In Public
Oh, just take it slow
Don't you go lookin' for trouble now
I don't know why I can't let go
We’re walking about. Humid city. The car told us “88” - feels like 97. Carolina low country Carolina Summertime is like having every inch of your body lathered in a layer of molasses and shoved inside God’s armpit.
The Spanish Moss reach down for us. It leans towards me to whisper secrets of yestercentury…
“Blackbeard’s ship wrecked a dozen miles East of here.”
“The little church right there has had 6,349 weddings. The graveyard beside it has 400 plots, 408 bodies.”
“Your ancestors walked this same path. I remember them. They dressed better, smelt worse.”
I thank the Spanish Moss. I do it in my head. My friends are in no place to listen to me speak to the vines today. We’re all on edge. Cracked out. On the surface is humor. Underneath we’re fire ant tingly.
“Let’s do something.”
“Yeah”
“Yeah!”
“Like what?”
“Beach?”
“I’d be down.”
“Mmmm. Alley Cat’s, then beach? I want to see other people before sunset.”
“Good idea.”
“Yeah I’m down.”
We all agreed this to be a good plan. Good plan. Yeah. There were some exhales. Cigarettes snuffed out. Beers finished. Glass hitting each other in the trashcan. A few minutes of alone time while everyone splits to get their stuff: Cigs, money, ID, phone.
The trees lead out into an opening. A wide dock. Harbor with ice cream shops, outdoor bar, yachts and tour boats. A social scene… People. Whatever that means. Many families. We’re walking around and I feel untrustworthy. Don’t ask me to watch your table while you run to the bathroom… I may just pick it up, throw it in the bay, point at the old woman: It was her officer! Look at her! She’s stronger than she appears!
Looking like ’08 Abercrombie & Fitch models. Wild eyes. Everyone wants to figure out our story. So do I. A memory: “I can’t tell what you want…” My love tells me. Neither can I, baby, that’s something we can agree on.
I care for everything and nothing at the same time. And in my heart is a hurricane of attention. It focuses on the purity of the young children playing tag while splitting that focus to observe the too-many-drinks in middle aged man making the bartender uncomfortable.
There’s no rest for the wicked. There’s less rest for the aware.
