Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
on non-identity and chronic regret over the Great Misfortune, meaning the Civil War. Who
gave a shit? Charleston was the town that time forgot, especially the 60s—that would be the
nineteen 60s.
Always friendly and eager to meet new, white people, the place welcomed with strange,
warm greetings.
Yenna? How you do-een. Whatcho fittin' a do?
The upper crust defined itself in
khaki pants, Weejuns and blue oxford cloth shirts with button-down collars. The uniform uni-
formity indicated social status and defended against devilish influence from yonder, meaning
the world outside the city limits. Egalitarian charm transcended social strata, as in the most
frequently asked question around noon.
Jeatchet?
(Have you as yet engaged in luncheon?)
Ah, the beauty of it all—a young man with gusto could ease in and make money on a
one-horse burg in a pickle jar that loved seeing itself in a mirror and didn't mind a few mixed
metaphors if they shone with pride and commitment to fight on and have another drink. A
hippie in Caucasian clothing could take solace in the vast marshland rich with oyster beds
and fishing holes.
With no city magazine, Charleston,
Souse Cahlina
could cash in on some natural born
skills perhaps, uh, new to the area.
Capitalization would be a cakewalk. We already had a writer and editor, and a crew
cobbled itself together on a concept. Things rounded out on a partnership with a graphic
artist, a printer and a salesman for the advertising. The product would be a thing of beauty
and influence. Tim Littleton would drive a hundred miles up the coast to run the business
side. Laid off and grateful for the quid pro quo, Tim confided that he was a 60s veteran at
heart and loved wild stuff and had the know how to squeeze a dollar from a sumbitch. Alas,
Tim had no squeeze. Worse yet, we met for breakfast.
Tim ordered the Lowcountry Marsh Wallow Supreme: three over easy, biscuits, grits 'n
gravy, ham, links, sausage, toast and jelly. Juice and coffee were extra, but
what in a hail you
fittin' a do, eatcher breakfast w'out some
? Tim didn't get so big for nothing, and he tore into the
glop as I reviewed our needs. I tipped in at one thirty-five and got the usual: two over easy,
grits and toast, hold the gravy and pig meat—and the juice and coffee; I had mine at home.
Why not? We're trying to start a
bidness
here.
It's not much different, two over easy or three, but Tim got three because the extra egg was
only ten cents more, and
you cain't be ignorin' the bargains like that in this day and age
. His
breakfast ran six bucks and mine was two.
He never ate the third egg, and self-constraint is admirable; he was so fat, and everybody
likes to see fat people cutting back. But he woofed his biscuits, two eggs and all his grits and
pig meat and half his toast before rummaging his crumpled pack of Salem 100's for that first
delicious puff of smoke right after eggs and grits and gravy. He inhaled big and turned our
little space into a smoke out in menthol, what Salem called
a breath of springtime
.
