***
Ben calls me at two-thirty in the morning and the ringer bites the air around my head. I shoot upward and outward from a dead slumber, gnashing at the cobwebs with groans and grunts.
"Dude, I'm about to ask you something..." he emotes into the receiver.
"Ugn-huh, Ben."
"...but you have to agree to say 'yes' no matter what," he belted it out with a familiar drunken playfulness, the wild buckle in his tone letting me know that things were being hatched. The process had begun. I knew to never question him at moments like these, so I obliged to his conditions,
"We're going to South Carolina in August. Staying on the water. Fuckin... fuckin living there, right man... for a week. Charter fishing and the beach, just getting out there. Mad people and... you're going... that's it.. I'll get you the details."
Nothing more was needed. We understood what just happened.
"Ok. Night bro."
"G'nite man."
***
I ate four tacos at an O'Hare Mexican sitdown restaurant in my mind as I raced through the terminal at twelve forty-three in the afternoon. Worried. Hungry. Behind already. You see, I decided to leave at the last possible moment to ensure a meeting with late Sunday morning traffic, the head pounding from the night before and the constant shuffle through my belongings to make triple sure there were no gels or liquids of any kind on my person.I get to the security line after a harrowing cab ride with just enough time to make it comfortably if everything goes smoothly. People are snaking back and forth, back and forth and everything is abuzz. Couples squinting feverishly at the newly laminated and posted text, trying to discern with much interest what is and isn't acceptable to bring on a plane. The din of curious, yet fearful murmurous hung above the labyrinth of people as everyone waited for their respective fates. Will we get a passing grade? Can we read things and then demonstrate that knowledge effectively, using common sense whenever applicable? And as a collective, I'd say the herd of anxious faces did a bang-up job. Really, I couldn't have been happier about our progress as a people. The only moment of concern came when the Korean family in front of me became unhinged with the prospects of missing a vital rule which prompted the father to fish for nods of approval from the security guards standing nearby... "I-Pod?" "Laptop OK?" "Daughter's french horn?" I breathe easy as I finally step through the metal detector doorway unmolested by the taunting beep, the only thing between me and a gentle gallop to the plane, now scheduled to board through gate E14 in five minutes. I make it on with the last of the stragglers. The doors close and I press my pillow against the cabin wall anxiously awaiting the release of an in-flight nap.
***
I lope out of the Charleston terminal equal parts joy, relief and anticipation. Ben has timed the drive down so as to pass through and simply pick me up with only forty-five minutes remaining until our ultimate destination. I inform him of my presence on the curb and he tells me he is in a nearby parking lot and is rolling to it as we speak. Four minutes later an unassuming enough vehicle rolls into view and glides towards me, leisurely handling the speed bumps. The clutter on the dash and in-between the passengers, along with the calm manner in which it approaches belies a certain sturdiness. My first impression was that this car had consumed many miles of highway that day and was sated, all that was left was the winding country back roads and the salty Atlantic air.The motley crew flashed inviting gestures and talked tales about their cabin fever as I acclimated myself to their presence. Ten hours together had stirred the pot nicely. There were three girls of whose friendships were borne from varying relations - commingling, commiserating and commanding the conversation as Ben, the driver, leaned forward, adjusting his brim, content with situation he had helped create. As Colleen (left), Lisa (right) and Karen (the photographer) spoke off the cuff and from the hip, the base and snare of a Tribe Called Quest trickled out of the speakers. Things happened easily for us during that final approach to Edisto and I, for one, think everyone knew why.
***
A typical display of contempt for the camera. This mistrust is more or less a patterned practice of the male psyche which, I believe, is learned in the early stages of social development. At first glance, the goofy broad expressions, the rocking back on heels, the clutching of mitts with an uneasy glee, they all appear symptoms of an inner struggle with what the "proper" pose should be. Are there standards to be met? Should we pretend to be something we're not, for humors sake? Will this picture one day be a physical manifestation of what we will represent to some unknown room of scrap-booking women, swirling their white wines and exhibiting their own unique brands observational humor upon our defenseless renderings? You must understand, all of these thoughts are scrolling through our heads in the 3 second lead-up to the *snap* so we must find something proficient and salient to do, a self assured way to fight back any would be instigators. The people who look upon us with the luxury of hindsight.What results is a gentle glancing-over of subtle humility, a quiet wisp of cocksureness as evidenced by the thin smiles. The perpetual stoney glower, the unmitigated bravado, the kinds of faces that if they had voice, would probably be saying, "How dare you judge us!?! Random scrap booking women!"
***
Closet lesbians on vacation, you see it more and more these days. The soft ass caress in public. The artful snapping of tops. The WNBA-like intensity of their staring contests as they eventually just lose themselves in each others gaze. It’s a beautiful thing, this newfound love spun together in a series of taboo meetings in the back of dark New York City nightclubs. Their furtive clutching and holding soon becoming a Valentine's Day trip to the Ani DiFranco show with their woman-love now blossoming for the whole world to see. This is Colleen and Karen, and this is their story. Your classic girl meets girl, girl wants girls body, girls throw down on a case of champagne and a hotel suite and charge it to the company card so their men won't find out. Eventually they become bold in their schemes and take a trip down to South Carolina for a week, frolicking in the surf, spooning in the hammock, doing what comes naturally. They know one day this charade must be exposed because the stress of covering up their feelings is ultimately effecting the relationship, not to mention their sexlife. Which, by all accounts and standards, is sizz-a-ling. Good times.***
Dave joins the fray on Wednesday. This conversation takes place on Thursday morning. Aboard a fishing boat. Hungover."Say Ben, you ever seen me with my shirt off before?"
"Um. Yeah Dave, a couple of times," Ben says, uneasily turning his attention to the water.
"Good, cause I think I'm going to take my shirt off again. You know. For the girls."
"Yeah, yeah," Ben squints at the horizon, "Do what you gotta do."
Dave pauses, rests his hands on his hips and simulates deep thought. Ben remains fixed on the surrounding marshland with an awkward devotion. After a lull where they both stare off in different directions, just listening to the gentle thwacks of water upon the boats hull, Dave calmly folds over the side of the boat jettisons his breakfast into the water. Ben giggles without removing his eyes from the awaiting fish. Dave buoys up,
"So should I wait on the shirt thing? I think the girls saw that..."
"Naw baby, you’re money."
"Thing is, I think that was the last time."
"Of course it was, homey. Go ahead, let the mighty pythons breathe..."
Don rumbles down the dock with a case of beer slung over his shoulder. Ben waves him over before turning his attention back towards the unseen fish in the distance,
"We should have three caterogories today," Don said, "Most fish, biggest fish and most beers crushed."
Dave bends back down to heave some more. Don rubs his belly and cracks a beer. All the while, Ben quietly muses to himself, "We could do this. This could happen."
***
Laughton: "Attention crew. This is your cap-i-tan speaking, my name is Laughton and this is my boat. We've got some bait and some rods, an FM radio and a selection on comfy seating. First, some ground rules. The cheque you just wrote will be cashed within minutes of our arrival back to shore so I think now is a good time to let you know that the four hour block you signed up for coincides directly with high tide. So we'll be lucky to catch anything. Not my bad though. Another thing, no reeling in. This isn't so much fishing as it is waiting. Also, does anybody have a joint? Anybody? No, okay. It'd be a lot cooler if you did, but it's cool. So, lemme see here, what else. We'll flesh out the rest of the rules as we go along. If you gotta spew, port and starboard are your best bets. Alright, let's do this!"Anonymous, from the front of the boat: "How long have you been doing this?"
Laughton: "Six years, good buddy. And my hazy recollection of college biology is what steers me in my quest for fish."
Anon: "This is so happening."
Anon #2: "Seriously. Let’s buy a charter boat this afternoon."
***
Horseshoes clang on the beach at dusk. Ben and Dave are fixed in a slugfest, tied at game point, pulling at beers and swatting at mosquitos. Lisa, Colleen and Karen are taking a stroll down the beach, laughing, taking the time that needs to be taken. I’m standing near the surf, head craned upwards toward the heavens. Pink clouds hang low above like a heart-filled gospel spiritual sprawling out of church doors, washing over all it touches. Children shriek with delight as the tide races them in. An elderly couple shuffles along, holding hands, smiling. As these things were happening, my mind begins to wander.You see, I'm often prone to bouts of curious whimsey whenever sentimental, willing to let a eerily lit boulevard or a red wheelbarrow surrounded by white chickens ensnare my thoughts in the oddest possible ways. I've always contended that this quirk is my own private way of coping with the beauty, to dream up something fanciful when faced with such physical fascination. As if it were impossible to simply just stand there and sway with the wind. So the imagination sets in, and I began thinking about what colors Bob Ross would use to paint these particular clouds. They seem impossible. Would they look that way on the canvas? Would Ross altogether reject this commission because it would sink him? People would tune in and assume he was on drugs. No sky could ever be that majestic, they'd say. And he'd pack up all of his belongings in the back of his rusted out Civic and tool down to South Carolina, living out his days in seclusion, painting impossible skys that no one wanted.
Clang. Ben shouts. Dave hangs his head. I’m in.
