Mayhem in Myrtle Beach

by T. Lynn Ocean

  Sensing her distress, Freddy reached around and gave her a quick pat on the shoulder when she sat down behind him. They were both new at the group tour thing, but at least they were in it together. And, he didn’t much care if the group gave him a hard time. He wouldn’t even care if they stiffed him on the driver’s tip. He just hoped they would take it easy on Sherwood.

  As they cruised South on a rain-dampened Highway 17 and Sherwood’s passengers settled in for their short drive, the Great Wings new activity director forgot about her own shortcomings as a group leader and wondered about Willie, the man. What did he look like and why didn’t anyone know him? Who did he pal around with? And, why would anyone go on a group vacation to spend time alone, by himself?

  Twelve

  A Biker’s Bar

  North Myrtle Beach

  Friday morning

  “Gus, this place looks like a dive,” Maggie warned as they walked up to the door. They had ridden a trolley bus and gotten off in North Myrtle Beach, which as the driver had explained, was a separate city from Myrtle Beach. Apparently many tourists got the two confused.

  The ‘dive’ Maggie referred to looked like a hangout for Harley motorcycle riders. The front windows were tinted dark and nothing could be seen of the inside except for neon beer signs which hung inside the glass. It was in an out of the way location, hidden between a strip mall and a townhouse complex about three blocks from the ocean.

  “C’mon Maggie,” Gus answered, his putter leading the way. “Let’s go have a beer, like we talked about, and see if this joint has a TV. I’m glad we skipped the shopping today—this is much more fun. We are out seeing some of the real Myrtle Beach. Not that Broadway stuff,” he said.

  “North Myrtle Beach,” she corrected. Maggie decided that what they were seeing probably wasn’t the real Myrtle Beach or North Myrtle Beach. She’d bet that the local retirees who lived there had never even heard of the place they were at, much less stopped in for a beer and a sandwich.

  “You’re starting to sound like Mrs. Storrey, for pete’s sake.” Gus wasn’t used to being corrected by anyone. Most of the time, people didn’t respond to him at all. He was simply tolerated and his grumbling was ignored.

  They entered the pub and stood inside the doorway for several seconds while their eyes adjusted to the dimness. A musty smell hit them about the same time the twangy country music did. Tables, all empty, were scattered throughout the room and what might have been a stage sat in the middle of the floor. At Gus’s prompting, Maggie led the way to the bar and, with apprehension, sat lightly on a bar stool. With obvious effort, Gus climbed onto a stool beside her and, shifting, made a show of arranging himself to get comfortable. He laid the putter’s handle against the bar in front of him and called to the bartender. She was cute, mid-thirties, and may have been beautiful had she not bleached her dark hair until it was an unnatural shade of peroxide blond. A bracelet of blue flowers was tattooed around her left wrist and her ears sported several piercings.

  “With ya in just a sec,” she told them and proceeded to finish loading bottled beers from a cardboard case into a cooler.

  Doing a quick survey, Maggie realized that the place wasn’t so bad after all. It was clean, and the barstools had comfy padded leather seats. Only a handful of people were in the place, but all seemed pleasant enough. Although most of them were heavily tattooed, and a few had a full face of mustache and beard, like those Duck Dynasty guys. This was definitely not a seniors’ hangout. Bus Gus was already immersed in the game on TV. He was thoroughly enjoying himself. And he liked having Maggie by his side.

  “What can I getcha?” the bartender asked, focusing her attention on the couple.

  “A Yuengling. A root beer, no ice. And a couple of cheeseburgers for an early lunch,” Gus answered without looking away from the television.

  “Sure thing on the burgers and the Yuengling. But I don’t have any root beer,” the girl said, jutting out one hip and resting a suntanned hand on it. Her nails were painted a deep purple.

  “Well, we are at the beach,” Gus told Maggie. “How about a pina colada or something with one of those little paper umbrellas in it?”

  “Yeah, okay,” Maggie said, clicking her dentures and looking around as if she were ready to dart outside at any second.

  “One pina colada, minus the umbrella—I don’t have any of those, either—and one icy beer coming up,” the bartender said.

  “Isn’t this great?” Gus asked Maggie, as though they were sitting in a palace.

  “I... I guess so. Sure.”

  To Maggie’s surprise, their drinks were served immediately and a bowl tortilla chips and salsa was placed on the bar between them. Maggie delicately plucked one out of the bowl and examined it before taking a bite. It was warm and crunchy. Encouraged, she reached for another. The bartender returned her attention to stocking the cooler.

  Maggie, happy to be with Gus even if it was being with Gus in a dive, relaxed. She told Gus a joke, and they began talking during time-outs and commercials. Once again, their conversation turned to what they both knew best—publishing. After they had discovered their mutual interest and during their time in the Sea Shell Jacuzzi, they were both eager to share their tales of pre-retirement times. Even more astonishing was the fact they were both happy to listen to each other. People usually never listened to Gus and he was seriously enjoying Maggie’s full attention. They’d been talking about fifteen minutes when a well-built, shirtless young man dressed in grease-stained jeans appeared beside them. Maggie tried to ignore him but could only think that his long sideburns and goatee looked ridiculous. She wanted to strap him down in a barber’s chair and buzz cut everything clean off with a shaver. Gus glanced at him but returned his attention to Maggie, thinking the man was trying to find the bartender.

  “Hey, old man. Cute babe you got there.” Gus eyed the tattooed kid again, said nothing, and sipped his Yuengling. Annoyed, the man moved in closer.

  “I said, hey! Old man!” He swayed slightly, but caught his balance on the edge of the bar.

  Gus sighed. “For pete’s sake. What do you want?”

  “Don’t you old people hang out at the nursing home, or somewhere? Or the K&W Cafeteria, if you’re feeling really peppy?”

  “You got a problem with me and the girlfriend coming in here for lunch?” Gus asked. Maggie blushed at his reference to her as a girlfriend. She sat up a bit straighter and fluffed the frizzy orange ringlets around her face. It hadn’t occurred to her to be frightened.

  “Actually, yeah, I do have a problem with it. You’re cramping my style. My friends come in and see me hangin’ with a scrunched up old man...well... see what I mean?” the kid shrugged his shoulders.

  Gus didn’t see what he meant. Maggie continued to fluff, oblivious of an impending conflict.

  “Hey, Mike,” the bleached blond scolded. “You’ve had too much to drink, man. You look like you haven’t even been to bed yet from last night.”

  “You got that right, I haven’t been to bed. Well, not to sleep anyway.” The words came out slurred.

  “Go on home,” the barkeep said. “You need sleep. And I don’t need any trouble on my shift.”

  Ignoring her, the guy rubbed a hand over furrowed eyebrows and moved closer until he was in Gus’s face. His breath stank of cigarette smoke and an empty stomach.

  “She’s right, kid. You need to go sleep it off,” Gus told him, turning back to face Maggie.

  Taking a swallow of beer, Gus had the bottle halfway to his mouth when the man slapped it out of his hand. It went flying over Maggie’s lap and clattered on a nearby table, spiraling, spraying foaming beer, before it rolled to the floor and shattered.

  Before Maggie or anyone else could respond, the shirtless kid was doubled over in pain. Eyes opened wide in surprise, he clutched his groin with one hand and his stomach with the other while he staggered backwards. It appeared as though he wasn’t breathing.

  A fraction of a second after the bot
tle shattered, Gus’s putter had painfully hooked the man between his legs, then just as quickly, pulled back and jabbed forcefully into his solar plexus. He couldn’t catch his breath. It happened so quickly that he didn’t even realize what he’d been hit with. All he knew was that a flash of pain had exploded in his groin, traveled to his abdomen, and landed in the center of his chest.

  Maggie’s mouth opened and her upper denture fell down while she stared in amazement. She pushed it back into place with her tongue and sputtered.

  “Gus! What did you? How... that was amazing! How did you do that?”

  A couple of guys appeared and half-carried the wheezing man outside.

  “Really sorry about our friend, man. He’s drunk,” one of them explained. “Everything cool? Can we buy your lunch?”

  Gus calmly returned the putter to its resting place. “No need to buy our lunch. Just get him home before he really gets hurt.”

  The bartender, speechless, continued to stare with disbelief. After a beat, she replaced Gus’s beer.

  “Damned drunk kid,” Gus muttered and took a swig of the new beer.

  “I didn’t know you were so strong! And you moved so quickly! I barely saw it,” Maggie exclaimed. It was Gus’s turn to blush.

  “Ah, you gotta watch out for yourself,” he said, like disabling a mean drunk was no big deal.

  Assuming that Gus would want to leave, Maggie stood up to go just as the bartender placed two platters in front of them. The burgers smelled delicious, and steam rose from the freshly cooked French fries.

  “Sit down, Maggie and enjoy your pina colada. And let’s eat our lunch,” Gus said nodding towards the television bracketed to the wall behind the bar. “Look, the score’s tied now. Let’s see who wins the football game, for pete’s sake.”

  Maggie sat back down, feeling warm. And safe. After sliding her barstool closer to Gus, she fluffed her orange curls and blotted her lips with a paper napkin. Out of character, she had worn a bright shade of pink lipstick. It was not applied exactly even and gave her mouth the appearance of being slightly lopsided. Through a hearty bite of burger Gus smiled at her, thinking how becoming it was.

  Two drinks, two burgers, and one hour later, the pair walked outside into dazzling daylight. They’d lost track of time in the darkened bar and hurried to get back to the hotel on time. The rainy morning had blossomed into a sunny day and Maggie didn’t want to miss the afternoon Georgetown tour. Plus, she couldn’t wait to brag on Gus. Maggie led the way, sandals flopping loudly against her heels. Gus followed with his side-to-side wobble, the putter acting now as a walking cane rather than a weapon.

  Thirteen

  Sea Shell Hotel

  Friday mid-afternoon

  It was basically a pit stop. The seniors hurried to use the restroom, get a drink, apply lip gloss and cologne, grab a sweater, and in Gretta’s case, watch eight minutes of CNN on the big screen TV in their room.

  With Freddy looking on, Sherwood tried to telephone Willie’s room again and got no answer. Half perplexed and half worried, she forced herself to concentrate on the activities ahead.

  “Hey, take it easy. You aren’t their babysitter you know,” Freddy calmed. “Just their activity director.”

  “Not yet, I’m not. Remember that this is a trial deal. You know, try before you buy. This group may decide they don’t want me.”

  “Anyone who didn’t want you would be entirely crazy.”

  The double meaning was not missed on Sherwood. Her thoughts flashed briefly to her ex-fiancé. He didn’t want her. He had, in fact, humiliated her. Unceremoniously dumped her. Sherwood mistook the look of desire on Freddy’s face as sympathy. After the way she’d consistently turned down his date offers during their college years, she was surprised that he was being so nice to her. The sight of Freddy rolling up his white dress shirt sleeves and adjusting his tie made her stomach jump. The muscles in his exposed forearms moved beneath tawny skin and the fabric of his dress shirt stretched across wide shoulders. When had he turned into such a man? Sherwood inhaled sharply and all thoughts of the professor were forgotten. She tried to imagine what it would feel like to stretch out on her crisp, hotel bed sheets. Next to Freddy. Nude. If only she’d have paid more attention to him last year, when he was interested in her.

  To prevent herself from falling into self-pity mode, she focused on the matters at hand and called her residents who’d skipped the morning shopping. Rounding up Jack, Nell, Maggie, and Gus took only five phone calls. Exactly fourteen minutes after parking along the curb, the motorcoach pulled out with all of its rightful passengers, except one. The mystery man that nobody knew.

  Fourteen

  Georgetown, South Carolina

  Friday early afternoon

  Oak trees, their limbs bulging and arched with age, lined the two-mile main drive of Mansfield Plantation. The distinguished oaks draped in moss were believed to have been planted by Dr. Francis Parker, which dated them at over one hundred and fifty years old. Symbolic of the South, the trees created a living tunnel of magnificent greenery. Several branches brushed the roof of their bus in greeting as they slowly cruised the dirt road.

  On the microphone, Sherwood mentioned that Francis Parker was a Charleston physician who moved to Mansfield Plantation with his wife, Mary. But it was Mary’s grandmother, a Mansfield, after whom the rice plantation was named.

  They passed several original slave huts before spotting the main house which stood at the end of the long drive. Situated on nine-hundred private acres, the plantation harbored the Black River and its two-hundred and seventy-five-year history landed it on the National Register of Historic Places.

  An attractive strawberry blond guide, one who gave the appearance of living off organic vegetables and lots of exercise, met the visitors as they neared the main house. Not surprisingly, she lived at the plantation and was an environmentalist who doubled as a history enthusiast. She led the seniors on a walking tour—albeit a slow one—and described how the mile-long dam was erected by hand with slave labor. The group learned that flooding the fields was a method of insect control, that the plantation was previously home to over a hundred slaves and produced over seven-thousand bushels of rice each year, and that at the time, Georgetown County was the largest rice-producing area in the entire United States.

  As the group wandered through one of the empty slave huts, Mrs. Storrey tried to imagine the lives of the families who’d lived and worked on the plantation, and walked over the very wood which she was standing on. She held Smith’s hand, imagining them living together during that time period, traveling to town in a horse-drawn carriage. She gave him a playful pat on the butt.

  Digital cameras and mobile phones beeped their electronic sounds as several people took photographs. The main house was surprisingly small, but in place in its history with the other authentic ante-bellum plantation homes that were scattered throughout the lowcountry of South Carolina.

  After the tour, they were welcomed to wander around the grounds on their own and several headed directly for the bus to sit while the remainder strolled through the guest houses and the stables.

  Gus stopped to photograph something at the base of a Magnolia tree. It was a fire ant mound.

  “What are you doing?” Maggie asked him even though she could clearly see. She gripped a can of lukewarm root beer.

  “Would you look at that, for pete’s sake!” he answered. “This is the biggest ant hill I’ve ever seen!”

  “You are in the midst of old South history, at a historic rice plantation. A reminder of the stark and brutal reality of slavery. And you’re photographing an ant mound?” She clicked her dentures.

  “Well, it’s a damned big ant mound,” he said stubbornly. “Besides, if you’re so enchanted with the history, you should be drinking iced tea or a mint julep. They didn’t have canned root beer back then. Christ Almighty, would you just look at those little suckers swarming? They’ve actually killed cattle, you know.”

  “
Oh, go... photograph some dirt or something,” was all she could think of to say. Gus laughed and patted her bottom with the putter. Awkwardly, he leaned over to get a shot at a different angle, tripped, and almost fell into the ant hill.

  An hour and a half later after their arrival, the Great Wings seniors boarded their coach for departure. They felt good, enjoying their accomplishment, as though they’d survived a history class field trip and were confident of making a good grade on the exam.

  “Whew! Burt, you stink!” Gus announced from the seat behind him. “Put on some after shave, or something.”

  “Speaking of after shave,” Burt said, standing up in the aisle and rubbing his face, “is anyone going to give me a damned razor blade? I mean, I know somebody has one. Just because I’ve pulled a few practical jokes here and there doesn’t mean you can’t have a little human decency.”

  His request was met with a few smirks, but no offers of a single edge razor blade. He muttered something unintelligible and sat down in frustration, scratching his chin. Sherwood walked the aisle, counting heads. Keeping track of her group was becoming automatic. She had definitely gotten the hang of it. Even the much-worshipped Susan couldn’t have done any better. In fact, she hadn’t heard much at all that day about ‘how Susan would have done it’. Either she was doing a decent job, or the Great Wingers had decided to quit complaining. Maybe both.

  “Well, maybe walking the stairs will help. That’s good for constipation, don’t you know,” Gretta said as Sherwood passed through the center of the bus. The tidbits of conversation she caught when doing head counts were becoming more and more interesting. Since the residents were becoming accustomed to her presence, Sherwood found that when she was not needed, she was ignored. Sort of like a server at a restaurant.