he can cut off your water.
And no mayor in city history could have enjoyed those rich men dressed up as pirates demanding the key to the city — a Gasparilla tradition — more than Buckhorn. "Lord knows I loved trash talking with those guys," he says. One last time, he gets to put on his shamrocked St. Patrick's Day pants for the dyeing o' the river green.
He will miss the police radio he kept on til all hours (his wife will not), going to crime scenes in the night, cruising through neighborhoods on weekends.
For now at least, the Buckhorn steak salad is still on the menu at Cafe Dufrain and the Buckhorn Stout poured at Ulele. He still has things to do, groundbreakings and such, and maybe endorsing a potential successor in a run-off election. He will likely want a say on who is, and just as important, isn't, sitting at the desk after him.
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Explore all your options"Momentum is a very fragile thing," he says. "You can lose it just as quickly as we got it."
What does a mayor who has worn the nickname Swagger without an ounce of irony do next?
Maybe a vacation in Ireland, time with his daughter before she's off to college, maybe one of those fellowships teaching public policy.
"My job moving forward is to step off the stage," Buckhorn says. And also, "there will be a long period of adjustment for me."
"Whatever I do, I won't have to go to bed with a police radio," he says.
"But I might."
Contact Sue Carlton at scarlton@tampabay.com.
