Charleston, Chewed - Part 12

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Okay, it was a slight lie that Tiffany and I bombarded the diner kitchen, demanding to speak with Mother Teresa and learn blessed baking skills. But we did think about it, which is almost as important and noteworthy, and surely credited us a few more points toward earning the Southern Baked Goods merit badge that we had been working on all week.

Culinary terrorism aside, it was time that we jet from the lovely Diner O’ Biscuits and proceed forth to our intended tour of Fort Sumter. We gathered up our 47 communication devices and paid the tab, leaving a healthy tip for Sorbonne, an overpayment that is often necessary when compensating folks for the intrusion of our clan into their environment. It’s just so much easier when things don’t escalate into a judicial matter.

Bellies full, we trotted out to the car and headed just a short way down the road, turning onto a side road that lead to the entrance of the main tour facilities. As usual for this town, the entrance was somewhat ambiguous, with discreet landscaping to camouflage the fact that apparently-offensive retail transactions actually took place in the fair city. We rounded a batch of purposely-obscuring trees, and pulled into the parking lot proper.

To discover that roughly 4,000 vehicles had rounded those same trees before we had.

I wasn’t completely surprised, I guess. After all, this was a tourist thing, and a rather famous one at that, so I should have been prepared for at least a modest influx of humanity. It’s not like the governor of the state was going to personally greet us and whisk our little entourage on a private tour. But I also wasn’t expecting the entire state of Rhode Island to show up. (Maybe they were looking for the biscuits?)

We found a spot, and trudged toward a semi-walled area that might contain official people with useful information about ticketing and such. (Why do they insist on hiding things behind other things around here? I want a big-ass sign that says “Buy tickets HERE!”) We clattered around the wall, and found ourselves in Grand Central Station.

There were people everywhere, hordes of them. The sheer number of them stunned us all for a second, then we spied an area off to the side, where people were shoving money through holes in glass windows and receiving bits of paper in return. These people were also fighting to remain upright as presumed offspring tugged them in all directions, demanding immediate satisfaction in places that were not ticket lines.

I took one look at that mess and signaled for Terry to do the necessary financial arrangements. Terry is the sociable one, with the fine and enviable ability to talk to anything with a pulse, and even a few things without one. I loathe talking to people that I don’t know, preferring instead to float facedown in a swimming pool until they go away.

Terry made his way toward the queues of hooligans, whilst Tiffany and Nina both commenced with fiddling around in their purses or some such, one of those secretive things that women do when they lean toward one another in a public setting and quietly whisper about something. This left me temporarily unsupervised, and thusly I made a poor management decision. I suddenly felt it very important that I use the facilities.

I signaled Terry again (“Gotta pee!”) and headed out on my adventure. This time, a large sign was provided, thank you. (I guess once you are inside the confines of a retail establishment, the local zoning laws change and you can go crazy with the signage.) I rounded a corner, traipsed down a long breezeway, and rounded another corner, at which point I was presented with an open doorway bearing the universal symbol for persons with penises, actual size not regulated.

It was actually kind of quiet back over here. There were a few people milling about, chattering quietly and sneaking slightly-furtive puffs on cigarettes. Most thrillingly, there was nary an urchin in sight. I relaxed and strolled into the tiled comfort station.

Things went swimmingly well for the first, oh, twenty seconds. Just long enough for me to unzip and position. At twenty-one seconds, the entire world blew up. 400 screaming boys came pouring through the door like a biblical plague, swarming all over the room with a vengeance that would startle Genghis Kahn. I became far too intimate with my urinal as I was shoved from behind by a branch of the invasion that was very invested in the far corner of the room. (Perhaps Satan was over there, beckoning?)

One of the boys was carrying a stick, which he was waving over his head. He marched right up to a metal trashcan and began to beat the hell out of it, hurling insults that meant nothing to me but were probably hip and cool to ten-year-olds these days. None of his horrid little companions looked his way or even blinked, so the assumption is that Little Anar-Kevin did such a thing quite often.

Another contingent of hooligans felt it was very important to free a soap dispenser from a wall. Not to be outdone, Squad C broke open a paper towel box and began flinging the fluttery contents from here to Jordan. To up the ante, another fool turned on a faucet, full force, and used his hand to direct the spray toward places it should never go. I believe that particular action received the most approving cries from the boys who were just standing around, too simple to think up their own vandalism.

I quietly continued with my plumbing needs, fully aware that any sudden movements might attract the attention of the many-eyed beast. As I did my part for recycling, I suddenly realized that all of the boys were wearing the same relative outfit, blue-and-white shirts with regulation-length shorts. Did they all go to a school of some kind? Were they gang members? Was this a day-trip for the residents of a youthful corrective facility?

Just then, a very haggard-looking man stumbled into the entryway, wearing a grown-up version of the little matching shirts. Instantly, the little hellions ceased all demonic activity and fell into orderly lines at the stalls and the urinals, not making a sound and staring forward. Of course, the two inches of water on the soapy floor and the remnants of the towel-fluttering belied the fact that more than just choir practice had taken place.

“Boys,” asked Haggard. “Have we been behaving?”

Silence, other than the one faucet that was still gushing, forgotten in the rush to appear angelic. Haggard walked over and slapped it off, sighing and deciding to give up any hope that his tribe had conducted themselves appropriately. “This bathroom didn’t get this way by itself.”

All eyes looked towards me.

Wait. What? Me! What the hell?

Haggard made a disgruntled sound that you know he practiced late at night, dreaming of actually dominating his charges for once. “I doubt that our friend had anything to do with this.” (Oh my GOD don’t call me a friend. I want no association with you people whatsoever.) “Let’s finish up and get back on the school bus.”

Back on the bus? They were leaving the compound. Praise Jeebus! I happily zippered up, whacked at the flush handle, raced to one of the sinks that still had a soap dispenser, washed the sins of this place off my hands, used the lone remaining paper towel, and headed toward the door.

Haggard subtly caught my attention on the way out, his eyes beseeching. Please take me with you, they said. I don’t care where you’re going, just as long as it’s not here. He even sagged his shoulders a little bit, his body language suggesting that even a simple hug would help, should I choose to give him one.

I did not. Yes, I feel tremendous empathy for any brave souls with the unenviable task of instructing and nurturing the unholy by-products of parents who stupidly believe that discipline is somehow a bad thing. But I did at least flick one of my own eyes to indicate that I was with him in silent-partner solidarity, and that I wished him the best. His eyes welled with tears and he nodded with humble gratification.

Then I got the hell out of there.

And nearly slammed into Terry, tucking the tour tickets into his pocket and headed toward the chaos whence I came. “Watch out for those boys,” I muttered.

Terry paused briefly, then shrugged his shoulders. I was always saying odd crap that didn’t make any sense. Then he turned and headed forth into the facilities.

God speed, mon amour.

Wonder if they serve any beer around here?


To Be Continued…

Charleston, Chewed - Part 11

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Sadly, it turned out our hotel only provided room service to guests when they were actually in the hotel. I found this rather rude, the result of some management person making a very thoughtless decision, but I chose not to dwell. Besides, I needed some form of motivation to actually walk back to the other end of the pier, and the fact that we might never get fed again unless we hoofed it seemed suitable inspiration.

It took a bit to get everyone in agreement that it was time to reenter the serving range of the hotel. Tiffany was the most difficult to convince. “But the ocean is speaking to me!” Of course it is. Everything speaks to you. In some states, this is grounds for involuntary committal to places where everybody wears white, and drooling is a form of communication. And they don’t let you have your own tube of lip gloss.

Tiffany immediately forgot her deep relationship with the sea and ran to the front of the pack traipsing back across the boards. Two days and a short break at the halfway point later, we reached the other end of the pier and clattered back onto the deck of the hotel. More drinking, more eating, eventual bed. There may have been a contest involving the tossing of olives, but this is hazy and undocumented.

Next morning, we arose and rushed forth to greet the day. Okay, maybe we didn’t rush. But we did eventually say hello, and before too long we were all in the car and headed to our first official destination of the day, Fort Sumter. We were on something of a tight schedule at that point, since the tour of the fort took a certain amount of time, and we had to be at The Citadel later in the day for pre-graduation ceremonies. Therefore, we decided to keep breakfast simple and eat at some restaurant on the way to the fort.

This proved to be more of a challenge than one would anticipate. Firstly, we had never had the pleasure of traveling the particular path one must take when headed toward this particular landmark fort. We had no idea “what was along the way”. Consequently, there was a considerable amount of rubber-necking taking place in our vehicle.

Secondly, as mentioned in previous installments detailing our Charleston sojourn, folks around here are not particularly fond of large signs outside retail establishments. Things are supposed to be pretty and neat and tucked away, resulting in discreetly modest little plaques whispering that you were very near a bookstore or a sushi bar. The trouble, of course, is that you can’t see the damn signs until you’ve whizzed past the entrance to the appropriate parking lot.

So there we were, squinting to read the miniscule signage in a very limited amount of whiz-by time, thus resulting in multiple false-alarm cries of discovery. “Wait! I think I see a House of Waffles over there! Oh, my bad. It’s House of Weaves. Carry on.” Thusly, Terry kept having to hit the brakes and prepare for a dramatic automotive maneuver, only to be stymied by identify failure and disappointment. Not only were we starving to death, we were now developing low-grade whiplash as well as a reputation for apparent drunken driving.

Finally, as we erratically traversed a charming curve in the road (actually, all of the curves in this part of town were charming, but this one was especially pleasing and tree-lined), we spied what possibly could be a diner. Cries of absolute joy filled the air when we located the tiny sign, bearing some mess about breakfast being served all day.

We were in the parking lot and out of the car within two seconds. There was a brief moment when Tiffany was almost inadvertently locked in the trunk due to a misunderstanding over valuable-storage protocol, but we worked it out and Tiffany remained free and non-mussed.

We trotted into the building. People were at tables snarfing up eggs and such, a glorious, almost religious sight that had us glancing into the kitchen to see if Mother Teresa was working the grill. The efficient waitress herded us to a booth, slapped menus on the table, took drink orders, then raced off to one of those places where serving people go when their assistance is not immediately required.

The menu was massive. These people obviously took the morning meal very seriously. Intricate and varied combinations of all things breakfast filled the multiple pages. Despite my weakened, malnourished state, barely able to hold up the menu, I perused every selection to rule out the horrifying possibility that I might miss the exact combination that would transport me to grease-based heaven.

Our waitress returned. I don’t recall her name, so we’ll call her Sorbonne. “Whatcha all want?” Said in a nice, neighborly way, not in a defiant, crack-head manner. It’s all in the Southern inflection.

Round-table we went, with each of us carefully identifying exactly what was required for our complete satisfaction. Sorbonne scribbled away, nodding gently, then turned away to submit her paperwork.

It was at this point that someone in our little group chose to speak up, adding a further, quite declarative directive. “And we’re in a HURRY!”

Oh, God. The lovely people who work in the food service industry do NOT care for pushy customers. (Here to tell ya.) Especially when said food service person has performed just fine so far and done nothing to indicate potential tardiness and dismay.

Sorbonne paused, and then she and her creatively-piled hair turned back to us. Her eyes asked “did you think I was going to take a nap before I turned your order in?”. But her mouth said “I’m sure it will be right out.” Then she continued on her flight path into the kitchen. I may have been mistaken, but I believe I heard the faint sounds of a shotgun being loaded.

Great. It was possible that we would never see our food. I began taking tiny sips of my coffee, on the off chance that it turned out to be the last bit of nourishment for several hours. I contemplated taking all the sugar packets and little jelly tubs as well.

Two minutes later, Sorbonne arrived with an enormous tray, heaped with thousands of plates because we’re all pigs and we order too much. She deftly arranged the offerings in front of the appropriate consumer without any hesitation or clarification, then smiled politely. “Anything else y’all need?”

Looking at the overstuffed table, I doubted there could be anything left in the kitchen. “This looks great. I think we’re good.”

Sorbonne beamed and then bolted.

Now, everything really was quite extraordinary, in that Charleston way with food. I don’t know where these folks learned what, but they cook with a conviction that most of us can only vaguely imagine. I truly didn’t care who could hear my smacking and belching, I was in a different place. But there was one item that really stood out.

Terry was the first to taste the delicate roundness, his facial expression changing to one of post-coital bliss and wonder. “Oh my GOD! You have got to try the biscuits!”

But I was in the middle of ravaging my omelet, and I didn’t really care to stop right at that moment. “Sure, just after I finish-”

“TRY THEM!”

Okay, then. I whacked off a piece and popped it in my mouth. Almost instantly, doughy deliciousness melted across my tongue, engaging taste buds that I didn’t even know I had. How could something be so soft and so good? How? I wiped away a tear as I took another bite.

Tiffany made a noise that I didn’t realize humans could make, and I glanced over at her just as she dove face-first into her plate, entire biscuits disappearing in the blink of an eye. She paused for air very briefly, wiping butter off her lips. “Jesus has risen!” Then she grabbed another biscuit.

I turned my head the other way, studying the kitchen. Who was back there that could make such things? Was it really possible that just an average citizen of Charleston was responsible, creating such glorious starchy gifts by day and then simply going home to a banal life of church-going or alcoholism or whatever they did when not on the clock? A home where indifferent relatives did not praise and worship them, consecrating statuary in their name?

Or was it really Mother Teresa after all? Tenderly using her sanctified biscuit-cutter to express love and devotion for hungry mankind, an angel lowered from the clouds, bearing flour and baking soda.

I hopped up from the booth and headed toward the kitchen. Whoever it was that made these things, I was determined that they were going to legally adopt me. Right now, so I could eat biscuits like this every day for the rest of my life.

There was a blur to my right. It took a second for me to put a name to the streak of color. It was Tiffany, trying to get to the kitchen first! Aw, hell no. I broke into a run…


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Charleston, Chewed - Part 10

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Now that we were back out on the street, I felt much better, especially since all of the folks around us seemed to be having a swell time simply being alive, and that’s a little too infectious to ignore. We did hit a few more stores, but it was more of the same, with people buying cute little knick-knacks that they would soon throw into a drawer, completely forget about, find years later in their senility, and somehow conclude that the trinket was proof-positive that their significant other DID TOO have that affair back in the day.

Eventually we made our way to the hotel, which we promptly ignored as we banged our way through the lobby and out onto the deck. Everybody was really happy over here, naturally, because the Tiki Hut was right there and refreshments could be obtained almost instantaneously. (And our favorite bartender-ette was still available, with her perkiness, speediness and charming ability to tell you to get out of the way of the next customer, without being offensive.)

So we settled in and chatted a bit. We had a new development now, what with the adjoining restaurant in full swing and some of that crowd spilling over into the outdoor tables shared with the Tiki Hut gang. It seems there may have even been some late-evening business dinners going on, as certain tables featured folks in fancy dress, their faces frozen into that expression of “I really hate working with you but I’m going to be sweet because I might need you to pass the salt”.

Naturally, because we knew it would be fun, we found it necessary to whoop it up a little more forcefully than needed, laughing and carrying on and making sure that the business people trapped at the tables would glare at us as they stabbed their salmon and nodded perfunctorily at something banal their boss was currently babbling about.

But even being obnoxious loses its charm after a bit, so following a few more trips to the Tiki bar, there was a unanimous decision to go explore the nearby pier, a very long, narrow structure jutting out into the water and the night. Accessories were gathered, we tromped down the little flight of stairs to the beach, and we began to make our way across the sand.

Now, a little background on this particular pier. First, it’s the only one in this area, since apparently there’s some very tight governance concerning who gets to build what where. Second, it’s the third version of this pier, the first two having burnt to the ground. Perhaps I’m being a tad simple, but how does something built over water, right at the surface of the water, mind you, burn to the ground? Could the bystanders not figure out where the water might be?

Finally and thirdly, this pier was way longer than one realizes when casually glancing at it whilst chugging a Pina Colada at a bar down the beach. We first begin to ascertain that something was amiss when we marched up to the land-end of the pier and were shocked to discover that we had to climb two flights of stairs to even get on the pier. Yes, we were aware that the pier was raised above the water, or things just simply wouldn’t have worked out when using the pier to walk on. We just hadn’t bothered to conceptualize getting from the sand to the pier.

Now we were faced with manual labor. This had not been in the brochure.

But climb the stairs we did, with three of us having to immediately pee the very second we reached the top landing, our bladders not accustomed to being jostled about so unexpectedly. Luckily, there were some nice facilities on this landing which allowed us to attend to our needs. In fact, there was also a little museum and a gift shop and other surprises. I decided that I was rather fond of this end of the pier. Little did I know that it would be several weeks before I saw it again.

So we start our journey to the other end of the long structure, and things are amazingly festive during this initial phase. There was a nice breeze tossing about, the lights spaced along the pier gave off a soft, golden glow, just enough that you could see where you were going but not so much that you could be blinded and plunge over the side of the pier. We had our beverages, of course, and we chatted amiably as we strolled. Very nice.

Then I began to notice that the building at the far end of the pier remained just that. A building at the far end of the pier. We did not seem to be making any progress. Or perhaps I was stuck in some groundhog-day loop where I kept re-walking the same thirty feet of pier. Hmm.

But still, the stars were out and there was the regular, lulling pattern of the waves. Tiffany was in the midst of sharing an anecdote about some adventure wherein she was forced to be nice to people she didn’t care for, and her voice sparkled over the soothing splash of the water below, buoyant crystals of humor.

That dang building, though. Still not any closer.

I was startled by sudden, labored grunting to my right. After a few seconds of uncertainty concerning our immediate future, I realized that a fisherman was standing in the shadows, and had apparently just snagged something of interest that did not want to be snagged, thus beginning a minor duel of forces.

Glancing about, I realized that there were several other fisher-people peppered along the pier, folks that we hadn’t realized would be here, although it made perfect sense. It was just a little discomfiting to realize that we were surrounded by men in the night, with their poles thrust into the air. (And yes, my mind delved a bit into lusty variations of this imagery before returning to more wholesome synaptic firing.)

Next up on the surprise tour were little stations with big metal sinks and working faucets. Interesting. What could possibly need washing out here over the water? Had the pier designer misunderstood exactly what type of plumbing would be needed to keep the bridge from burning down a third time? Fire hydrant, wash basin, I could see the confusion.

Now wait, that damn building still wasn’t any closer. I decided to turn around and see how far back the land-end of the pier was. (If the gift shop was still right there, then I was definitely trapped in a Fellini movie and at any moment a decadent prostitute was going to walk by, speaking Italian and solving the worlds problems by deciphering the gushing sounds coming from a bidet.)

The gift shop was now just a tiny speck. I whirled back around. Lo and behold, the ocean-end of the pier actually seemed to be closer than the little place where you could buy monogrammed tongue depressors made out of recycled volleyballs. (“I opened wide at Folly Beach!”) Hurray! I could do this after all.

Wait! I quickly checked my drink. I still had over half of it left. Yep, I should be able to make it. And there was always Plan B, which entailed shoving Tiffany over the side and snatching her beverage just before she disappeared, then looking at Terry, appalled that he would do something so rude to our little friend. One must always have contingency plans, I learned this in my LDA troop, Little Drinkers of America. (Earned every damn merit badge they had.)

With renewed energy and determination, I kept marching, passing other clumps of fisher-people and the sporadic dishwashing outposts. Eventually we thunked our way into the quest building, which turned out to be a surprisingly large, two-story, open air thing, with tables and vending machines and such. We could have us a real hoe-down out here.

Our clan scattered, peering over the railings and pointing at things with little squeals of discovery. I worked my way to a quiet corner and just sat, letting the wind rush past and feeling the very gentle sway of the building. This was my favorite part of the day, late evening, made even better by the current happenstance of where and how, just far enough away from everything to imagine being nowhere at all. The wind and the water. There was only one other thing I could possibly need.

I looked around for a phone so I could call room service…


To Be Continued…

Charleston, Chewed - Part 9

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So, Selma the Sadistic Server cruelly convinced us to order two items off the dessert menu, even though there was no possible way we could eat it. By the time she tromped back out with our selections, we were so bloated and miserable that all we could do was lay our heads on the table and stick our tongues out toward the plate, moaning. But then she brought another round of beers and everyone felt just fine.

Eventually we decided it was time to leave, mainly because we had now been in the restaurant long enough that we were starting to get mail delivered at the front door. We settled up the tab with Plunderina, who then rushed off to gloat to her co-workers that she had convinced everyone at the table to order enough pointless, unnecessary food that she had broken some long-standing restaurant record. They were making up a song about her as we left.

Once outside, we thought it a brilliant idea to go shopping, because who doesn’t want to do that when fortified by tropical drinks strong enough that they could clean the corrosion off your car battery? We went thundering down the sidewalk, in search of another retail establishment that would happily take our money based on impaired decision-making.

Since this was Folly Beach, and we were on the main drag, the available shopping venues were souvenir shops, gift shops, souvenir shops, bars, restaurants and more souvenir shops. After careful consideration, we went out on a limb and chose a souvenir shop. Mainly because there was one right in front of us and we wouldn’t have to walk that far.

We clattered through the bell-ringing door, on the hunt.

Isn’t is amazing how a little gin and juice can make everything in the world absolutely fascinating? Do you have any idea what they can do with seashells and driftwood these days? Works of art, I tell you.

I scampered about, fondling this and turning over that, enthralled with the concept of someone having the conceptual brilliance to paint my actual first name on a rock, and then add “Folly Beach” below, as if the artist could foresee the future and actually predict that I would walk into this very store. It was truly a religious experience, and I lit a small votive before moving on to bundles of dried, half-rotted beach grass that had been dipped in patchouli and tied with a bow.

The rest of the gang wandered off in various directions, pursuing their own pleasures, which was fine by me. I didn’t want anyone near me actually, lest they rush up and snatch away the last clothespin made into a seagull before I could get to it. Let them wander about in the designer flip-flop section, I had no interest in that, choosing instead to revel in the fact that with a little bit of glue and some discarded trash, anyone could be an entrepreneur.

I was rifling through some empty soda bottles that had been painted to look like hermit crabs (such exquisite detail!), when I got the first inclination that the entertainment program was about to change. I suddenly wasn’t quite as interested in what one could do with recycled seaweed. The yearning to hold a piece of broken brick that once may or may not have been part of a wall of a house that Jimmy Buffet walked by was diminishing. What was happening?

Then it hit me. The beer was wearing off. Mother of pearl!

Frantically, my eyes darted about, seeking a resolution. Perhaps the first order of business was to get away from all these mounds of worthless trinkets and find something more substantial and interesting. I darted down an aisle, around a corner, and past what might have been (I only surmised this later) some type of barrier indicating that only adults should be wandering thusly far.

Anyway, I had marched my gay little ass right into the Land of Lewd and Outrageous T-Shirts, the kind were they make insipid puns that are neither funny nor original but do allow for cartoon figures of enormously-endowed women. Everywhere I looked we had beavers and bongos, blazing in graphic neon and assaulting me with their planet-sized bosoms and legs tossed widely asunder.

Slogans filled the air in a whirl of cotton rudeness. “I wanna ride your board!” and “I’d Folly You Anywhere” and “Bet THESE mountains are high enough!” Or some such. I believe a few of the shirts had little scratch-and-sniff sections, a mind-boggler if there ever was one, and some of them even appeared to be padded right where the high-beams would poke forth in case you wanted to offend society in 3-D.

I had to get out of there.

I u-turned and raced toward whence I came. I plummeted back into the regular part of the store, sweat dripping off my forehead and madness in my eyes. I spotted Tiffany and clattered to her side, seeking solace and comfort. She turned to me with kind eyes and queried “Should I get the puka shell vibrator?”

Surely I misunderstood. “I’m sorry?”

She sighed, clearly not impressed with my focus issues. “I asked, should I get the puka shells or the lighter? They both have my name on them and I can’t decide. I don’t need either one of them but my name is so pretty. Wait. Why are you flushed? What were you doing back there? Do we need to be running from the po-po right now?”

“Well, I was just…”

Then her instincts kicked in. “Did somebody make you look at beaver?”

“NO! I mean, yes, but… I was just trying to… and I turned a corner… and…”

She patted my hand. “It’s okay, just breathe and think about Mike Rowe taking his shirt off. We’ll be done here in a few minutes, then we can run get you some medicine from the Tiki Hut back at the hotel. Mmmkay?” Then she flounced over to a display of pomegranate seeds arranged in the names of all the state capitals.

She is SO sweet. But she’s also a liar. It was NOT just a few minutes. It was hours. Apparently, some type of proclamation had been decreed where it was important that everybody in our group must touch everything in the store at least twice, three times if it was on sale, and four times if you already bought something just like it at the last shop we invaded. I guess I just didn’t receive the documentation, probably because I was over in Hootersville and screaming for Judy Garland to save me.

A week later, the last of our clan was finishing up at the checkout counter (a set of earrings made out of beer tabs, if I recall), allowing us to finally depart. Tiffany took my hand again, wiped the mindless drool off my chin, and reminded me what my name was. I grunted and followed her out of the store. Behind me, off in the distance, I could still hear the t-shirts laughing.


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Charleston, Chewed - Part 8

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Okay, it wasn’t ALL of the Children of the Corn that wandered out onto the patio, just a single representative, but I knew instinctively that he was one of them. Some children just have that look, where they glare at you with the boldness and confidence that comes from never having heard the word “No” directed at them at any point in their entire lives, ever. Consequently, everyone around them suffers.

I glanced up at the parents, doing a quick-check to determine their culpability and coping choices. Were they Damien-Deniers, the sort who absolutely refuse to believe that their angelic offspring could possibly do anything wrong, or were they Guilty-Grunters, the type who are fully aware that evil has sprung from their loins, but they still bite their tongue rather than discipline the child?

The analysis was quick. Corn-Child purposely knocked over something on a table they passed. Mommy smiled, then reached out and lovingly patted Cornie’s head as if he had just cured cancer and reversed global warming. She was definitely a DD. Daddy sighed, righted the ketchup bottle, and muttered something that Cornie completely ignored and Mommy mentally blocked because negative words about her child simply didn’t exist. Ah, so we had one parent of each flavor. Great, this should be fun.

Tiffany tugged at my sleeve. “What are you getting?” I turned back to the table, where the rest of our gang was flipping plastic pages. Oh, right, we were supposed to be making up our minds about the food. It’s easy to get distracted when the beer is flowing and miniature Hitlers are walking about unshackled. (Behind me, noises indicated that Little Adolph had just hurled his menu onto the floor. I’m assuming Mommy smiled and Daddy died a little inside.)

Back to the food. We discussed this dish, and pondered over that one, and finally decided that we couldn’t decide and that maybe we should just get a bunch of appetizers and see how the world treated us. We picked out several items that glowed with the possibility of being magically delicious. Our server, receiving a signal on her finely-tuned waitress radar that we might actually be ready to order, come rushing out of the restaurant proper, thrilled that we had finally reached this critical point after three days of sitting at our table.

Then she almost derailed everything by plunking down a smaller menu. “Oh, here’s the sushi menu from upstairs. The Sushi Guy is in and he’s ready.”

Tiffany and I jointly pawed the new piece of literature, having forgotten that Diner Dinah had gone on an expedition to retrieve this article. Our world was instantly in turmoil, because we would now have to think about things once again, and we were scared. Bravely, we decided to gently lay the sushi menu aside and stick with our original appetizer selections from the non-raw main menu.

Dinah began making notations about our dining choices, and this went swimmingly well, until we got to the bit about ordering the “conch fritters”. I pronounced the first word as “kawnch”, mainly because that’s how I had always thought the word should be uttered.

Apparently I was nothing more than a stupid hillbilly with no teeth and a disregard for proper enunciation. “Okay, then,” muttered Dinah. “One order of kunk fritters.” Then she paused and glared my way, challenging me to butcher yet another culinary appellation.

I was stymied. Kunk? That’s how you say it? How could I have not known this? And why would you say it that way? There’s no “u” in the damn word. I looked at Tiffany for validation and support.

She provided neither. Haughtily scanning the menu, she spewed forth with “Yes, an order of kunk fritters, and let’s do some of this calamari.” Then she primly set her menu aside, exuding an air of royalty having to deal with common peasants and not being pleased with that arrangement.

So I hated her. I briefly considered throwing her ass in the much-loved fireplace, but that would require physical effort and the temporary relinquishing of my beer bottle, neither activity having any real appeal. So I sulked while the rest of the table fingered things on the menu that they wanted in their mouths, post haste. Diner Dinah did some scribbling and then raced off to do whatever servers do that causes food to eventually be brought to the table.

Fine. I decided that I needed to pee, a decision that I often reach when I don’t have anything else on the immediate agenda. I excused myself, shot Tiffany a withering glance of disappointment which she easily deflected with her Wonder Woman power bracelets, and then marched into the restaurant proper, trying to decipher where the loo might reside in this establishment.

Oh. It was right there as you entered from the patio, off to the left. That was tough. I slipped inside and locked the door, not out of any sense of modesty but mainly because I didn’t want fools lumbering in and interrupting my beloved target games. Two seconds after I had positioned the equipment and commenced firing, I heard someone attempt to open the door. One second later, some hell-beast began pounding on the door with an intensity that could throw the planet out of alignment.

What the hell?

I hollered out that things were occupado, then purposely dallied a bit, because rudeness should not be rewarded, going so far as to do the full 12-point cleansing of hands at the wash basin, followed by thorough usage of the paper towel dispenser to insure that all body parts were dry and ready for inspection. Finally, I opened the door.

To find Damien Corn Child standing there. With his jackal eyes and sociopathic tendencies. Terrific.

The little bastard barreled into the bathroom and assumed the call-of-nature position at the toilet. The urchin did not care who saw what, a disregard that probably kept his anal-retentive parents up at night and in constant legal trouble. I stepped out and pulled the door to, hoping that some happenstance of lock-mechanism malfunction would trap Tiny Ted Bundy in there unto eternity.

I waltzed back out onto the patio, and immediately noticed two things. One, the parents of the jackal were nowhere to be found. (Interesting. Had the State finally had enough and issued death warrants for the good of mankind?) Two, Tiffany and Tommy were standing in front of the beloved fireplace, bellowing a song that I believe had something to do with muskrats and the joys to be had when it came to Himalayan, hand-woven codpieces. Something like that, I don’t really know.

I sat down at the table and looked to Terry and Nina for guidance. They looked back at me with expressions that clearly stated “It’s Tommy. We have no idea. We have never had any idea. It’s Tommy.” Okay, got it.

Just then, Agnetha the Brave Serving Wench clattered on to the patio, along with an unknown assistant, bearing trays containing our much-debated appetizers. As they went about with their product placement, the rest of us rushed to our chairs and immediately shoved our heads into the trough.

For several minutes, there was no talking, only grunting and occasional gasping as someone came up for hair. Everything was incredibly delicious, hard to pick a favorite, but if it were a gun-to-my-head situation, I’d have to go with this as the winner: Blackened Steak Bites, that were “smothered with mushrooms and onions, served with a bleu cheese horseradish sauce”, the actual description from the menu, even though these words do not fully capture the true divinity of what I was shoving in my mouth.

I may have even passed out at some point. There was a hazy period where I’m not quite sure what may have been happening. The only certainty is that I never lost my ability to coherently request additional beverages, because when I finally focused back on reality, there were two empty beer bottles in front of me and Agnetha was waltzing up with even more replenishments.

I finally reached the point where I couldn’t possibly consume another ounce of anything. It was strongly possible that I wouldn’t even be able to get out of my chair until something digested, so I just leaned back and patiently waited for gastronomical shifts. Judging by the pained and sweaty faces all around me, we had all eaten entirely too much.

Agnetha appeared once more, a gleam in her eye. “Anyone ready for dessert?”

My head immediately exploded at the mere thought. If another scrap of anything edible was placed on this table, I was going to cut someone.

“I’ll just run get the dessert menu,” purred Evil Eve.

Oh God.


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Charleston, Chewed - Part 7

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So we traipsed out the front doors of The Tides, headed across the parking lot, and began to forage for dining possibilities on the tiny streets of Folly Beach. We all had the fun, slightly-surreal feeling one has after a few hours of sun and cocktails. There was no telling where we might end up. Or if we would ever come back from wherever it was.

Initially, Tiffany and I had our eyes on a place called “Rita’s”, directly across from the hotel. We had spied this establishment from the land-side balcony of our rooms, noted the presence of a live band, heard what appeared to be the exuberant but unfocused singing of several patrons, and decided that we would be right at home in a place which featured beer, musical expression and men in tight muscle-shirts.

We happily pointed out this option as we neared the entrance to Rita’s.

We sighed sadly when the rest of the group marched right past that door, muttering indications that the venue was a bit too loud. Too loud? For our group? The very epicenter of raucous and rowdy behavior, with nuances of screaming and the random throwing of things on the floor? Please. Perhaps our companions just didn’t care for the name “Rita”. Tthat had to be it. I made a mental note to find out later just who had done what at some point in the past to make people hate this Rita woman.

We walked for a bit, with me being momentarily distracted by a large sign outside a “social club” that explained you had to apply for membership and then wait 24 hours. What the hell was up with that? They needed to do a security check? Just what took place inside that required you to fill out paperwork that must be processed before you could enter? Interestingly enough, the door was open, so I peeked inside, relishing the prospect of seeing something decadent, eye-opening and/or deliciously tawdry.

It looked just like any old bar. Except that the occupants were all staring at me like I had just butchered a pack of grandmas on their way to the Crochet Barn. These people clearly did not care for me looking at them. (Then perhaps they should close the door.) I made another mental note to research the sordid details about The Sand Dollar Social Club. (Were there hookers involved, or were these people just bitchy, that sort of thing.) I caught up with the rest of the clan at the next intersection.

They were all standing on a corner, in a flummox. It seems we could see intriguing food profferings in all four directions, and this was entirely too much sensory input. We were at a standstill until somebody made a bold decision, but nobody really knew what they wanted to eat, they were just hungry. (This is the age-old vacation dilemma that has cursed groups of people who stupidly travel together without specific, detailed planning.) The next few minutes would prove crucial. Either we would miraculously find a place that satisfied all, or we would kill each other in a frenzy of frustration.

They just kept standing there.

Fine. I stepped off the curb and marched across one of the streets. (I was nearly killed by a motorist that shot out of nowhere, but I pretended that I had seen them all along, with minimal flinching and only the teensiest bit of wetting myself.) The others, once the death car was far enough away that the threat of surprise slaughter was lessened, followed suit.

Interestingly enough, perhaps even coming as a total shock, we discovered that the restaurant choices were exactly the same as they had been on the other corner. Same stage show, just different seats. So once again we were standing on another corner, glancing around in all directions and not making decisions. And there was no drink in my hand. It was a bleak and trying time in my life.

I picked out a restaurant and marched forth, basing my selection on the mere fact that I liked the slightly-arched doorway. There was a partial menu on a chalk board, with items that sounded very appealing, although mostly seafood in nature. I hesitated to suggest that we go in, since we had just binged on seafood for lunch, and Terry is not a fan of gifts from the sea. Then Tiffany joined me, spied another sign, and proclaimed “They have a fireplace on the patio!”

This did not immediately move me, having been in the sun for a few hours and not really desiring anything with heat or flames. But Tiffany acted as if Jesus had just reached out and anointed her a special disciple. She turned to the others with the joyous news. “They have a fireplace on the patio!”

The others did not offer even the slightest bit of validation. In fact, Tommy, who generally doesn’t pay much attention to the words and ideas of people around him (that special trait has been on his resume for years), turned and went racing across another street to a different corner. He didn’t leave a memo as to where he might be headed. So we plunged into the traffic after him, on the off chance that he had discovered something intriguing or at least pretty.

Tommy stepped up on the next curb, and then apparently received a delayed broadcast of Tiffany’s public address announcement. “They have a fireplace? That’s what I’m talkin’ about.” He abruptly turned around and headed back to the original curb. Our clan was now spread across the street in an odd, semi-tribute to The Beatles crossing Abbey Road, with Terry even wearing flip-flops that made him look barefoot. (If someone had yelled out “Paul is dead!” I would have at least been mildly amused. But they didn’t, and I wasn’t.)

Eventually, we all made it through the restaurant proper and out on to the patio, coagulating at a table near the damn fireplace that everybody was so excited about. Drink orders were taken, menus dispersed, and flames crackled. Initially, it was a tad warm, so I was hoping the beer would be very, very cold. And that I would still have eyebrows left after we finished eating.

Then the sun plinked below the horizon, and it was instantly twenty degrees cooler. Seriously. Within two minutes we were all standing right in front of the fire, waving our bottles about and singing songs expressing the joys of having your butt cheeks caressed by golden heat. I briefly thought of suggesting Tiffany for sainthood, a tribute to her insistent visionary talents concerning the fireplace, but then the delightful food comptroller brought another round and I really didn’t care anymore.

Eventually, our personal crevices were warm and snug, and the lovely Nourishment Attendant gently steered us toward making an actual decision about the whole food-ordering business, and it became necessary that we actually peruse the menus. Doing so proved to be a bit of a challenge, since this place had a rather extensive roster, and we had a day’s worth of alcohol consumption under our belts.

But we persevered, because if you can’t figure out what you want to eat, then there’s really no purpose in your life. We flipped open the plastic-protected menus and began to decipher. The entries were seductive, each of them tempting us in a slightly-erotic way, so the table soon erupted into a chorus of moaning desire and tribulation. I’m sure that strangers passing by on the nearby street were thoroughly convinced that native species had entered the mating season.

I guess we tarried a bit more than the restaurant staff would have preferred, because our Directress of Dining started throwing out suggestions and pointing at things. In a desperate attempt to force us to pick something this century, she even advised that we could probably order sushi, assuming that The Sushi Guy was upstairs and working tonight. Should she check?

Tiffany and I almost couldn’t breathe we were so excited about that possibility. Yes, dear woman, we beg of you to dash upstairs and check the sushi availability status with the speed of winged angels on crack. We shall await your return with quivering hearts.

Off she went, stomping up a set of outside stairs that we hadn’t paid much attention to when we arrived, and disappearing into an entire second floor that we definitely hadn’t noticed at all. Tiff and I paused to briefly consider what other things we had overlooked in life, then we went back to clapping our hands in a most-likely irritating manner and bubbling with appreciation over selecting a restaurant that had both traditional seafood AND sushi. We had totally scored.

It did not once, at any time, cross our minds that we were sitting right next to the ocean, and that therefore most of the restaurants and even gas stations in the area had fresh seafood on their menus. After all, the staff only had to walk three feet and they could snag an entrée right out of the water. Even better if we wanted sushi, since they wouldn’t even have to fire up the grill, just throw it on our plate as they walked back from the water.

Nevertheless, despite our ignorance concerning the relative ease of local fish procurement, Tiffles and I were quite pleased at the moment, cracking open another round of beers in a mini-celebration. Then I heard footsteps behind me, and I began to turn around, grinning from ear to ear, fully expecting to spy the Matron of Meals descending from sushi heaven, blessing us with rapturous news.

But it wasn’t her. There was no one near the stairs. There was, however, a new entourage entering the patio from the restaurant. My eyes widened in fear.

It was the Children of the Corn.


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Charleston, Chewed - Part 6

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Tiffany and I were still in a hazy reverie, deciding exactly where we would place our retirement shack on this beach, when Terry and Nina trotted up, ready for adventure or at least something that didn’t involve sitting in a hotel room and trying to figure out how the remote for the TV worked. We waved them in the general direction of the Tiki hut and the cocktail cruise director that we had the slight crush on, and they scampered forth.

I suddenly realized that I had left something very important up in the room. Exactly what that was, I don’t remember at this point, but I do recall that an item of inestimable importance beckoned me back into the building. This proved to be a critical error on my part, as the remaining three members of our party were left unsupervised for a short period of time.

I was gone mere seconds, swear.

When I returned, the territory we had staked near the fancy surfboard table was completely empty. Instinctively, my eyes swiveled to the Tiki Hut bar. Nope, I didn’t recognize any of the well-lubricated fools currently engaged in an impromptu limbo dance using some jammed-together stir-straws as a pole.

I scoured the surfboard table, hoping that at least one of them had had the proper etiquette to leave a clever note advising of the new location for the social engagement, elegantly written out on fancy, quality-stock stationery. Such a missive was not to be found.

What the hell?

Then, amidst the keening cries of the gulls, I noted a slightly-higher-decibel squeal that I knew from past experience was a satisfied noise that Tiffany could make whilst doing something that she found pleasing. I pivoted ocean-wards, scanning the shoreline, and my eyes settled on a clump of people currently frolicking in the lapping waves, plastic cups held over their heads in the universal symbol of people partaking in an activity they would normally shun if there hadn’t been alcohol involved.

Skanks. They couldn’t wait two minutes for me to take care of personal matters so that we could all virginally plunge into the sea as one? God.

I immediately turned and marched back to Julie the Tiki Cruise Director in her little hut. I was apparently behind the game in the inebriation circle of life, and dramatic steps must be taken. “I need something strong, please. I need to go slap some people.”

Julie just smiled and shoved an icy cup at me. She dealt with this every day. No big. Next?

I snatched up the beverage, gulped down a healthy slug, and tromped across the deck toward one of the little stepped entrances to the actual beach.

Then I encountered the sand, and plans changed. One cannot march in outrage across ground that is not stable. One cannot march at all. I was soon slithering about in shifting quartz molecules that were intent on knocking me facedown. And when I sloshed a wee bit of my adult nectar out of the cup? Well, we were done with the Little Eva trudging across the tundra business. I’d get there when I got there.

Hours later, I struggled up to Terry, Tiff and Nina, and discovered that Tommy and Christie (parents of the son that we were all supposedly here to watch graduate from The Citadel) had apparently been air-lifted in at some point. They were all having a swell time at the waterline, wriggling their shoeless toes in the gently-crashing waves, and talking about, I don’t know, things that you discuss when your feet are wet.

I tried to participate in the conversation as much as I could, with all of them jabbering away and performing content-enhancing hand gestures, but I had been out of the loop too long and didn’t have the necessary background intel. They had moved beyond me.

So I decided to take off my own shoes and wander about in the cresting surf, which was really enjoyable at first, but quickly loses it’s luster when you are holding aloft both footwear and beverage-wear. Too many things to keep under control. I was about to hurl my shoes further up on the sand and let the gulls do what they may with them, when I spotted a couple off to the left, playing Frisbee in the water.

This was a guy and a girl, neither of them giving the impression that they were old enough to drive. But they certainly understood the fundamental mechanics of anatomy and, more strikingly, the public display of such. The Girl was clearly invested in doing everything she possibly could to test the structural integrity of her bikini top, leaping about and waving her arms madly. The Guy insisted on pawing at his drenched crotch with a frequency that would make hummingbirds pause in wonder.

As the Girl euphorically tossed the Frisbee with complete randomness, some mystical thing suddenly took place that I didn’t catch, and they immediately lost interest in the flying disc, instead choosing to run towards one another and start shoving tongues wherever physically possible, waves crashing over them as they lowered to the frothy sand.

The forgotten Frisbee sailed over my head, plunked into the water, and then bumped against my legs a few seconds later. I picked it up, pondering if I should suggest to the couple that it could be used as a primitive diaphragm.

“Hey, where’d you get that?” asked Tommy, as if I was waving about the Hope Diamond.

“It just came floating up,” I responded secretively, then turned and threw the disc as far as I could in the opposite direction of Burt and Deborah in their frantic From Here To Eternity juvenile bumping. I could hear the water splashing over the child fornicators turn into steam as the disc gently landed and skidded to safety.

Tommy gave me a thumbs-up for my gliding skills, then turned back to the thatch of people on the shoreline, conversing. It seems that Priority 1 was now the pursuit and conquering of food. Where could we find sustenance?

No one was immediately sure. But all agreed that it would be a splendid plan to march forth from the hotel and analyze the profferings of Main Street Folly Beach. Various intriguing options had been spied on the journey in, all of them located on the mere wisp of town acreage on the other side of the hotel. Surely satisfaction was within walking distance. Cheers of agreement arose.

Thusly the clan did depart. Shoes were gathered and a trek across the beach ensued.

I paused, and glanced briefly at the nuptial ground where the young lovers had shared forbidden fruit for all to see. They were gone, even the indentations chastely erased from the sand by the forgiving waves. I looked the opposite way, and there was the Frisbee, dry-docked, alone and forgotten. A symbol of the ways and means we manipulate objects and people and then toss them aside.

Okay, it was machine-formed plastic. But I never want to be that Frisbee. You?

I turned and followed the others to the hotel deck. From my lagging vantage point, I studied the outfits of my companions, in case something went terribly wrong on the streets of Folly Beach and I had to identify them in a police lineup…


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Charleston, Chewed - Part 5

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So, now that Tiffany and I had decided that we were not leaving this beach, ever, we thought it might be a good idea to actually go fully investigate the beach. Since we were going to be living there and all. Good idea, yes?

Terry and Nina were still piddling with those things that they seem to be piddling with all the time, so Tiff and I decided to launch the expedition as a duo. We excitedly gathered up things one might need whilst near sand and water, then slammed out our respective doors, paused with increasing impatience at the elevators that took forever (and that we would grow to despise with an intense passion over the next four days), and then clattered into the lobby.

First leg accomplished with great skill and few casualties. Great. Next up was an end-goal critical to almost any mission worth undertaking: Alcohol. Where to get it, and what were the local zoning regulations concerning both the consumption and the regional transport of such.

It’s very important to establish the spirit boundaries before you actually begin to consume. You don’t want to be three bottles of beer into your quest and then discover that there are evil restrictions that will cause misery and pain in your immediate life. Counter the surprises before your motor skills have been affected.

Why was this so important to us? Because we hailed from the land of the Dallas metroplex, a patchwork quilt of alcohol variances that make absolutely no sense and were an endless source of agony, discomfort, and the complete bewilderment of visiting friends and family. In a given establishment, you could have bikers mainlining jet fuel while swinging on trapezes. Walk next door, and the strongest thing you can legally obtain is a baby aspirin. Served by nuns who scowl bitterly, and remind you that “Jesus died for you!” if you dare to ask for a glass of water to choke the pill down.

Nope, we needed to know the complete lay of the land before demon hooch touched our tender lips.

We scoured our surroundings with a practiced eye. Within three seconds, we had surmised that alcohol was abundantly available via a bar island at the in-house restaurant, a cavernous space several yards away. It was nice and all, but it had a roof and walls. We wanted the beach and its lack of structural supports. What to do?

Tiffany’s fighter jet peeled out of our formation and she made a beeline to the front desk. “Excuse me,” she said to the 12-year-old manning the reception quadrant and flipping through something that apparently needed to be flipped or people could die.

“Hi there!” quipped Flip, having not been through Stranger Danger training in her girl scout troop. “What can I do for you?”

Tiffany beamed back, an expert in the field of beaming. “We were wondering… If we get a drink in that bar” (herewith she pointed, because visuals always help your cause) “would we be able to take our drinks out to the beach?” (More pointing, just in case Flip had never noticed said beach, which had been there since shortly after the planet was formed.)

Flip paused, apparently perplexed that she had even been presented with such a query, especially since there was important flipping to do. “But there’s a bar ON the beach!”

For whatever reason, most likely yet another twisted synapse in my mind, those things that often knocked me off the path of decency and civility, I thought this response was completely hysterical. We were being far too analytical. This was Folly Beach. The whole point was to drink and look at the water.

Tiffany was not nearly as amused. She curtly offered her thanks to Flip and then dismissed the child, turning away and stomping toward a set of glass doors that presumably led to the beach, since we could see the beach through the doors. “She didn’t have to be so snippy,” muttered Tiffany as we thrust both doors open, the muted sound of gulls and happy people suddenly intensifying.

“Well, I guess we could have looked first,” I offered, nimbly leaping out of the way as a sunburned little urchin barreled past me and immediately began screaming at her tired mother that ice cream was in order, NOW.

Tiffany paused, about to remind me of the intricate bylaws of our friendship and undying support for one another, but her eyes were diverted by something she spied behind me. “Oh my GOD, there’s the bar!”

I think we ran. And possibly knocked a few people over. It’s all a bit hazy, and I’m certainly not going to sign anything about exactly what transpired. But within an amazing few seconds, we had arrived at a pseudo-Tiki bar thing perched right on the hotel deck. Happy serving people were concocting colorful nectar for equally happy patrons. It was beautiful. We wanted to pet the bar and give it a special name.

“What are we getting?” inquired Tiffany as we waited our turn.

“I don’t know. What should one drink while on the beach in South Carolina?” We did not have the answer for this. We were perplexed. Then we mutually spied an enormous sign to the right of the bar which spelled out the options and exactly what one would then find in their beach-safe plastic cup. Oh. So that’s how it works.

We perused. Dang, I had never heard of half of these things. I purposely chose something with an odd name (Papaya Penetration, maybe?) and a combination of ingredients that I would never have considered as drinkable roommates. Just because. If I didn’t like it, it would be a life lesson. You never really learn anything unless you get sick. Write that down.

I don’t remember what Tiffany ordered for our virginity-shattering Folly Beach beverage. Something, obviously, she‘s a girl with goals. What I do remember is that the female barperson was incredibly sweet and friendly. Very charming. We fell a little bit in love with her. Not lustfully, mind you, the knobs on her control panel were in all the wrong places for both of us, but there was a bit of innocent swooning.

We snatched up our treasures and then turned to find a comfy place to sit. The deck was buzzing, but not overly so, and we soon found a few chairs at the edge of the raised platform, along the railing, where some clever someone had nailed a super-long surfboard to serve as a nifty table for beverages and such.

We settled in, took healthy swigs, and relaxed. Deep sighs. The sun beamed, the gulls flew, the sand sparkled, and those mesmerizing waves rolled gently in and caressed the land and people. A convenient gospel choir burst into song, St. Francis of Assisi walked by leading a donkey, all wars immediately ceased and 401K’s filled back up.

We sighed again.

“Live here,” whispered Tiffany.

“Sayin’,” I whispered back.

“I have some timeshares you might be interested in,” said my drink.


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Charleston, Chewed - Part 4

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The shameless gluttony continued at Hyman’s for a considerable amount of time, until basically we could no longer get up from the table without the assistance of overhead cranes. We rolled our way back down the stairs and levels of the establishment, briefly fingered things in the gift shop (“A tiny bottle of genuine sea-salt face scrub for 30 bucks. Woohoo!”), and eventually staggered out into the sunshine.

It’s always a glorious thing to be slightly tipsy in the afternoon in a city that is not your own. You can basically do whatever you want without fear of too much humiliation, because you’ll be leaving town in a few days and none of this will matter.

If things do get a bit out of hand, because you’ve crossed the line from giggly-and-only-slightly-obnoxious to complete-dumbass, and a rowdy mob of native citizenry is headed your way wearing unpleased expressions, just wave your camera, the international symbol of irritating tourists everywhere. This should be a sufficient explanation and they will generally leave you alone, unless you manage to actually kill somebody and/or verbally malign a famous local sports figure.

But don’t push it. Golden Rule About Mid-Afternoon Drinking: When you’ve got four margaritas under your belt, things that seem amusing and hysterical to you are not nearly as impressive to those folks around you that are still in the midst of their work day. Yes, they can be jealous of you and your temporary lack of employment responsibilities, that’s fine, but you don’t want them to reach the point of actual hatred or things can go terribly awry and suddenly police cars are arriving and nobody is laughing any more. Show your ass with some degree of moderation.

So there we were, wandering about the streets of downtown Charleston, talking louder than usually required, pointing with only minimal accuracy at fascinating things that we would normally walk right past back home, and taking pictures with a frenzy. Tiffany was especially worked up about the photography, setting off her flash with such disco-rhythm frequency that I swear I heard Gloria Gaynor wailing in the background that somebody needed to leave their key and get the hell out.

There are tons of restaurants in this part of town, most of them charming homegrown things that sprouted up in old homes or buildings, dripping with character and individuality. I especially like the bit about most of them placing their menus in a highly visible location outside the doors, so you can peruse and decide if the place is worth a try, without having to actually stroll inside first and thus become potentially trapped into eating there, even though your sixth sense is now sending a warning that you have made a serious food-selection faux pas. (The fact that Enya is playing on the restaurant sound system always makes me regret decisions in my life.)

Tiffany and I now became invested in racing up to these posted menus and excitedly taking inventory. (Never mind that we were still completely stuffed from our trough-abuse at Hyman’s and couldn’t possibly eat another bite without requiring medical assistance.) Most of the time, we would squeal over something or other that was listed and swear that we had to come back and eat at this place as soon as humanly possible. Then we would completely forget the name of the restaurant within the next two seconds, because there had been drinking at Hyman’s as well, and we never made it back to any of these places.

Eventually, we strolled up to the parking garage, and a short time later the four of us were finally headed to our hotel, since it was getting later in the day and we’d best secure our rooms before some fool guest-services person cancelled our reservation because he was a stickler for annoying things like check-in deadlines. Besides, we were actually very excited about just seeing the hotel.

Terry had convinced us to stay at a hotel called The Tides, way out on Folly Beach. He’d been there before and had glowing reviews of his experience. I was a little nervous that this supposed experience had taken place in the 1800’s, and things may have changed a bit since then, but hopefully it was worth the risk. And as far as Tiffany was concerned, as long as she could see a piece of beach from a window, she would go anywhere she was told.

So off we go, first over a large bridge that whisked us out of Charleston proper, and then maneuvering a pleasant-enough road that had us hopping over patches of water and tiny little towns. Or maybe it was one town, not really sure, but it did seem like the designs on the street signs were changing. We were also supposedly driving across several minor islands, but it was hard to tell. Especially with the back-seat drivers hollering out every time they saw a gas station or a crouton.

What I do know is that there were some pretty nifty ordinances around here, where strong attempts were made to force even the most retail of establishments to have a charming exterior. For example, we shot by a Wal-Mart and almost didn’t notice it was there. Now, nothing against Wal-Mart, I’ve been in hundreds in my day, but you have to admit they have some butt-ugly buildings, made further unappealing by those vast parking lots and hordes of questionably-attired people mucking about.

This Wal-Mart? Shoved behind a grove of trees. A serious grove. As in, if it hadn’t been for the brief gap in the trees caused by the entrance to the parking lot, I never would have even noticed it was there. This completely fascinated me.

I whipped open my notepad and jotted down “They hide ugly buildings in this town. Two points.”

As we supposedly neared our destination (Terry was providing running commentary), we could see discreet billboards advertising housing options in the vicinity. The purchase prices rose until it became clear that if you wanted a cozy little condo at the Something-Something Enclave, it would cost you half a million dollars.

Oh my. Apparently I wouldn’t be able to afford a doghouse around here. Oh well. Not the first time that there has been an insurmountable variance between the cost of the rewards I feel I deserve in life and the cold, hard facts of my paycheck.

Suddenly we were in downtown Folly Beach, which is really only a few blocks, and the main drag ends abruptly right at the entrance to The Tides. Gee, that wasn’t very hard to find. We pile out of the car, very anxious, because we can hear the beach but we can’t see it yet, with the hotel buildings blocking our view. We tromp up a few stairs and enter the main lobby.

Tiffany and I came to a complete halt, suitcases and whatnot being instantly forgotten and dropped to the floor.

The entire back wall of the lobby was solid glass, showcasing an expanse of beach just a few steps away, the golden sunshine, the tanned people dashing and laying about, and the gently-rolling water that stretched into infinity. Oh. My. God.

Numbly, we followed Terry and Nina to the desk, and proceeded to answer questions and sign forms, but we weren’t really paying attention. We kept staring out the window, something primal having been stirred within. We had to get on that beach as soon as possible. Sooner.

Terry was saying something. It took me a bit to realize this and respond. “What?”

“I said, let’s get our things to the room, then we can change and go have a drink on the beach.”

Tiffany and I felt our hearts leap with joy and praise for this magnificent plan. Then we paused. If we got on the indicated elevator, then we would lose sight of the beach, even if only temporarily, and we didn’t know if we could bear that. What to do?

Terry and Nina shoved us into the elevator and punched buttons. Okay, that’s what to do.

Once in our room, Terry commenced arranging his things while I scrambled to the back wall of our little nest, which was also solid glass, offering up that magnificent view and a tiny little balcony. I nearly broke my hand unlocking and ripping the sliding-door open. As I stepped out on to the narrow balcony, I heard someone in the neighboring room thrust the door aside as well. It was Tiffany.

We stared out at the water for a few minutes, an unholy lust burning in our psyches.

Then Tiffany issued a proclamation: “I am never leaving here. Never. Call people. Tell them that if they ever want to see me again they will have to buy a plane ticket. Go forth and spread the word. Send the pigeons up, light the fires. GO!”


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Charleston, Chewed - Part 3

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As we flew from Dallas to our connecting flight in Atlanta, it soon became evident that the Harping Hag in front of me did not have an off button or a gear lower than fourth. Therefore, I had no choice but to withdraw from the world and retreat into the cryptic caverns of my mind, conversing with my imaginary friend, Hexom Breen.

We laughed, we drank, we made fun of everybody and everything. Hexom convinced me that it would be a bit rude to take Hagatha’s life, especially since there was the miniscule possibility that there might actually be someone out there that would miss her when she was gone. I doubted it, but Hagatha survived, and peanuts were served.

Eventually we plopped down in Atlanta, learning upon arrival that we had roughly 7 minutes until our next flight left. A quick check of things revealed that our departing gate was in a neighboring state. Figures. We grabbed things and ran.

As we hurtled down people-crammed hallways and broad-jumped over stationary country folk bewildered by things like bright lights and public-address systems (“Is that Jesus?”), I reflected on the people who plan these gate assignment things. Why would they do this? Why would they arrange for you to arrive at one end of the airport and depart from the other end, with mere seconds to bridge the gap? Special place in Hell, that’s all I’m sayin.

But we made it, luckily, and were soon airborne once again. This was a much shorter flight, with the plane basically climbing and descending, not having enough time to actually remain at a steady altitude. The flight attendants were hurriedly shoving cheap snacks at us like Linda Blair serving soup. We weren’t in the plane long enough for me to actually hate anybody, and this was a blessed thing for all concerned.

Touching down in Charleston, finally wandering out of the odd, placeless and clinical environment that exists beyond the security gates of airports, we wandered out into the sunshine and finally relaxed. Tiffany and I were immediately enraptured by the air and light of that part of the country. It’s just different. And good. Surprisingly, I felt the first stirrings of a desire to actually live here, a place where the air smelled like that.

This nesting sensation that was all the more amazing because I’m the kind of person who must carefully analyze everything for years on end before I make a decision. And we were still in the rental-car parking lot. Interesting.

We pile in said rental car, and off we go. Terry drove while I was given the odious task of interpreting the map. Granted, the driving angle sucks in a new city and I had no desire to assume that position, but map-scouring is no picnic either. After all, most maps only have meaning if you are vaguely aware of your surroundings. I had never been here before, so you might as well have handed me a recipe for bok choy souffle.

But I persevered, constantly perusing the increasingly-wrinkled map and swiveling my head to read all highway signs, street signs, startling road-construction signs that made the map even more obsolete, and distracting signs announcing the obvious abundance of fresh and local seafood. (A personal addiction.) This lovely scenario was further complicated by back-seat drivers hollering out random names of pointless streets that nothing to do with anything.

The official purpose of this trip is that we were here to witness the graduation ceremonies of Nina and Terry’s nephew, who had completed his training at The Citadel. That being the case, our first destination was the nephew’s dwelling that he shared with his school buddies. I assume that we were headed to some type of modified student housing, those converted houses and apartment complexes that surround typical universities.

I was completely wrong in my mental imagery.

We exited the highway and were instantly plunged into another place and time. The Citadel has been there forever. Charleston has been there even longer. We were now meandering our way through completely charming neighborhoods filled with French-influenced housing built centuries ago. It was amazing. Tiffany and I were having small orgasms over every third house.

We eventually park in front of the nephew’s shared abode, and as we are given the grand tour, I start to hate the nephew a wee little bit. It’s a house with incredible Charleston charm. My own college experiences at the University of Tulsa paled miserably. Back in those covered-wagon years, we lived in boring, utilitarian cubes. Not townhouses with French doors leading to patios with Spanish moss growing artfully in just the right places. I clearly chose the wrong school. And the wrong city.

An announcement is made that we are headed to Hyman’s for some grub. The natives and the nephew’s immediate family members all cheer as if the Pope has been spotted nearby. Apparently, dining at this eatery is a religious experience, and we’d best hurry or we’re going to miss the Rapture.

Back in to the car, following another car that hopefully knows the way. This trek takes us into Ye Olde Downtown Charleston, crammed as it is with French architecture and antebellum influences. Every building in that area is alive with character, and we were whizzing past hundreds. I had the second pang of a possible relocation in my future. Tiffany confirmed that we were on the same wavelength, briefly gripping my arm, unable to speak, possible tears in her eyes.

There was a small quibble with parking, in that there really wasn’t anywhere to do that. The few lots near our destination were full, so we had to roam a bit before we found a place to ditch the vehicles. (I made a mental note: Do not live in Old Downtown if you own a car. Partake of Downtown‘s pleasures, yes, but live in another part of the city or insanity is nigh.) Then we tromped several blocks to Hyman’s, slamming into unseen obstacles the entire way, entranced as we were with looking up at the buildings and not noticing things like other people and bicycle racks.

At Hyman’s, perky staff people led our entourage into the building, taking us on a meandering journey through various rooms and up several levels. The walls were filled with famous diners from the past. (OMG! Jodie Foster AND Anthony Hopkins have both been here? An impromptu, twisted movie title popped into my head: The Silence of the Hyman’s - Saturday Night at Our Lady of Perpetual Virginity’s School for Tempted Girls.)

They found us a massive table to invade on the upper level, and we proceeded to gather round in a scraping of chairs and jostling of elbows. Tommy, proud father of the graduating nephew, quickly signaled for one of the serving wenches to run fetch an assortment of appetizers while another staffer efficiently gathered our requests for alcohol and delighted us with her ability to speak in that hypnotizing South Carolina way.

We were presented with menus, a compendium that was mostly seafood with random bits of other things. Nearly everything was fried or involved cream-based sauces, so I was already inching toward another round of sexual release. I consulted with Tiffany, both of us already sweating from the gastronomic foreplay.

We had both been instructed by loving friends that we absolutely MUST try the grits in Charleston. So that was a given, we had to do so. But when Tiffany read aloud the description for the grits in this establishment, a drool-inducing cluster of words that included shrimp, cheese and bacon, both of us trembled at what might be passing between our lips within minutes.

So they started bringing the food, appetizers first, natch. Everything was dee-lish, and there was a dipping sauce with a few of the offerings that made my toes curl with delight, but the thing that took our breath away was the fried calamari. Lightly-breaded, succulent, and worthy of worship. I couldn’t cram enough of them in my mouth. I constantly had a fork poised to stab anyone who took more than their fair share.

There was a lobster bisque that made us see Jesus, fried green tomatoes that would make anyone rethink the purpose of their lives, and an array of other nibbles that could cause bitter wars among neighboring countries for centuries. I am not kidding in any way, it was THAT good.

And then they brought the grits out. Tiffany and I, already on the verge of utter salivating madness, dove in with relish. Utensils sparkled in the Charleston sun as we attacked our plates with maniacal force. The combination of flavors in this exquisite dish caused us to cast aside any thought of social decorum or public decency.

Tiffany paused in her plunging, briefly took a swig of an adult beverage, then turned to me with her crazy eyes and lust-drenched air and exclaimed: “Oh my GOD I could have sex with this stuff right now! Make some room on the table so I can lay down!”

Heads at neighboring tables turned.

I politely waved a friendly greeting at the curious faces, then lovingly but forcefully knocked Tiffany out of the way to get on the table first. Them grits was MINE.


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Charleston, Chewed - Part 2

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So, the killing of two hours begins. As we all know, airports are not the most exciting venue to begin with (Have you ever heard anybody holler “Hey, let’s go hang out at Akron International and watch people shove each other!” No, you have not), and at five in the morning, the drudgery is even more intense, since the only open stores and facilities are miles apart and you have to drag all your crap with you from one end of the terminal to the other, seeking minimal and unknown satisfaction.

We decided to eat. Everybody likes to eat, right? Surely we could find some place that would allow us to do such without too much effort or bickering. (This was a happy little thought that I would soon discard for the rest of the vacation.) After hiking what must have been the length of the Grand Canyon, doubled, we finally ran across a place that was actually open, sporting the alluring title of “Euro Café”. We dashed forth.

To find a definite lack of cute little bistro tables, people chattering in foreign accents or charming fires being stoked in a French Country, shabby-chic environment. Instead, we were treated to bottled juices, plain bagels, and a small assortment of things that had to be placed in a microwave before you could tell what the item really was. Sighing, we stared at the sad offerings until we could hypnotize ourselves into actually wanting them. I finally chose coffee and one of the nuke options, simply because it would kill additional time if they had to actually cook something.

The cashier/tramp actually had the nerve to ask me if I wanted the breakfast sandwich heated up. No, sweetie, I want to eat it just like that, a frozen brick of frostbite. I have far too many teeth as it is. Now throw the damn thing in the microwave and give me my change. (And thus began yet another recurring theme during our sojourn to Charleston, a concept we will dub Why are there so many annoying people in the world?)

Oh, and the tramp didn’t stop there. She snatches up my plastic-wrapped breakfast surprise, lugging it along like it’s yet another of the endless burdens in her life, shoves the mess into an industrial-sized microwave, slams the door, and turns the power on for roughly two seconds. The door is whipped back open, and she prods the still ice-cold object with one of her nasty little fingers. Apparently offended that her first time selection was deemed unworthy, she hurls my sandwich back in and punches a number with enough zeroes that you would think she was defrosting a rump roast.

Several minutes later, during which I had to constantly get out of the way of other people who had wisely chosen food items that did not require a heat source, the tramp hands me my sandwich, which has been placed in a little white sack. I’m assuming the new packaging was necessary since my breakfast was now in liquid form after the overzealous baking experience. I could hear it sloshing around in the bag.

I joined my traveling companions at a small table that was presumably designed for pre-schoolers, sitting on a tiny chair that caused my knees to bang into my ears. But at least the coffee was good, in that double-edged-sword kind of way. On the one hand, it’s pleasing that your mind finally starts to clear and most of your bodily functions become operable again.

At the same time, you now have enough awareness to fully study the people around you, and this can prove to be a dangerous and life-altering activity. There are some people that simply shouldn’t be seen in public before the sun comes up. Let’s leave it at that. I only survived by concentrating on a trashy piece of artwork that someone had nailed to a wall in a weak attempt at ambiance.

We finish up with the consumption of processed-food products, and then wander back to our gate. We still have a seemingly endless amount of time until we leave so we locate and occupy some seats in the waiting area. This is always fun, being bored while perched among hundreds of people that you don’t know. Everyone tries to pretend that they aren’t staring at one another, but you can’t help it. Everywhere you look you spy someone else acting like they aren’t staring at you. Because there’s nothing else to do.

So they finally start the “early boarding”, which means we get to watch the rich people stroll past the commoners, talking importantly on fancy wireless phones and waving around ostrich-skin carry-ons. This is also the point when the asshat losers start edging their way closer to the ticket agent, instead of getting in the meandering line like a decent person should. Come ON, people. We all have assigned seats, and the plane ain’t leavin’ till everybody’s up in the grill. Settle down. But no, we’ve got the morally inept wankers who will actually knock a grandma down to cut in line.

Anyway, we all get queued up in that long metal box connected to the plane. As we board the actual vehicle, we are greeted by the pilot and the random flight attendant who drew the short straw and got welcoming duty. These people are too chipper and overly-friendly. Why are you greeting me with such enthusiasm? You don’t know me, I don’t know you. Can we just walk by one another without the Hee Haw production number?

Then we have the endless standing in the aisle while the people in front of you try to figure out things like where to put their carry-on and what it actually means to get the hell out of the way. They piddle with this and they fiddle with that. Look, you knew it was time to board the plane. Why are you just now deciding that you must dig out something from the bowels of your luggage, tossing toothbrushes and panties through the air while you search for a stupid magazine that you have no intention of actually reading? Hate you a little bit.

And the best part? That anxiety-riddled stretch where you march up to your particular seat, wondering who else might be sitting in your row. Will it be Princess Tiny Bladder, who has to pee every ten minutes, stomping on your feet and whacking your head with her breasts as she clamors toward the lavatory? Will you get The Wet Man, who instantly falls asleep and proceeds to drool on everything in a 5-seat radius? And then there’s the ultimate horror, the species known as Chatty Catherine, who firmly believes that any thought which enters her head should be shared with the entire plane.

Where did the spinning wheel land for me?

The lady who plopped into the seat directly in front of me, with her mammoth earrings banging and clattering like we were in a Stage 5 hurricane, immediately hit the little button so that her seat-back whomped downwards and crushed my pelvis. She then turned to her instantly-terrified neighbor and launched: “That is the CUTEST hairstyle. Where did you get that blouse? Do you think we’ll get to watch a movie? Did you know I’m allergic to peanuts? I snore a lot so just wake me up. Oh shoot, better run to the ladies’ room before we get started. I once had a yeast infection that lasted for three years. Be right back!”

It was going to be a long flight.


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