Author: ethomasparham

MOBY DICK

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“Yea, foolish mortals, Noah’s flood is not yet subsided; two-thirds of the fair world it yet covers.”

Just saw Ron Howard’s film The Sea Beneath Us,about Melville’s research for his great novel, Moby Dick. The film, like the book, is a testament to the “leviathan” and his power. We saw it in 3-D. And, while this magnified the whale’s fearsome abilities it also makes another point. That being the uncontrollable ability of the seas.

Witness Melville’s words on this subject:

“…though but a moment’s consideration will teach, that however baby man may brag of his science and skill, and however much, in a flattering future, that science and skill may augment; yet forever and forever, to the crack of doom, the sea will insult and murder him, and pulverize the stateliest, stiffest frigate he can make; nevertheless, by the continual repetition of these very impressions, man has lost that sense of the full awfulness of the sea which aboriginally belongs to it.” And:

“But not only is the sea such a foe to man who is an alien to it, but it is also a fiend to its own offspring; worse than the Persian host who murdered his own guests; sparing not the creatures which itself hath spawned. Like a savage tigress that tossing in the jungle overlays her own cubs, so the sea dashes even the mightiest whales against the rocks, and leaves them there side by side with the split wrecks of ships. No mercy, no power but its own controls it. Panting and snorting like a mad battle steed that has lost its rider, the masterless ocean overruns the globe.”

Whale oil preceded modern oil and its products for our energy. And while we give ourselves credit for ceasing the massacres of whales, our misuse of oil and carbon may find us among the slaughtered. Politicians won’t decide about climate change. The sea will.

And, while the question of off shore drilling here in North Carolina, and off our Atlantic coast, has serious financial and social variables, that is not really the issue. Nature and the sea are showing us some severe possibilities. Any who pretends they know the limits of the power of the seas of the world is a fool.

The Elimination Monologues

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The Whites, the Robertsons, and the Parhams had become good friends. That was about to be tested.

Jeanne convinced Margaret that if Margaret could convince me, then she could convince “Left Brain”, a.k.a. “Junior” on an eight-day river rafting trip down the Colorado (“Color-Red”) River through the glorious Grand Canyon. The majority of the group (26 people) were professional speakers, part of a national “union” of speakers. Jeanne was the Matriarch.

“OK,” I said, “if Junior can do it, I can.” Margaret and I were “fillers” as the twenty-six number had not made. Really it was half and half, pro’s and “Tali-baptists.” While some of the speakers bolted (Evidently they had a “scouting report JR and I didn’t have), another speaker filled the boat with “happy clappers” about to become “happy crappers.” I was outnumbered immediately. Their “circle of love” included morning devotionals, prayer, and testimony. I tolerated that throughout my Baptist youth and remained fairly civil and fairly quiet.

Some of it got political. The combination put me over the edge. I needed Russell or Ed Perkins. The only thing worse than a neo-conservative Republican is a She-Publican, think Ann Coulter. My seat in the raft stationed me by Dana Carvey’s “Church Lady.” One off colored joke and I got the “aren’t you special” look. I figured we’re in this for eight days, how do I get past the “stare?” I found out she was a choir director. I challenged her to a “hymn” contest. You mention a Baptist hymn, I’ll tell you the words. Then it’s your turn. She wouldn’t even do that. Pissed, I sang the Doxology, “Bless be the Tie”, “There is a Fountain,” and on and on and on, yodeling my monotone floating down the Colorado.

Actually that week it was the “color-muddy” river, or “color-cucka” river. Looked like “Yoo Hoo Chocolate Milk.” And it was cold, then hot, scary as hell and then all work. Put up your tent. Take it down. Go find rocks to hold your tent down, haul in the cooking gear. I’d just retired. Plus Junior and I looked at the tent like a Rubik cube. No clue. Screw it, I ratcheted it up a level or two. I sang the Dog Song, bashed “little George Bush,” or “Shrub,” and questioned “Sparky.”

Tour Guide, “Sparky” first addressed some “omissions” from the brochure: rattlesnakes, scorpions, fractures, giardia, sand spurs, hypothermia, getting lost, slippery rocks, and on.

Then the real kicker. Elimination. We were about to get real familiar. Particularly for Baptists. Now nomenclature becomes important. Defecation and urinating? #1 and #2? Poop and Pee? Lots of names for the potty process. Actually they named it “Oscar.”

I haven’t seen Jeanne’s DVD that includes her side of this story. I limited my comments and scenario into the “Elimination Monologues.” Given that daily we were in a life or death situation you tend to resort to child- hood type fears. Mix this with “Sparky’s” pooping rules and the imagination runs wild.

Remember:

Pooping at someone else’s house? Trying to fool them by silent fart? Clogging their toilet and having to ask for a plunger? Which way does the lid go? Aiming with special care?

The list goes on. Now at age 66 “Sparky” has some new rules:
1. Pee only in the river (the urine will cause fungus in the Canyon. Fungus? You could put North Carolina in this 286-mile valley.)

2. Poop only in Oscar. It is illegal to do so on land. No paper

3. Oscar rules: No “port-a-pot” luxury, it’s a simple “box with a hole.” Fire at will. Paper available, one hole for 26 rafters plus four staff. (People began to look at each other.) Take the sign with you. Return it to the line; we locate it at a “discreet” site at each different camp location. Each day we camped at different, (in a lot of ways) sites. There were some tricky variables. “The women go upstream, the men go downstream.” (Is that a pun, “Sparky”?) This alone caused confusion, sexual ani- mosity, and lost dignity. Many, myself included, abandoned protocol. Some were “tali-baptisits.”

Once, while whizzing where I thought proper, I heard a second and different “tinkle.” Looking down I saw the white ass of the “Church Lady” giving me that look from a lower position. I broke into “Blessed assurance, Jesus is mine, oh what a fore- taste of glory divine. Heir of salvation..” and carried on. Screw it. Peeing at night presented a fundamental problem. Where the hell is the river? Each location different. “Country” once advised me as to how to get up real early for a golf match. “Perm, you just as old as I am. ‘Bout the third or forth time you get up to piss, just stay up.” Simple.

It must be noted that post surgery my left leg never has worked well at all. In the middle of the night, I could barely get out of the friggin tent, then to find the river. Needless to say I got entirely lost. Couldn’t let go on the earth. Oh no, illegal pissing? I didn’t want to be the first one caught.

I wandered back though the tents, flashlight in had, having no idea which tent housed Margaret. One for sure didn’t. As I shone the light into my “best guess,” the “Church Lady”, plus curlers and sans makeup, gave me the “glare” again. 2:00 am. “You pervert.”

Finally I heard Margaret, “Tom, Tom, you idiot, over here.” She walked me to the edge of the river, where I upped the water level. Each afternoon our first official task was to help unload the two rafts. You found out quickly, though, you really needed to “fudge” and find your “tent rocks”. If you didn’t find the rocks your tent would blow away easily. Plus, if you waited, the other cheaters would scoff up all the accessible rocks.

About day two I noticed something peculiar. The “Church Lady” headed neither place, but to the cooks table. What for? I watched her while she watched the cooking guide can-opener the big Delmonte bean can. “Church Lady” grabbed it and left. Damn! A bedpan! Why didn’t they tell me to bring my urinal? I had several from all my surgeries.

Other women figured it out. Word of mouth, and the line grew.

As the cans grew smaller the women wondered about their volume and circumferences. I hadn’t watched a woman so concerned about the “bore” on something since Linda Lovelace stared down John Holmes in “Deep Throat.” I got me a can. Trouble was I had to wait till the end of the line. Baptist women stick together.

And it had a “corrugated edge” on it. Now picture a crippled, unstable old man peeing in a razor sharp can, probably too small for my potential. Stumble with your “member” in there, and your heart rate will go up. Soon the women sat in the muddy river in groups, some concentrating, some talking and peeing away. The men quickly adopted my attitude. Screw modesty. I’m just trying to get my ass home safely. Back to “Oscar” and “Sparky’s” rules:

4. Sparky said don’t pee and poop at the same time in Oscar. Huh? How I ask, can one’s most sacred moment of concentrative bliss be manipulated thusly? Can’t be done, I don’t care what you say. I questioned “Sparky’s credibility.

5. When “Sparky” said “if this system doesn’t work, we’d try another one.” Bullshit, “Sparky,” what other one is there?

In the military they give you a couple of minutes to crap. Women, especially older Baptist, wouldn’t make that dead line. While many were stymied by this process, I was doing well. One guy from Raleigh couldn’t make it work. Couldn’t do it. Seven days, “big cloud, no rain.” He was an angry man. Seven days sans movement will do that to anyone. What do you say standing in line to dump? Three ladies and me. I sang hymns, or told dirty jokes. I was gaining an audience. Now, when I farted in the “circle of love” several laughed. The “Church Lady” even smiled at me.

Another revelation with Oscar was you were often in open view of other boats coming down the river. They caught me every morning. They’d laugh and wave. I’d shoot ‘em the bird. I’d gotten it down pat. Not quite as effective or quick as Dan’s “straight,” but two minutes and I was gone. The night before we were to leave I felt good about crapping. One more morn- ing and I’m back to my “American Standard.” (Great name for a john).

Then….”Sparky’s” Revenge. TACOS. Spicy Tacos. As the twilight set in post meal rumblings became audible. “Escapee” poots from the ladies, even. Oscar’s line became lengthened with anxious ladies.
“Seven Days” was unmoved even by the tacos. I thought I was too, but then

I knew. There was gonna be some “Old Coach” action and soon. I wasn’t about to get in the back of that line of slow crappers. Seven women, maybe an hour’s wait. I had no underwear. We’d repacked at the trips start and I miscalculated. One pair of shorts left. I’d had to borrow a nice shirt from Jerry Robertson. JR said take it, but it was in for a traumatic evening. I was also wearing my black “Reebok” coaching shoes. I loved them. In fact, I’d worn them all week the year we’d won the NAIA National title in 1990. Sixteen years. Coaches are superstitious.

As darkness and bowel urgency mounted, I devised a plan. There were some “variables.” We’d selected our smallest landing area. “Seven Days” was nose to nose with our tent. We’d have to select a perfect site. There wasn’t one. Plus it was getting dark fast. Remember: Rattlesnakes and scorpions (and pooping). I’d convinced Margaret to go with me as “camouflage” for my secret deed. She’d even agreed to give me the last three “wipes” for the cleanup. We had run through a ton of wipes and we were still nasty.

Finally, I decided on the best cite option: a ditch about 8” wide. Someone said as a poker player I was “so lucky you could shit in a swinging jar.” This would test the quotation. Remember the limited balance, the impending darkness, and the sheer anger at ever electing to be in this predicament in the first place. The tension mounted. No doubt eminent action. I dropped my last pair of shorts. They hung on my “Reeboks” and I couldn’t shake them off my damaged left foot.

The ditch was on a hill; it tilted considerably, bringing into play, my aim. Almost dark, I drew a bead. Remember, too, we’re in the Grand goddamned Canyon, echo maximus. It startled even me. I couldn’t have hollered any louder. Viscosity quickly became an issue. Balance more so. Try as I may, my left foot wouldn’t hold. Blast that surgeon.

I not only shit on my foot, I shit on my shoes, my leg, my shorts, and Jerry Robertson’s new shirt. Then I fell in it. I covered it as best I could by hand. Margaret was shocked by my language. The smell got me. Then the thought: Will the “Shit Ranger” know? Will I be ticketed for illegal shitting? Would “Seven Days” hear, or smell, and turn me in as a “shit-felon?”

Next issue. What to do with me? Our space was a tent. I had no clothes. Margaret, a hardened nurse, was pushed to the max. No more so than the limited wipes. Saturation. Somehow she got my naked self semi-clean. Could we sleep a few hours one last night, after this trauma? About to doze off it became apparent, we’d missed something. Aha, the shoes. I couldn’t leave the tent. The “Church Lady” wouldn’t understand. Margaret buried the “Reeboks.”

All week “Sparky” had told us of the variations of rock strata throughout the vast, majestic canyon. The next day, as we sailed our final miles down the Colo- rado; I pictured a future archeologist discovering my Reeboks. They would hold them up to their fellow explorers and declare: “These shoes once won a National Championship, but they still smell like shit.”

I didn’t speak to Jeanne Robertson for a while after that. Margaret, bless her, loved the adventure and the canyons beauty. “Didn’t you love the sounds of the river and the natural beauty?” I replied, “We could have bought a CD and a coffee table book for fifty dollars.”

FLORENCE

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“It won’t happened to us” just happened to us.   It was named FLORENCE, and she roared through our neighborhood Sept. 18, 2018.   In the 1950’s movie THE RAINMAKER, Burt Lancaster’s character, STARBUCK warns “…don’t ask for deluge”!  Somebody didn’t get the memo.

Trying to find some good out of all this, I make this observation and suggestion.

Our community of some 400 lots and houses is fairly new.  The codes from day one prohibited metal roofs.  This was a decision made with aesthetics a major guideline.

Coastal people described Florence as “once in five hundred years” storm.  Yet the description was applied a week later to storm MICHAEL, that literally blew a Florida town off the map.   While Florence was  evaluated as “…” the most expensive storm in North Carolina history” by Governor Roy  Cooper,  Water–not wind was –the problem:  Unlike 2018’s Michael, or the 1954 monster Hazel.

The water, in flood-like fashion came from down  to up in homes and businesses.  More  often it came down, through  roofs with shingles.  Our house tops turned “tarp blue”.  We travelled eastern NC several different routes,  to Wilmington, who got it the worst, to Raleigh via 24/40 west or 58/70.  To Beaufort by 24/70 or down the island’s 58.

SAME STORY EACH WAY!  While shingled roofs allowed water into the buildings,  most metal roofs remained intact.  NO INTERNAL DAMAGE.  I asked my  insurance adjustor if my observations were accurate?  I guessed a 50-1 ratio between shingled or metal.  He said “…you are no where close”.

Lots of bad weather lately.  Hard to work outside.  Today and yesterday it has been nice.   Roof work every where.   Our people voted to allow metal roofs now.  But—they are more expensive.

CUT TO THE CHASE.  Shouldn’t replacement and new roofs in certain coastal and suspect geographical areas be metal?  Is a study worthwhile considering how to make metal roofs more accessible?   Should governments from local to federal  be concerned about not going through this nightmare again.  Insurance companies?   Certainly homeowners and businesses who are rebuilding.  New ones?

Our people know the scoop now.  Still pricing has people rebuilding with shingles.  While “I won’t be around for the next one” may be true, don’t you want your heirs to avoid this trauma?  Will the extra cost of metal now yield higher resale?

Time for some thought.  Action.  Do your own survey.  How many tarps on shingles roofs.  Metal?  Best evidence?   Check the old tobacco barns with intact metal tops!

If, in fact, the next FLORENCE styled storm is 100 years away –newly added metal roofs will join the tobacco barns as survivors.

 

E. OLD ROCKERS (102)

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My friend,”Country” Boykin, calls my wife OLLIE RAY. Hambone ran the rural store near “Country’s” Rock Ridge, N.C. home. “Ollie Ray hung around ‘Bone’s’ all day and didn’t buy anything. At closing time he would go out to the highway and hitchhike. If a car was going east he’d thumb east. West and Ollie Ray would cross the road and hitchhike that way. Made no difference. He just liked MOTION under him.”
Wife Margaret was fifth of six. She recently read a letter her Mom wrote long ago, describing her children to a relative. By the time she got #5, four year old Margaret, she simply noted “…that one is a little RIP.” I think they should have named her GO.
When we retired I offered, “chose your spot!” No hesitation: “I want to live at beach”. Fine. But, I WONDERED.
Cost of building our “dream” beach house rose as the house rose. Maybe a word of caution: “If we keep adding to building this house we won’t have a bunch for a lot of extras later, for example–travel.” Famous last words:
“You don’t have to worry if we get to that beach!”
That lasted about two weeks.
To be fair she found a solution. Within the last month she has made separate trips to Oregon, Canada, and Denver. All expenses paid because of volunteer “altruistic”services she renders. Really quite honorable as well as lots of miles logged. Doesn’t take long to recover. She’ll unpack, put her clothes up, report in—VERY SOON, wanderlust gene kicks in. She made it an hour upon returning last week from Colorado: “I just booked another to San Fransisco.”
She, maybe we, have a looming problem. There is a fast approaching age deadline (no pun intended) that ends a major avenue for her travels. That, combined with my desire to not get out of my zip code, has several concerned. Beach neighbor, Coach Dave Odom, wonders “…how long are the two of you gonna be able to stay home together. He has a point. Last winter the weather forced us all inside for a LONG few days. Coach Odom noticed that “…when she cordoned that six foot area around your recliner with yellow crime scene tape, now that is scary.”

I am rather stationary. (LIKE A ROCK–Bob Seger).
I just turned 74. Bob Dylan is 73. Dylan has a pretty good take on all of it, aging included. Wille Nelson noted at turning 75 : I’ve outlived my pecker!”

***”…it’s not dark yet, but its getting there.” DYLAN
***”…I love you more and ever shall, but there’s no one left to tell, the world has gone black before my eyes.” Dylan (NETTIE MOORE).
*** Bob with a little hope: “Stick with me baby, stick with me anyhow. Things are just about to get interesting, right about now”. MISSISSIPPI

I do hope she’ll “stick with me.” I’ve known all along there was no need to try to cage this OLLIE RAY.  One wife told her husband “…if we are gonna gracefully grow old together, you are gonna have to slow down.” Half the Beatles are gone. Dylan, the Stones, lots of commentary. Some quite wistful: “…and I want to rock your gypsy soul, just like days of old…” Van Morrison (INTO THE MYSTIC).

Maybe I should just write her a song. Like my contemporaries. I probably would fare better in country venue. Lets see:

“I USED TO BE YORE ROCK AND ROLL,
BUT NOW I’M JUST A ROCK”

G. DOWN EAST

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“Hoi Toiders.”
Our coast is called “The Crystal Coast.” Eastern-most Carteret County houses the “Hoi Toiders” or the “High Tiders.” They go “way back,” as my boat-building buddy, J. A. Rose, of Harker’s Island, says.
I asked one old timer about his siblings. They had all relocated elsewhere. Why? “We wuz so poor we had to scatter.”
“Possum” Hale was driving a local, who asked if Hale had anything left to drink (True Story!) Watson or Possum, told him there was a pint in the glove compartment. Before he could stop him this Hoi Toider had drunk half a can of brake fluid.
“Possum” took the immediately ill passenger to the emergency room. After violent vomiting, the Doctor asked, “ Are you all right? You drank a half can of brake fluid.”
“Ort to be able to stop her on a doime,” said the recovering “Core Sounder.”
One tale holds that times were so bad that a fisherman had to take his wife along to help him. A storm washed them both overboard. He was saved and taken by the Coast Guard to the hospital.
A doctor broke the news. “Sir, we found your wife. Unfortunately she was tangled beneath the sea in a net. She has about fifty blue crabs attached to her. It’s quite a mess, and we really wonder what you’d like us to do?”
The Hoi Toider’s conclusion: “Well, toimes being toimes, and Thelma being Thelma, just take them crabs off and re-set her.”
Mr. Rose said a Hoi Toider was awakened at midnight by a neighbor who reported, “Oi’ve hit something out in the road. It’s got an ugly, big hard head, and its ass smells worse than anything Oi’ve ever encountered.”
The husband reported, “ My Lord, you’ve hit Pauline.”

H. JOHN, NOT BROTHER AL, MCQUIRE

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•ON GAMBLING
(“Bayou Sam, from South Louisiann, had gambling on his brain.
Evangeline, from the Maritime, was slowly going insane.”) EVANGILINE.
Living at the beach does have some disadvantages. You have to drive two hours before you get anywhere. Wish I knew now to fly a private plane. Better still let Margaret fly it. I haven’t been able to find a good local card game. Miss my Elon bunch. I did get in a game but it was a little heavy for me. I like to play for fun. Not so one John McGuire. John is the brother of the basketball coach and announcer Al McGuire and also former NBA Knickerbocker, Dick McGuire. John’s first love wasn’t basketball. About 90 years old and the proud father of nine children, John is a consummate curmudgeon. Not much casual conversation with John. Particularly during a poker game. I tried. He fascinated me with his dogged concentration and love of gambling. I could tell he was a cut above local boys. Several levels above me. I gleaned the information from the game’s players that John had made some money. Finally I got to where he would talk to me. Particularly if I came early before the game started. How did you make your money? Basketball? No way was the reply! He then told me the story. He had a good friend who was a lifetime business partner. But like John, his first priority was not business, but gambling. Trouble was, while they were good at business, they were lousy at the race track. Their business was the bar business in New York City. “We figured out that heterosexuals went to the bars on weekends, but that gays went every night.” Thus a move to Queens and the gay bar business. And a good business. Trouble was, John said “…we’d make a ton of money every night and then lose it back just as fast, or faster, the next day at the track”.
Most of the time John sat quietly during the game. His only intention being to get the crowd to play as many hands as possible. If he wasn’t getting good cards he would often blurt out something that the crowd often didn’t understand, or pay any attention to. “Red board” would come from nowhere. Finally I asked him: John, what does it mean when you say red board. After he explained his action I realized this comment came when the conversation was too long, too idle, or just an excuse (“by God, if I had of caught a deuce I’d have reamed you”). John explained that at the race track, after the race, the results were posted on a big red board.
Once posted. The race was over. Move on. Play another hand. Golfers are the second, next to poker players for whining (“…if I hadn’t double bogged #7…red board.)
John wouldn’t give you any extra information. Once, when asked if he was bluffing, John stated “…my name is Zink and what do you think. I do your laundry for nothing!” After prodding him at the game’s conclusion, John told me about the laundry sign in New York. When the person was told his bill was 40$, he said what about the sign. The manager explained “…you read the sign wrong. “My name is Zink, and what do you think? I do YOUR laundry for NOTHING?” Mr. Zink would ask.
John’s daughter would bring him and come get him. One day after our game I noticed she wasn’t there. I told John to call her and let her know I’d take him home. We still didn’t know
each other well. He looked a little funny when I said “…there is a price for my taking you home.” What price? “You have to tell me one Al McGuire story nobody else knows.” John thought a few minutes and then asked: “Do you remember, when teams first integrated, how coaches were asked how many black kids did the coach play? “The standard joke (I think it was a joke),
was “two at home, three on the road, and four if I’m losing?” I do remember that. John said that we altered that to “three at home, four on the road, and five if we had a bet on the game”.
Gambling certainly has a dangerous side.

I. VASECTOMY ( )

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Colonel Ray Springfield, a friend and golfing buddy, told me a personal tale. He and his Wife had their fourth child. She said “enough”. Ray agreed to a vasectomy. A career Marine, he not only knew where this surgery was done, but played golf with one of the surgeons. The day was rainy and Ray was about the eighth potential patient to sit down in the waiting room. About three or four more joined the “first come, first served” (no pun intended) before the nurse appeared at the operation room door and asked “…Okay, who’s first”? Stone silence. No one moved. Ray volunteered.
Upon entry Ray saw his friend was the surgeon on call. Ray said there were a lot of scared faces out in the waiting room. Couldn’t resist! And his Doctor friend was eager to go along. Ray gave it a minute, then screamed at the top of his lungs. Then he cried, begged “STOP, STOP, STOP!!!” Then THUD! Like someone hitting the floor.
He and the Doctor friend sneaked a peek into waiting room.
Ray said two things were obvious: “…first, the rain had stopped and sun shone through the windows, and there wasn’t anyone in the waiting room.”
The Doctor concluded, “…what the hell, Ray, we can go play golf!”

J. MISS MISUNDERSTANDING

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HEARING AIDS
May 9, 2015
One of the local foursome tennis regulars couldn’t make it. A non- member filled in. My buddies, Larry Watson and Randy Campbell teamed together against the newcomer and partner. Larry is the poster child for
knee replacement. And both done at the same time. Now he can run, but at the time of the match above, it was really sad. Anyway, at the conclusion of the match the newcomer shook hands with Randy and said “…nice match, Hugo.” Out of earshot, a puzzled Larry asked Randy, “…why did that guy call you HUGO?” Randy: “Every single lob over our heads you shout ‘YOU GO’. Figure it out!” On the first day of our tennis camp, at 7am breakfeast, I asked a disheveled 10 year old his name? HUH, he said. Again, “What is your name”? Again…huh? Coach: Son, WHAT IS YOUR NAME? More clearly this time: My name is Hunt. How many times do I have to tell you! My friend, “Country” Boykin recently took his new hearing aid out and put it in the golf cart. It bounced out and we ran over it. At a restaurant a month later I noticed him wearing it again. “Did you get a new hearing aid, or get that one fixed?” He said it was the same one. “I’m just wearing it for looks!”

CON GAMES

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I’m losing too many friends. Gerald “Scope” Wallace could be a handful. Most of my other friends were afraid of Scope. But the funny ones catch me, regardless. His specialty was wise-ass. The first time we met he convinced my Wife and I to go to Raleigh on New Years Eve, 1972. Going there he swerved quickly off the road to a shack with the neon sign, BEER. Got to get a couple, he said. The place was awful and the cashier was overly rude. Perfect for Gerald. After several attempts to be nice and getting nowhere Gerald took the bag of beer, turned and on the way concluded with “…you certainly do have a nice place here!” A few hours later he got us all kicked out of the FROG AND NIGHTGOWN (Scope liked jazz. And wine.) “… the grapes got me again”.
My last haircut reminded me of Gerald. With little hair left, I go Great Clips for the minimum. And, I have learned how to register “on line”. Twenty minutes wait, maximum. The trouble was a storm caused school to be cancelled and the shop overflowed with “walk-ins”. And the staff had not booked enough tattooed, pink haired clipper wielders.
Much like the express line in the grocery store when everyone has 50 express line items and a pocketbook full of coupons, and the cashier runs out of register tape—Oh Mother, things ain’t going well.
I am winning the patience game. Kids groaning, adults shouting at the barbers, people leaving. My 20 minutes is already 30.
And, another cycle has rotated without me. Hmmm—trying to get the kids out ain’t working! They all have full heads of hair to be cut with monograms in their hair and color variations I knew not of.
Many of the grumbling had to stand. I read another hairstyling magazine and the seat next to me was vacated by a mad veteran left the shoppe.
All of a sudden there she was. Everyone knew her. My guess is nearly every small town has one.
She works in the local hardware. Knows where every nut and bolt in the store is, but has never found tact, kindness, or patience. And here she sits by me in midst of the angry. I thought of Gerald.
After a long silence I began the one sided conversation:
Me–you a local person?
Old salt–Swansboro. (silence)
Where did you go to high school?
Salty—Swansboro.
Where were you born?
Swansboro.
Do you work around here?
Swansboro. silence. end of round one.
No sound but angry grumbles. Riot coming?
I said nothing.
And then the break.
She ASKED ME—how long you been waiting?
Forty minutes late.
You register on line?
yep. silence. round two.
Then, me first. “and you know its like cooking. You work all day on the meal and everyone eats in five minutes.”
Salty with first crack of agreement–grunts.
Me: Not only that, everyone ahead of me has some special request. They could cut my bald head in 5 minutes. (the hook and she takes it)
THEY CAN’T CUT YOUR HAIR IN FIVE MINUTES!
ME WITH THE BAIT–“Want to bet””
Loudly now, “You are damn right I’ll bet you!”
(The crowd shifts from anger to silence upon witnessing the developing scene.)
HOW MUCH YOU WANT TO BET?
SHE–I’LL BET YOU ANYTHING YOU WANT!
100$ I SUGGESTED. (the crowd hushed moan).
Well, no.
Me-how bout a dollar? DEAL! The crowd erupts with applause.
“TOM” is called. I’m up, bet is on.
I show the old salt time on my six dollar watch. She nods ok.
I am in the first chair so my talent is tested. First a whisper to my girl who has heard what is going on: “Don’t talk. Cut it as quick as you can. Big tip”
Next hide the watch under the apron, but where I can watch the time. The crowd now watches gleefully. Some make side bets. The watch is at four minutes and ticking. Patches of white hair flurries abound. Barber is doing her part.
Salty’s first mistake. She didn’t make note of the starting time. Beneath the cloth apron I deftly reset the watch giving me added one plus needed minute needed to beat the deadline. I kissed my cutter and showed Salty the altered watch. YOU OWE ME A DOLLAR! THE CROWD ROARED.
She smiled and handed me the buck. I started to put it in my pocket, but then goaded her. Boy –I got you. You didn’t check the real time. The trim took more than six minutes! She giggled, probably her first. I gave her her bill back. The crowd, waiters and those inside have completely changed moods. I turned to leave and waved at the victim, then the crowd, Halfway through the door I turned around and said “got you again.” That dollar is yours and you won a dollar on the bet. It dawned on all as I looked into my wallet. I showed her nothing but large bills. Now stunned I took the bill back. Can I pay you with this? Gerald smiled down, or up. I had them all scratching their heads.
I reached in my pocket and took out four quarters and paid my debt.