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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