Spotlight on the Shadows: The Curious Case of Punxsutawney Phil

It was just before 3:00 a.m. when my cell phone jolted me to consciousness. It was a number I didn't know, so I ignored it and buried my face back in my pillow. I always figure whoever is calling from a wrong number will hear my voicemail and realize it's not who they're looking for. A few seconds later, however, my ringer once again broke the silence. Perturbed and groggy, I grabbed the phone off my nightstand and mustered up the most coherent greeting I'm capable at this time of morning.

"Huhheheh?" I said confidently.

"Hi there, I'm trying to get in touch with Kevin Jordan," the man replied in a pleasant tone, clearly unaffected by my time-related speech impediment or time in general. "There's been a situation down in Pennsylvania that we would like you to write a story on."

"Pennsylvania? I write sarcastic columns in Boston for a small, online college newspaper. Isn't there someone down there that may be a bit more professionally and geographically suited to cover the story?" I asked him, hoping for another few hours of shut-eye.

"Well, yes, there probably is, Mr. Jordan. But this one is out of my hands. There's been an arrest in Punxsutawney, and the guy they brought down to the station said he would only talk to you. This guy is a pretty big deal in our town. If people don't get the real story this could cause a hell of a lot of problems for us."

"Dammit," I mutter as I realized who he's talking about. "I'll be there as soon as I can."

                                                            ___________

Seeing as it was February 2nd, there was a surprisingly high volume of flights headed towards Pennsylvania. After a quick stopover in Pittsburgh I was able to find a connecting flight that would land me in Punxsutawney just after ten o' clock. As I stepped out of the shadow of the eastern terminal and boarded the small, twin-engine plane the flight attendant flashed me a pleasant smile, wishing me a comfortable flight and a Happy Groundhog's Day. Clearly she hasn't watched the news today, I thought to myself, shielding my eyes from the bright sunlight as I passed. If she had, it's doubtful she would have labeled this Groundhog's Day as a joyful one.

                                                           ___________

The plane touched down on the runway of Punxsutawney Municipal Airport with the grace and poise of Charles Barkley hyped-up on a box of bear claws and the hopes of a blow job. After making sure I hadn't wet myself on the landing, I grabbed my only bag from the overhead bin and headed towards the exit. As I progressed down the aisle I caught the eye of the flight attendant who greeted me as we left Pittsburgh. The comforting, radiating smile she had shown me a short time earlier had given way to one of disappointment and concealed concern. In a nutshell, she was displaying the reactions of Steelers fans to this past season.

"Don't worry, Ashley," I said after a quick glance at her name tag, "I'll do my best to clean this mess up."

I'm pretty sure she didn't have any idea what I was talking about.

The man who had called me earlier in the morning had described himself as a slender man in his forties with brown hair and a mustache. He was certainly correct about the mustache, but beyond that I couldn't entirely understand how he justified his comb over and protruding midsection with such a description. Nice rack though. He held a piece of bright white paper with the words "Kevin Jorden" scrawled on it in thick, black marker. As I approached him, I wonder how difficult of a name "Jordan" was to spell. I then wondered what the quality of education was in Punxsutawney, Pennsylvania. I then realized that their weather and climate specialist was a woodchuck, and I had my answer to both questions.

"Clinton Gerst," I called out cordially. "How are you?"

"Oh, I'm alright, Kevin," he responded with slightly more fatigue than he did when we spoke on the phone. "Although, it has been quite the stressful morning as I'm sure you can imagine.   We've got a town legend in jail and three prominent members of the town checked into the hospital—not exactly my ideal Tuesday."

"Sounds like a slow Tuesday to me, Mr. Gerst. But then again, I'm not from a town that relies around the yearly reactions of a woodchuck to uphold the local economy."

"What I am interest to know," he began, ignoring the verbal punishment I sent his way for waking me up at three in the morning, "is why exactly Phil is only willing to talk to you."

"Well, Clint, maybe it's because he trusts me as a journalist. Maybe it's because I'm a good listener. Then again, maybe it's because he sees me as a role model. To be honest, it's probably two of the three. I met him a few years back on a road trip. I was making my way through Pennsylvania and happened to stop at this place in Clearfield called Denny's Beer Barrel Pub. As I sat down at the bar, impressed and also somewhat concerned at the sight of numerous hard liquors on tap, I noticed Phil at the other end of the bar with empty beer glasses and a burger as big as he was crowding the space in front of him. Curious why there was a groundhog in the pub and deciding I was up for a good bar story, I approached him and we began to talk. After a few hours filled with spilling of emotions, much needed life advice, and the most delicious plate of wings I've ever tasted, we parted ways."