People are always talking about Bill Murray sightings in Charleston, but here’s the deal: in the nearly two decades I’ve called the Holy City home, I’ve never once caught a glimpse of him. I’ve never witnessed him leaping out of his box seat after a RiverDogs home run. I’ve never spilled my Salty Raccoon or Springbok latte after bumping into him at Harold’s Cabin or Kudu Coffee. I’ve never watched him flipping through surf trunks at McKevlin’s Surf Shop or slurping down roasted oysters at Bowen’s Island. I’ve yet to step out in front of him driving a Maserati on King Street or to find him hunting shark’s teeth at the Boneyard on Bull Island. I would love to end up face to face while hiking an empty trail at Marrington Plantation or power-walking across the Ravenel Bridge. It would be even cooler to discover him wandering down King Street at two in the morning crooning his wondrous ode to Star Wars (“those near and far wars”). But no.
Murray and I have never found ourselves lost together in a dead end corner of the Boone Hall corn maze, cracking crabs at Sidi Limehouse’s farm, living aquatic atop a standup paddleboard off Morris Island or throwing back PBR’s at the Recovery Room Tavern. I’d dearly love to say I’ve seen him ducking onto a yacht at City Marina, pedaling along the West Ashley Greenway or throwing toast at the screen of the Terrace Theater during The Rocky Horror Picture Show.
To me, Charleston’s most famous resident is an enigma. He’s a cipher. He’s the man who wasn’t there.
Come to think of it, I’ve never seen Darius Rucker, either.