I have returned from South Carolina. Which is North of me. I returned a few days ago. But I’m only letting you know now. I didn’t go to New York. My “crazy” money hasn’t come yet. It will be here soon. I can’t stop typing short sentences. They satisfy something in me. Something primeval. Or is it archtypal.
No matter.
Let me tell you about South Carolina. Specifically about Myrtle Beach. Heaven and Hell encapsulated within a simple city. It was a 6 and a half hour drive to Myrtle Beach. From Atlanta. We left at 9. My father suggested we stop at a Waffle House for lunch. I would have no part of this Southern Madness known as Waffle House. We ate on the road instead. We drink Brazilian Cola, and snacked on freshly made banana bread. The number of trees on the way to Myrtle (rhymes with Turtle) beach stupefied me. Then put me to sleep. It was a good car sleep.
Then the trees gave way. Way to what? To the horror of American culture in full frontal fucking overdrive. First came the theme restaurants of past legends, golfers from the 70’s, aging hollywood producers. Then the water parks, water parks upon water parks. All empty. The golf courses. Some with ski lifts. For this forests were chopped down and parking lots erected. We moved on to Dolly Parton’s Dixie Stampede. A massive building whose exact purpose I couldn’t make out. I think people ate there. I’m still not sure. Then came the modern theme restaurants; A huge pyramid, the Hardrock Cafe, a giant blue globe, Planet Hollywood, the Nascar theme restaurant, some all star cafe, this was just the beginning. My dad called out each attraction as it passed with a gleeful evil. Towards the end, I was finally able to block him out. To achieve a semi-trance. To focus only on the upcoming destination. 20 minutes now. Now 10. Then 5. And we were there. 1000 acres of virgin untouched land in the middle of Myrtle Beach. Boarded on one side with the ocean, on the other with condos, on the other with a massive Wallmart, and the last by a mall that would make any sane person cry out in psychic pain.
We entered. It was over. I was in the Meher Spirtual Center. A retreat for people seeking to find out more about him, and those who know a bit about him. Being raised in a family who followed him, I was able to gain admittance with my dad. Cheap rates for a nice cabin near the lake. We booked in. We settled down. I had 11 books to read. We had a box of food to eat. Life was good.
Then I got the news. I had actually received it far earlier, but had blocked it out in the hope that it was a sick joke. We had to get more food. We had to go to Wallmart. I closed my eyes. I clenched my jaw. I could do this. I would survive. I would not falter. We would travel to this mart of walls. We would procure food. We would travel safely back. We left via the same one lane dirt road we had entered. We arrived at the outer gate. We signaled for a left turn. We waited for the light to change. We continued to wait. Cars streamed by us. We continued to wait. Long empty spaces between cars hung there. Inviting us. We continued to wait. 5 minutes stretched into 6 then 7. The light changed. We turned left and traveled a half mile to the turn off for Wallmart. We signaled for a left turn. We waited for the light to change. We continued to wait. Cars streamed by us. We continued to wait. 4 minutes this time. We turned left and traveled down a palmetto lined street. It is the state tree. It appears on their license plate. Smiling faces, beautiful places it says. I had already seen the “beautiful places”, nothing could prepare me for the smiling faces however. This was Myrtle Beach I said. This was a big tourist city. They had a semblance of culture. Granted, it was the Carolina Opry. But it was there. I was sorely unprepared.
Mouth breathers. Hordes of them. Pressing. Gaping like bass. I’ve had less eyes on me at Fag Fridays at the End-Up. 400 pound women using carts to shove their way around the store like elephant seals. 150 pound women, who seemed to be too hung over to walk, or maybe just too inbred, using carts to shove their way around the store like elephant seals. I was suprised to not see chaw stains on the floor. We zipped through the aisles, I made sure of it. We grabbed the food. We got two flashlights.
Then I saw it.
Frankenberry cereal. Unobtainable in the West. Here, in this pit of a city. Here, in South Carolina. Here, in Myrtle Beach. I had to get some, to send it back, to send it to a friend. I had made a promise. It was a solemn pact. If I ever found Frankenberry Cereal, I would send it to him. I had to keep this promise. I pulled a box and put it in the shopping cart.
We grabbed the rest of the food, enough to make several nice meals, and excited the store as quickly as possible. Returning to the retreat was a much easier task.
Once back, I had a positively relaxing week. No real interruptions. Some nice religious music on some nights. Lots of reading. Lots of meditating. Lots of time at the beach. The water was warm. I went rowing. I saw an alligator about 2 feet from me. Tres cool. Spent much time under the magnolia trees and near the rose bushes. I wrote a lot. Lots of poems. Lots of sketches. I contemplated my life. I banged my head against the floor one night. I found a tick and played with it. I adopted a spider and would feed it insects I found from time to time. I saw many dear. I saw a cottonmouth rattler. I got in touch with myself. I’m glad I went. I forgot about the outside horror of Myrtle Beach.
The journey back.
It was time to leave. It was Tuesday afternoon. We had to return to Georgia. I had finished all of my books, I had experienced a sense of rebirth and rejuvenation, I was prepared to leave. I made a point of keeping my eyes closed and pretending to nap until we were well out of Myrtle Beach. Do you know they built a fake ocean right next to the real one? No salt at the fake one. No sand either. It makes no sense to me.
On the way back my Dad insisted we stop for lunch at Bojangles. If I had any way of knowing what lay inside those yellow walls. If I had any foresight. If I could have only known. First. I did not know Bojangles was a chain. Second. I did not know that it was a chicken and biscuit chain. “No, I don’t want any fucking biscuits with my chicken.” “Too bad. Mwahhaahahhaa. Have 4” What is the biscuit? Why is it so popular here? Why can you not seem to get any food without it being added to your order? What is its mystery? Why don’t they just eat cardboard. It would be cheaper. It would taste better. Why do they insist on calling Bojangles, Boj. How do pronounce Boj? Speaking of which. What the fuck is up with Chick-Fill-A? Do you know how it’s pronounced? Not chick fila. Chick Fillet. What the hell where they thinking? These thoughts plagued me on the rest of the drive back. All because we turned into the parking lot of Bojangles.
But I’m back. My trip took a few turns, as did my telling of it. Or maybe they were just in my mind. What’d I miss?
