Happy as Clams

When I was a younger man, maybe twenty-one or so, I was working a manufacturing job at a local plant. I had spent a couple of years in college, but had failed to realize that majoring in art history didn’t typically open that job door in the Deep South. Fortunately, my best friend’s mother ran one of those temporary labor joints. They had a big van and would drive around town picking up day labor bound for a variety of odd jobs, usually loading shipping containers out at the docks or sorting tomatoes at the packing sheds on Johns Island, either way, the work was usually hard and the pay was usually lame. Because of our inside connection, it was Randy and I who landed the good jobs…or the best of the crap, depending on how you looked at it. Occasionally the jobs even had a benefits package of sorts; after all, there was that one stint with the refrigeration company where we got to service AC units in the girls dormitory at the College of Charleston.

On this particular assignment though, I was tasked with steam cleaning big diesel engines that had been shipped back in to the plant due to various warranty claims. They were from dozers, log skidders, and farm equipment of all kinds, but they always came covered with mud and grease, sometimes so thick that it was hard to tell they were engines at all. We had to clean them before the quality technicians could evaluate the claims, although many times it was quite obvious judging from those gaping holes in the core, that often the engines in question had run shy of oil and thrown a rod or two as a result. They came shipped in heavy gauge wire baskets and a forklift would drop them off every hour on the hour, lining them up for cleaning truckloads at a time; all day long. We wore rubber boots, rubber aprons, and a combination ear muff face shield thingy. Needless to say, I hated the job.

The incessant dampness had eroded away the tips of my fingers, or maybe it was the caustic solution they used to break up the grease. Either way, a couple of weeks into the work I got a liberating phone call from Randy’s mom paroling me from any further Chinese water torture. It seems that one of the larger and more sophisticated manufacturing plants in the area had several openings, and lucky for us, it was their policy to always hire temporary labor first, apparently so they could kick the tires before committing to permanent employment. The pay was much better and the benefits package consisted of much more than any sorority ogling opportunity. I would have to keep my nose clean for a few months, pass a drug screening, and of course…take a physical.

Ok, so here’s the point where you say “he thought he slipped that pass a drug screen thing on by us”. No… wrong. Guess again. It was the take a physical thing that sank me. You see, I had, and still have to some degree, a debilitating fear of needles. If this physical meant that I would have to give a blood sample, then I would surely die from inhaling industrial strength easy-off and over hydration. I didn’t apply for the job.

Now, seeing as we lived in a small town it didn’t take long for Randy’s mom to call my mother, who in turn called my dad, who practically dragged me to that office to turn in my application. I think my dad really wanted me out of the house more than he wanted me having that job. I often look back to find discomfort in the fact that my folks prodded me more to apply for that factory job than they did for me to stay in college.

Weeks went by without a word and I had completely forgotten about the job when I got a postcard in the mail informing me that I and nineteen others had been selected for employment. Randy was not one of them. To this day I’m not sure why I was selected and he wasn’t. Although he said it didn’t change anything, I could tell that he resented me for it and things were never the same between us afterwards. After a series of interviews I was told that I would start on second shift in three weeks, providing the drug test and physical came back in order.

The drug screening and physical actually took place in the same office, an industrial medicine facility that seemed to specialized in denying carpel tunnel claims, spine pain, and neck injuries of any kind presented to them by employees of the plant. These guys were hired guns, not your typical compassionate medical staff. Since I was still gainfully employed steam cleaning engines, I couldn’t take time off to go take a physical, mostly because I didn’t want to take time off to go take a physical, so I scheduled it during my lunch break. Although I only got a half hour for lunch, I was able to finagle an hour out of my foreman in order to “go to the DMV”.

I had worked myself into a knot of anxiety by noon. I had reasoned that since I had to give a urine sample, I should hold what little I had so I wouldn’t have to go through the water drinking ritual once I got to the doctors office, and since it was scheduled during my lunch break, I didn’t get to eat. On the way over I realized that I really, really had to pee. By the time I arrived I was floating, I had to go so bad that it literally hurt. Of course, the office was packed. I went straight to the sliding window at the front counter and explained my situation. I told the receptionist that I was there for an employment physical and drug screening, and that I really had to use the restroom and that if she would be so kind as to provide me with the little container I could go ahead and provide my sample.

If you can imagine what a bank teller looks like when someone slips her a note that reads “Stay Calm, Your Being Robbed”, that precisely describes the expression on the receptionist's face. Apparently some people, guilty people seeking employment that is; try to fool the drug screens in any number of unscrupulous ways. They must have had one of those hidden panic buttons like a teller too because the entire lot of ladies behind the counter sprung into action like defacto DEA agents. I was told that I would have to wait my turn. I was escorted to a seat and handed a clipboard. Every eye in the room was on me and I still had to pee like a race horse.

I waited a painful fifteen minutes, defiant at this point; I agonizingly awaited my name to be called, when alas! Glory be to God, the door open and St Peter called me back. The nurse was nice. She was tall, dark haired, and wore cute designer glasses. I immediately explained my circumstance once again, but it had appeared that the Nazis at the front counter had gotten to her as well. She said, “Just hop up here on the scale and let me get your height and weight and we’ll get right to that sample in just a minute”. I swear, I was nauseated from near bladder eruption and low blood sugar from skipping lunch, but I had come too far to turn back now. I had to stick it out. After she had my proportions recorded, I eagerly asked for my sample cup yet again. “We’re just going to draw a little blood then we’ll be all done and you can go give your sample”. Fine. Did I mention I had a needle phobia?

Ok, so at this point I could care less if they amputated my arm, just get it over with so I can pee dangit! I felt a pinch and a sharp prick. She filled a nice vial and said “Ok, All done”. She handed me my sample cup and escorted me to the bathroom at the end of the hall. I was a little lighted headed, but that was the last thing on my mind. The bathroom was a single, meaning it was just the commode and a corner sink, so I locked the door behind me like any normal person would do and I frantically began unzipping my pants. I wasn’t even thinking about reserving some for the cup, I just wanted to relieve myself at that point. Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. A warm sensation enveloped my entire body and I felt calm and peaceful. This obviously went on for some time because I think I dreamt about Josephs Technicolor coat in there. Apparently, the low blood sugar, in combination with the extreme anxiety and sudden blood loss, Oh yeah…and all that pee, caused me to pass out.

I could hear them out there beating on the door, but I couldn’t move. I was so warm and cozy down there on the floor of that bathroom. When they finally got that door open it was as if God himself had shined his flashlight on me. There I was in all of my glorious splendor…pants around my ankles and lying in what seemed to be gallons of my own urine, none of which made it into that sample cup. I had hit my head on the door so they wanted to keep me for observation, clearly out of fear of litigation.

I was certain that I had pissed away any chance of employment, but they hired me anyway. Sometimes I wish they hadn’t. Sometimes I wish I’d pissed before I left work. I took that job and spent ten unhappy years in that place. Nowadays, I get up several times a night to pee, and I’m happy as a clam.

A sense of place

I think that it must be the tide, or maybe it’s that same joy of regularity routinely experienced by those blue haired condo queens on their latest multigrain high fiber diet. Unable to afford a beach house of my own, we spend a couple of weeks each year in a rental on Edisto Beach in coastal South Carolina. Right now, just as I’m writing this, my wife and children are playing bingo at the Edisto Island Lions club. Tidal in its own regularity, the Lion’s Club bingo night occurs every Wednesday and Friday evening during the summers. Catering to the vacationing lawyers, the Lions club bingo night checks in as pure wholesome family fun.

Perhaps it’s all the healthy competition that drives the island inhabitant’s ever increasing collection of Edisto essentials. A stint on Edisto is merely camping without them. First on that list, as my son would describe it, is a “Pimp Golf Cart”, now these are no ordinary golf carts…they are often complete with chrome wheels and are painted in the colors of the owners’ collegiate alumni. A dozen or so bikes, a minimum of one jet-ski and about a fifteen foot center console to motor in from your thirty-six foot Sportfisher will nicely round out your Edisto war chest.

On Edisto, residents and guest alike want to think life moves at a slower pace. In fact, I think that it’s just that slower pace perception that draws people to this place. I’ve spent my summers on this island for the better part of twenty years. Tonight, as the burning embers of a charcoal grill are permeating the air and faint voices from the family in the beach house next door fill the voids between the cicadas and the ever present tide, a carload of teen’s miss-shift a convertible in front of my rental.

Now, I’m quite high on California Chardonnay, so the lanky southern drawl of “Yall aint going back yet are you?” is all I can manage to discern from the teens curious and awkwardly familiar conversation. Kids really, they couldn’t have been more than sixteen or seventeen years old. Some might have been older, but not by much. Three young men and two girls piled themselves into a Mini-Cooper. Nothing good can come from a gaggle of well-off teens in daddy’s sports car, especially nothing that follows “Hey yall, watch this...”, but Junior finally found first and the whole lot of them hobbled off down Myrtle Street. The father in me worried somewhat, but that thought quickly faded as my wine glass emptied, and I did get a good chuckle at the sight of that little car bucking and jeering…like a schnauzer drags its ass to free the remnants of its most recent bowel movement.

I’m also rather guilty of perpetuating that slower paced perception by bringing my own family to Edisto for that very same well-intended-but-often-misguided sense of wholesome-ness, hoping that the density of wholesome would somehow displace the viscousness of dysfunction. But, alas I cannot run from my roots, and as a fitting and just reward for the years of aggravation I caused my own parents, the fruit of my loins did not fall far from their tree…my children are impatient, ungrateful, and have little or no regard for the personal property of others. I know this to be true because I have personally witnessed my son fill a solo cup with red kool-aid a full quarter-inch above the lip, retaining the fluid in the cup by sheer surface tension alone. Fearing that this defiance of physical law would inevitably lead to the destruction of a perfectly worn Berber remnant, I screamed at him to take that shit out back, which is where the ‘accident” eventually occurred, creating a rather realistic crime scene effect on the weathered wood deck. I know I should be glad that I don’t actually own the beach house, but I pick up a real estate magazine every visit anyway.

Truth be told, I'm no fan of white wine. I had stopped by the marina to have a few rum-n-cokes with the local crowd after dropping the family off at the Lions Club, but the line of tourist trying to get one of those sunset tables for dinner was gathering out the door onto the pier, so I meandered back to our rental by the surprisingly adequate light of the waning moon to make my own libation. I sat on the elevated porch and waved at the passer by’s. I listened to the mixed tape I had kept in my possession since high school. I switched to Scotch and water.

What is this wholesome-ness anyway? True, Edisto is no Myrtle Beach. There is no outlet mall, no fast food, and no waterslides or mini-golf. Matter of fact, there is only one grocery store on the entire island.You can count the restaurants on one hand, and there’s only one gas station unless you count the pump at the marina. But that’s not really why I come. I tell myself that that if I bring my kids to this place that they will leave with a rejuvenated and communal sense of family. I tell myself that family vacations don’t have to include theme parks and roller coasters. I tell myself that my over-stimulated Nintendo generation kids need to learn to appreciate the simpler things in life. But that’s not really why I come.

Our week’s itinerary included surf fishing off the Sound, paddling rented kayaks across Big Bay Creek to Otter Island, tidal pool exploring, crabbing, wave riding on the north end, a visit to the serpentarium for the afternoon gator feeding, a nature hike and visit to the interpretive center, a plethora of family style dinners on the picnic table out back, Bingo at the Lions club, and of course- consuming the intoxicating salt mash air while relaxing in a rocker on the front porch...and waving to all of those who have come to share the same experience.

I come for the passer by’s. I come for the sense of place.

Is honesty always the best policy?

In the 1950's, Edward R Murrow, perhaps the nations most prolific journalist hosted a radio series called "This I Believe". The program essentially asked Americans to submit a three hundred word essay describing their core beliefs. National Public Radio has brought the program back and is soliciting essays. They invite you to contribute to the project by writing and submitting your own statement of personal belief. You can read some here http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=4538138 You can read the essay I submitted below. Then submit your own ;-)

“Honesty is the best policy” sounds so ridiculously cliché. But then again, I have a preteen. Twelve years old to be exact. I've used that cliché more than once with my son. My heart bleeds for him as I helplessly watch him stumble his way through adolescence. Middle school has to be the most humiliating of all human experiences. As kids struggle to find their identity, many align themselves with those they believe they most closely relate to. This seemingly innate desire to ‘fit-in’ most often leads youth to assume the identity of the group that best fulfills that sense of belonging. When I was a kid it was primarily the “Jocks’, the “Nerds”, and the “Heads”; where the “Heads” where long-haired misfits with tell-tale Iron Maiden tee shirts, jean jackets and studded bracelets. I’m assuming “Head” was the short derivative of the ubiquitous term ”Pot Head”. Nowadays there seems to be an endless supply of niche market identity groups. You have your “Goths” and your “Gangstas”; You have the coffee house crowd that shall remain nameless, the ever-staple athletic bunch, those mop-headed soccer hooligans who mean well, and lets not forget those skate punks, after all skateboarding is not a crime I'm told. I tell my son that the people you associate with should never define who you are, even though I know that he probably won’t know who he really is for another ten years, seven if we’re lucky and tithe. I tell him that it’s so much easier just to be yourself, even though I know that he really doesn't understand who he is quite yet. There's nothing groundbreaking here, just your classic identity crisis. Some kids get it worse than others, but they will all endure the hormone induced paranoia we call puberty. The truth is, who we are is a bouillabaisse of life experiences, beliefs, values, and lessons learned. So, in the awkward years between puberty and adulthood, what do I tell my son who struggles with his place in life? I tell him that honesty is the best policy. I tell him to be honest with himself, and everything else will fall into place. When I think back to my own middle school years, I remember actually trying to perfect a “walk”…more of a stride than a walk; it had a ridiculous gate and an off tempo toe drag. Why? God, why? I remember exactly when the proverbial light switch flipped on. My mother had taken me school shopping, that awful annual ritual that marked the end of summer and the beginning of the paralyzing anxiety that perennially accompanied the first week of school for me. I had boldly selected a poly-something, black double breasted (sleeveless no less) shirt and black parachute pants with silver piping. My mother in her infinite wisdom only replied “is there enough room in the waist?” I put that get-up on for my first day of school in the ninth grade. It was out-there, even by 1982 fuchia leg warmer standards. (--What were we thinking?--) As I stood in front of the mirror staring at myself in that Hans Solo costume, it clicked. I looked absurd. From that point forward, and with but very few exceptions, I have always been conscious of the fact that we are who we are; not who others would want us to be. So, no matter how badly you seek acceptance, always remember to leave enough room in the waist for yourself.

The Lure of The Mirror Shad

I grew up in a very small town in the rural south…the DEEP rural south actually, an especially humid and mosquito laden region of coastal South Carolina known as the Lowcountry. Although it wasn’t exactly the small town from a Norman Rockwell painting, it did have the stereotypical dirt roads and country stores. It had its share of toothless characters and town loonies, as well as a few of its own home-grown blueblood aristocrats. Football was king and our preacher would often cut the Sunday sermons short if a big game was on TV. We had the Liberty five and dime, a Dairy Queen, and lots of old antebellum homes. The classic Lowcountry design had signature tall ceilings with fans to circulate the air and wide porches with their bead board ceilings painted haunt blue to keep the spirits away, a Caribbean tradition courtesy of the slave trade. They also had full length windows to create some relief from the sweltering summer heat, but the most significant feature of a Lowcountry home was its oversized closets, just right for hiding the skeletons of long held family secrets.

Now, don’t get me wrong...growing up in a small town does have its advantages. It’s a good thing when everyone knows your name or at least knows who you are. “Aren’t you so-and-so’s boy? Well tell ya Momma we said hello.” Now that I think on it, maybe it wasn’t always such a good thing… Thelma Limehouse would always threaten to call our folks if one of us didn’t own up to trampling her prized tomato plants or bending the livestock fence when we hopped it to play baseball in the cow pasture.

I seem to have a notorious sort of revisionist history when it comes to recalling my youth. What I mean is that I often sugar-coat my memories because I like to think that all of my experiences were wholesome and nostalgic, but in reality, although I have a great deal of fond memories I often find myself reflecting more on the many episodes of sheer dysfunction that pepper my mental landscape than on anything remotely fond. Maybe it’s the glass half empty side of me, I don’t really know.

I guess you could say that I can fondly recall splitting a grilled cheese sandwich with my mother at the drug store lunch counter when I was maybe five years old. Cubed green Jell-O® with a spiral cone of redi-whip just seemed so exotic. Then again, whenever I think of that drug store I think of the absolutely traumatic three weeks of schizophrenic paranoia I went through thinking I was going to hell for shoplifting a Rapala® deep-diving mirror shad fishing lure. I took it out of its clear plastic packaging and shoved it in the front pocket of my Toughskins. If you’ve never seen a Rapala® deep diving mirror shad, it has not two, but three sets of razor sharp treble hooks for that guaranteed sure-catch.

I didn’t really want to steal that mirror shad. My brother and Ronnie San Pedro put me up to it. Although my brother was only two years older, he had some kind of authoritative unilateral rule over all forms of neighborhood activity. Ronnie was the oldest son of a seven kid Puerto Rican family that lived in the trailer park at the end of our street. Speaking of closets, I think the oldest San Pedro girl, Missy, ended up coming out of one a few years ago. It didn’t surprise anyone though. She was always a tom-boy sort, and now that I think about it, she was never the last one standing when the captains picked teams.

No, I couldn’t tell you why I went along with that fishing lure caper. All I know is that my brother and Ronnie were nowhere to be found when I left the drugstore. I think I cried all the way home. I cut through Mrs. Elliott’s yard as I peddled my banana-seat schwinn along the kudzu and wisteria lined path on the shortcut behind the library. I don’t think I even noticed that the mirror shad had lived up to that guarantee and made its first catch, entangling its barbs into my pants pocket and upper thigh.

My mother had us in church every time the door opened; twice on Sunday, and every Wednesday night for prayer service. We memorized bible verses from the New Testament in Sunday school and went to vacation bible school for two weeks every summer. We sang in the youth choir and practiced on Tuesday nights. Needless to say, we had our fill of fundamentalism by the time we were twelve. The thought of stealing, I mean blatantly breaking one of the Ten Commandments while God watched and took notes no less, was one of the worst offenses a ten year old boy could commit, second only to taking the Lords name in vain, which incidentally, earned you a mouthful of Ivory liquid soap and an ass cuttin’…but stealing? Stealing would send you to Hell… a pit of death where pain and suffering emanated from a lake of fire. I didn’t want to go to Hell.

My Father had attached a lean-to structure on the side of the barn to keep our bikes out of the weather, although I think it was more about keeping us kids out of the barn. As I sat in that bike shed staring out into the yard the sky began to darken. It started to rain. A slow but determined shower pelted the sandy soil creating a steamy haze as it cooled the scorched summer earth. It was clearly a sign. God was angry. People in the Lowcountry are very superstitious, hence the blue porch ceilings to repel stray spirits, and I knew that the angry sky was directed at me. My mother used to say that rainbows where Gods apologies for the often violent acts of Mother Nature. To this day I’m perplexed by the duality of the Creator, divine benevolence with a mean streak. My mind swirled as I struggled to make sense of what was happening. My tribulations where compounded as I was forced to cut the mirror shad from the pocket of my jeans, spelling an almost certain whipping from my Mother. Although I was hooked firmly, I was lucky in that the jeans had spared my thigh from the sure-catch barb, which would have made self extraction even more painful.

If I had learned anything from ten years of Southern Baptist confinement, it was that if I were to have any chance of circumventing the ground opening beneath me in a demonic fury, I had to repent and repent fast. I had to ask God for forgiveness, but as if asking the all-mighty himself for forgiveness where not enough, Southern Baptist added a strange draconian twist. Not only must you repent your sins to the Lord God above, but one must also publicly confess his sins and ask forgiveness from those who have fell victim to his evil ways. As if getting out of the drug store with stolen property were not hard enough, now I had to get back in and return it.

I rummaged through my brothers well-stocked old-timer tackle box looking for a suitable replacement for the clear plastic box I left behind in the aisle where the baseball cards where. I thought it would be too difficult to try and retrieve the original. On the second fold out row there was a brand new creek chub still in its acrylic box. I removed it and put the mirror shad in its place. Oddly enough, it stopped raining. Steam rose from the ground and the heat distorted the horizon. God had granted a stay of execution.

For three agonizing weeks that mirror shad haunted me like a tell-tale heart. I kept it under my bed, except for a brief period when I moved it to the tree fort. As each day passed I grew more and more remorseful, yet I could not bring myself to get within fifty yards of the drug store. I prayed several times a day, many times on bended-knee, asking God to spare my life. Please don’t send me to Hell God, Please. Finally, out of fear and desperation, I returned the mirror shad to its rightful owner, albeit somewhat mangled and not in its original package, I returned it nevertheless. I put it back on the shelf, and nonchalantly purchased a pack of Topps baseball cards with the Bazooka Joe gum inside, three Now-N-Laters and a Charms Blow pop for good measure.

It was a solid year before I went back to the drug store. If my mother was going to the Pharmacy, I would wait in the car. A few years ago my brother and I where helping our aging Father tear down the old barn and bike shed over the Thanksgiving holiday. Thirty years later and it still wreaked of pee from using its back side as a urinal when we were kids. We were both disgustingly amused. As we pulled the weathered board and batten siding from its timber frame, we marveled at how much smaller the structure was than we had remembered. My brother kept the piece of siding from overtop the barn door where my father had affixed a lucky horseshoe. It was a crisp autumn morning as we pushed the last timbers into a remarkably compact pile of debris. As the noon day sun warmed the nape of my neck I suddenly realized that I had not fully repented for stealing that mirror shad. I seized the opportunity to preserve my hereafter and publicly announced to my father that I stolen a Rapala® deep diving mirror shad lure from Eckerd’s drug store in 1977, but that Chris and Ronnie San Pedro made me do it.
As my family and I drove home that afternoon, I stopped by the old drug store. I told my wife that there was something I had to do. I went into the store and approached the young lady at the register. I gave her three dollars and told her that I had stolen a mirror shad lure from the store when I was a kid and I wanted to do the right thing and pay them back. She stared at me with the annoyed innocence of a typical teen. I picked up a pack of baseball cards, three Now-And-Laters and a Charms Blow Pop for good measure, checked out and left the three dollars in the have-a-penny-leave-a-penny tray. About three months later the old drug store closed. It was replaced by one of those hideous dollar store chains. My Grandmother on my mom’s side used to say that God worked in mysterious ways. To this day I’m convinced that He kept that old store open until I had fully repented for yielding to the siren temptation of the mirror shad lure.