by Bill Noel
“Dude be subtle,” Charles said, mocking the surfer’s command of the English language.
The party—cash bash—wasn’t to start for another half hour but there were already a half-dozen cars parked in the front yard. I found a spot a block away and was sweating before we made it to Dude’s front steps. It was in the low nineties, with high humidity. The only saving grace was thick, black clouds looming overhead. Rain was predicted.
There was a note on the front door that read IF YOU BE DONATIN’ BIG BUCKS, COME IN.
“Yes, subtle,” I said.
I had never been in Dude’s house but after knowing the surf shop owner for several years, I was prepared to not be surprised by anything. His décor didn’t disappoint. The door opened to the living room that looked like a museum devoted to the 1960s. Bright-green shag carpet covered the floor and the seating grouping consisted of an orange, a green, and a yellow beanbag chair. Three framed photos of a much-younger Dude standing beside other surfers were hung on the wall in an erratic pattern. After my eyes adjusted to the colors, I looked through the door leading to the kitchen and a large wooden deck. This was clearly where the action was.
Dude was waving his arms, his multi-colored tie dye shirt flapped in the breeze, and the subject of his gyrations, Dennis, Cal’s short-order cook, pointed to an aluminum pan holding what looked like mini-hotdogs wrapped in dough, covered in freezer-frost.
“Fine chef and host be disputin’ something,” Charles said.
I elbowed him and headed to the patio. The Doors were screaming “Light My Fire” from an eight-track tape player on a table at the corner of the deck. And Dude was also screaming something about lighting a fire, but for the mini-hotdogs. Cal was standing stooped-shouldered behind his cook and nodding at everything Dude was saying. Five classic surfboards were hanging vertically on the wall by the door.
About that time, Mother Nature added her two-cents to the conversation in the form of a torrential downpour. Dude, the cook, Cal, and three other early arrivers grabbed their drinks, the eight-track boom box, and what was left of their dry clothing, and scampered inside.
Dude was in his early sixties, about five-foot seven, thin, and with his long, mostly white, stringy hair, looked like a shorter, thinner version of the folk singer Arlo Guthrie. He shook his head like a dog and noticed Charles and me.
“Whoa, cool T,” he said and nodded toward Charles’s long-sleeve T-shirt.
I made a conscious effort years ago to ignore the many long-sleeve, predominantly college logoed, T-shirts that Charles felt compelled to wear. Many others chose not to ignore them. Tonight, he had on a gold T-shirt with the word Gauchos written in script on it.
Charles smiled. “University of California at Santa Barbara.”
Dude returned his smile, and said, “Numero Uno bestest surf college in US of A.”
Okay, I couldn’t resist asking, and turned to the host, “How do you know that?”
Dude looked at me like he’d seen me for the first time. “Surfer Magazine, duh!”
How had that fact slipped by me?
Dude and Charles’s enlightening conversation was interrupted by the arrival of three more people who I assumed were here to be donatin’ big bucks. Todd Livers, who I’d met last year, and was a surfer friend of Dude’s, shook the rain off his ball cap and looked around the room. Behind him stood Stephon, one of Dude’s employees and a perennial candidate for the East Coast rudest employee of the year. Both men were half my age. The third member of the trio of arrivers was much closer to my age. Mel Evans, better known for reasons that quickly become obvious as Mad Mel, shoved his way past Stephon, waved his camouflage hunting cap in the air throwing water in all directions, and glared at Dude, “Why in the hell didn’t you have this shindig on a dry night, you damned, draft-dodging, hippy, druggy?”
Dude appeared nonplussed and nodded. “Welcome Melster. Crack a grin or skedaddle.”
I saw Todd look around, probably to grab anything breakable before the earthquake hit. There was no need when Mel laughed. Mel and Dude had become friends more than two decades ago when Dude had saved Mel from being pulled out to sea in a rip current.
Dude looked behind Mel. “Where be Caldwell?”
Caldwell Ramsey was Mel’s significant other and a music promoter in Charleston.
“Said he couldn’t think of a single reason he wanted to see you tonight. Decided a colonoscopy would be more fun.”
Dude shrugged. “He be sorry.”
“Doubt it,” Mel said. “He sent a check.”
“Be better if Caldwell be here, better than have camera stuck up in butt. You send a check, if it no bounce.”
The Doors sang “People Are Strange” from the boom box Cal retrieved from the rain. I agreed, and Brian Newman, the reason for the gathering, stuck his head in the door.
“Yo, Mr. Mayorster,” Dude said. “Welcome.”
As if on cue, Dude’s Australian Terrier, Pluto, stuck his head out of a red, tiny, domed, camping tent, with a glow-in-the-dark peace symbol on the side, and barked.
“Be saying howdy,” Dude translated for the pup that looked like a shorter version of the surfer.
Brian looked to see who was in the room and, like all good politicians, leaned down and let Pluto lick the side of his face. There were no babies to kiss.
If anyone else arrived, we would be standing on each other’s toes, so I was happy to see that the rain had stopped, and rays of the setting sun filtered through the window. Dennis was putting the thawing hot dogs in the oven, and Mel was rooting through the tub holding the beer. I suggested we should migrate back to the deck. Cal took the hint and said he’d begin singing as soon as a crowd gathered outside. Mel rolled his eyes and grabbed the beer tub and hauled it outside. Others followed, most likely following the beer rather than the country crooner. Dude told Stephon to wipe the rain off the chairs. Mr. Rude snarled at his boss but grabbed a dry rag and started slapping the ponded water to the deck.
Barb arrived next. She looked lovely in one of her red blouses and linen slacks. She had a bottle of white wine in her hand, winked at me, and said it was for emergencies in case Dude didn’t have any of my drink of choice. I kissed her on the cheek and thanked her for the care package. She asked if I knew everyone at the fundraiser and I said yes, some better than others. I took it as a hint and introduced her to Mel who acted civil and said he’d heard a lot about her and her bookstore. He backslid a bit when he asked her what she was doing with such a stuffy, prude like me. She said all the charming guys were taken and I was all that was left. He said all the charming straight guys may be taken, but there was one charming gay guy in the room. I looked around to see who he was referring to, he said, “ha ha,” and moved away to pester Dude. Barb already knew Stephon and Todd from the surf shop.
A younger version of Barb came around the corner. She was thin with stylishly-cut, short blond hair, wearing a white and light-blue sundress and looked more like she was going to a cocktail party than anything at Dude’s. She spotted the host and headed his way without stopping to talk to anyone. Barb asked me who she was, and I told her I didn’t know.
“Then let’s find out, shall we?”
Barb was normally reticent to meet strangers and had a reputation among those who didn’t know her well of being standoffish. I followed her to Dude and the stranger who had knelt and was petting Pluto.
“Howdy, Barbstress,” Dude said and shook her hand. Barb gave it a brief shake and hugged the host.
Dude smiled and said, “Woe, make me woozy.”
Barb returned his smile, didn’t comment on her level of wooziness and thanked him for inviting her.
“Me be invitin’ all big-buck peeps. Need to keep el mayor mayor.”
Pluto drifted toward his food bowl and the newcomer stood and looked at Barb. “Book store lady, right?”
Barb said she was right and said, “And you are? I don’t recall seeing you around.”
“I’m Katelin Hatchett
.” She stuck out her hand. “Dude invited me. We met in the surf shop. He’s a nice old hippie.”
“Whoa,” Dude said for the second time. “Me be hippie, but young compared to age of rock—stone one, not rock and roll one.”
He said something else, but I didn’t catch it—not that rare an occurrence. I was trying to remember where I’d heard her name. It struck me about the time Cal struck the first notes of “Hey Good Lookin’” as he channeled Hank Williams Sr., one of his idols. Katelin was one of Lauren Craft’s housemates.
Cal tried to get everyone in the spirit of Dude’s house and sang “Surfin’ U.S.A.” His rendition fell under the category it’s the thought that counts. Country music was in his blood and in his voice. His vocal range began and ended there. He finished, and Dude applauded and said, “Boss!” The only reaction from everyone else was to look at Dude and, I suspect, wonder what music he was listening to. Cal slid back into his genre and began Ricky Van Shelton’s “I’ll Leave This World Loving You,” and the rest of us continued our conversations. I tried to think of something to say to Katelin, but she moved away to talk to Stephon before I had a chance.
I was surprised to see Brad Burton at the back of the patio. He must have arrived while I was talking to Katelin. He was looking around like he didn’t know anyone, so I sighed, and as much as I hated to admit it, felt sorry for him and wandered his way and said it was nice seeing him.
He continued looking around the deck, and said, “I’ve always liked the mayor and Hazel said I should make an appearance to show our support.” He hesitated and smiled. “And give him a check.”
The only positive encounter I had with the former detective before he’d moved here was a couple of years back when he had shared with me some damning information about the unpopular previous mayor, and I used it to get him to resign, thus opening the door for Brian to be elected.
“It was nice of you to come. I know how difficult this must be.”
Brad saw Brian Newman talking to one of the surfers. “That’s why I’m going to say hi to the mayor, leave my check, and get out of here. Excuse me.”
I again thanked him for coming and watched him move to Brian.
I looked for Charles but instead saw William Hansel peeking in the door. He looked around and smiled when he saw me. The sixty-four-year-old professor at the College of Charleston had been one of the first people I’d met when I got to Folly. We were about the same age, and even though he’d lived on Folly for more than ten years at that time, we in many ways had been outsiders. I was new to the community and William was African American, one of only a couple of handfuls residing here at the time. He had made a few good friends since his wife died seventeen years ago. I was honored to count myself as one of them.
“Chris, I am heartened to see you among the guests at this event.”
William’s navy-blue dress slacks and tan, button-down, dress shirt were as formal as his speech. He could be as difficult to understand as was Dude, but for the opposite reason.
“Glad you could make it,” I said. “Brian will be pleased to see you.”
William looked around the room. “It appears I am amid several people to whom I am unfamiliar.”
I pointed out he knew the mayor, Charles, Barb, and Dude, and offered to walk with him to the bar.
“That would be appreciated.”
Charles had seen William and ended his conversation with Mel and met the two of us at the drinks.
“Evening, Professor,” Charles said and nodded in my direction. “Couldn’t find anyone better to hang with?”
William chuckled. “Mr. Fowler, you were in deep conversation with Mr. Evans and I didn’t want to interfere with your social intercourse.”
“If you mean that Mad Mel was blabbing on about how great he was, you’re right.”
Cal finished “On the Other Hand,” and waved Dude to stand beside him and said, “Guys and Gals, Dude here invited us to share in this gala, so we could support the reelection of our mayor. So, let’s give Dude a big hand and let him say a few words.” Cal smiled. “And if I know Dude, it’ll be very few words.”
Applause for Dude wasn’t quite as strong as was the laughter at Cal’s remark. Either way, Dude moved to where Cal had been standing.
“Thanks for coming. Lay oodles of dough on getting the mayor reelected.” Dude gave a bow like he’d recited the Gettysburg Address and stepped aside.
Brian put his arm on Dude’s shoulder. “Thank you, Dude, for hosting this event, for giving me a chance to share why I am running for reelection, and for your, umm, words of encouragement.”
Barb had moved to my side and was surprised to see Katelin and Stephon on my other side. Brian began by sharing what he considered his main accomplishments since being in office and a little about his background as police chief. He told us since there was an opponent—a well-financed opponent—who had already started his campaign, that Brian needed to start early. He confided he hated asking for donations, but he would have to get over it since it appeared that record amounts would be spent on the election.
“Now don’t get me wrong,” he said. “My opponent appears to be sincere, with the best of intentions.” Brian was following the current political strategy of not mentioning his opponent’s name. “Many of us already know him through his businesses. He’s telling everyone he’s a long shot or a dark horse in the race, but don’t believe it for a second. He’s got money and a message that sounds better than it is. I believe he is a fine man, but we simply have different visions of what Folly should become.”
“Fine man, shit,” mumbled Katelin, louder than she had intended.
I glanced around and no one else appeared to have heard her.
Brian continued with how he differed with his opponent, and ended by asking for our support and turned it back over to Cal.
“Now friends and neighbors,” Cal said, and pointed to a small table by the door “I hear there are empty envelopes back there on that table. Before y’all leave, grab one, stuff it full of cash, checks, gold nuggets, whatever, and fill out the pesky paperwork. Our mayor, Brian Newman, needs our support.” He picked up his guitar and back in the spirit of Dude, he started strumming and poorly singing “Fun, Fun, Fun.”
17
The day after the fundraiser, I was having breakfast at the Dog, joking with Amber, and watching Marc Salmon and Houston Bass arguing about a parking ordinance the council had been debating. Were they as worried about the upcoming election as Brian was? I also replayed parts of last night’s fundraiser and what I had told Charles about how Katelin had reacted to Brian’s complimentary comment about Joel. Charles had been so distracted about Heather that he failed to do what he does best: ask thousands of questions about what I was telling him, most of them irrelevant. I hate to admit it, but I missed his interruptions.
I had noticed a change in Charles since he and Heather had returned from Nashville. He had been one of the most upbeat people I’d ever come into contact with from the day I’d met him until the day they loaded up his car and moved to Music City. Folly had been his home for years and he had embraced it and had become one of its biggest supporters. To be honest, Charles was the walking, talking personification of the kind of person the island I had fallen in love with represented. He liked almost everyone, could find good in the most obnoxious resident, and was a chameleon when interacting with the wide range of personalities with which he came in contact. And I knew from personal encounters with evil that he would put his life on the line for his friends. Charles had said he was glad to be back after their move to Tennessee, and at times I recognized the Charles of old, but while others had said he was the same, I knew differently. I hoped time would bring out the old Charles, for both his and my sake.
Amber had refreshed my coffee when Katelin stepped into the crowded restaurant, glanced around, and headed in my direction. She looked exhausted. Her stylish attire from the fundraiser was replaced by ratty shorts and a wrinkled, black T-shirt with N
ike written below the company’s iconic swish.
“Mr. Landrum, umm, Chris, could I join you?”
I nodded toward the seat on the other side of the table. “Of course. Want coffee or something to eat?”
Amber had seen Katelin arrive and was quick to the table.
Katelin started to answer me but looked up at Amber. “Maybe some coffee, yes, coffee please.”
Amber headed to the kitchen, and Katelin tapped her fingers on the table. “Pretty day, isn’t it?”
“Beats last night’s weather,” I said. I wanted to jump into the reason she was here, but it’d be better for her to get there at her own pace.
She looked at the framed photos of dogs on the wall beside me. “Lots of dogs in here.”
I agreed as Amber returned with Katelin’s coffee and a second refill for me. Amber asked if Katelin wanted something to eat. She said no, and Amber moved to the next table to share her endearing smile and helpful attitude.
“Umm,” Katelin said, “saw you talking with Lauren’s dad, umm, Mr. Burton, last night and figured you were friends.”
I acknowledged that we were acquaintances and had been talking at the fundraiser.
Katelin took a sip of coffee. “Well anyway, I wanted to tell him something, but he disappeared before I could get to him.”
I told her Brad wanted to support the mayor and wasn’t there long.
She looked in her coffee mug and in a lower voice said, “I was afraid he’d be mad at me, or try to blame his daughter’s death on me.”
“Why would you think that?”
“I’d only talked to him a couple of times when he came to the house Lauren and I shared. He didn’t say anything bad, but I could tell from his expression that he didn’t approve of where we lived. I figured he thought I was a bad influence on Lauren.”