Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
least deference. A dim bulb who couldn't read much by his own light, he asked condescending
questions and provided nothing. Sitting back with a sigh he let the leather finish squeaking
before he regretted have to decline to show the property on account of failure to demonstrate
the wherewithal to . . . uh, you know . . . uh . . . bring a goddamn thing to closing. Outa escrow.
You know what escrow is?
I went on down to the Men's Club I still belonged to, because it was only twenty-five bucks
a month, because it was still in its original condition since around 1900. People liked their fa-
cilities in original condition in the sultry South. Original condition kept the dues low and gave
practical value to the adage, too poor to paint, too proud to whitewash. The Club attracted its
fair share of powerful men in town who wanted to relax without somebody hitting them up
for favors or inside information. The Club was an afternoon stop where members played rac-
quet sports or steamed, jawed and unwound—where the unspoken code relieved everybody
of solicitation and need.
Truth be told, the old guys wallowed in the privacy and loved the recognition, when a
young guy needed some inside skinny.
The Club didn't mind if I was a few months late on dues, because a young fellow's luck
might change. Charleston was like that, showing the flipsides of ignorance and hospitality in
short order. Every time I had cause to think it a mean place, I got corrected; it wasn't mean.
It was only stupid in some people and only on occasion at that. Above all, it loved a sociable
gathering, which wasn't
a'tall
like the love all around us but had the same warmth and glow.
New Year's Eve, 1969 was a fur piece from the Club's annual dinner in a tent, where members
anteed up three dollars for a pound of fresh boiled shrimp to peel and eat with cocktail sauce
and a few beers and a rib-eye with ketchup and more shrimp if you still hungry and want an-
other steak, fuck yeah, we got plenty. It wasn't the same but came from the same stuff, South-
ern hospitality and the love all around us.
I ran into Sonny Goldberg coming out of the steam room, just the guy I'd been looking
for, because Sonny knew everything and everybody and everything everybody was up to. At
sixty-two Sonny was a short, pudgy old man—no exercise, too much stress and fried chicken.
Sonny used the Club for steam and solace from the ration of grief his father had dished out for
years. Sonny's management of the family furniture company was plain damn careless. What
good could come of a boy who plain damn won't listen? Sonny was still the boy. He'd gone
through life with what Old Mom called all the breaks, and there he was, rich and suffering.
Sonny's father was eighty something, and Sonny never stopped asking what it was his
father wanted. “I can't figure it out. We sell furniture. I do it wrong, because I don't do it
his way. I bring in more money than he ever did.” Sonny hated his father's daily rant, but
he loved his father's survival, balancing stress and fried chicken with genetics. Sonny was
proud of his management and sales skills too. Why, he had entire bedroom sets he'd sold three
times—some of them priced right now to sell a fourth time for more money than the third
