Mayhem in Myrtle Beach

by T. Lynn Ocean

  Highlighted by a luminous moon, cloud formations slid steadily overhead as the flock of retirees flitted back and forth from deep, introspective thoughts to witty commentary and observations. The lower the level of scotch in the bottle, the more animated they grew. Encouraged by the temporary intimacy and the lateness of the night, they swapped stories of their youth, their struggles, their triumphs and the physical difficulties of aging. They laughed and complained and teased and agreed. Willie, floating heavily among everyone’s subconscious, was not mentioned. Eventually, the man from New Jersey decided that his wife might be looking for him and stood to return to his hotel room. He was hugged, thanked, given parting words of advice, and was the recipient of heartfelt good-byes before the Great Wingers let him go. No one else made a move to leave.

  “A few weeks back,” Burt said, “I went for a walk and was crossing the street at an intersection. There was this hot rod full of kids stopped at the red light. It was bright blue, a convertible of some sort. The moment I was directly in front of the car, the driver gunned the engine. I jumped like I’d stepped on a rattlesnake. The punks thought it was funny.”

  “So, what did you do, Burt?” Ethyl asked.

  “Nothing, not a damn thing. Just looked at them. In my younger days, I would have kicked some ass.”

  Gus grumbled knowingly.

  “Yeah,” he said, “I know what you mean about people treating you bad. I’m tired of people yelling at me. They talk so loud, and not only that—they talk to me like I’m a three-year-old. Just because I’m a little hard of hearing doesn’t mean I’m dumb, for pete’s sake.” The putter tapped the ground in emphasis.

  “Gus kicked some ass today,” Maggie said proudly. She proceeded to tell them the story about the drunk man at the bar. Disbelief turned to amazement, then laughter.

  “Maybe that pink putter’s not so bad after all,” Burt said.

  The near-empty bottle of Johnnie Walker continued to travel through aged hands.

  “I think I’m getting roasted,” Smith said happily.

  “You mean toasted, dear,” Mrs. Storrey said.

  “Yes. That, too,” he said, his thick fingers subconsciously rubbing her neck.

  “So, when did y’all start feeling old?” Mabel asked the group loudly.

  “Y’all?” Burt mocked in a dragging Southern accent.

  “She means ‘you people’,” Gretta translated in Northern, briefly glancing up from her iPhone.

  “Seriously,” Mabel continued philosophically. She leaned her head back to appreciate the stars, unable to remember the last time she’d done that. “I mean, we’ve all had friends that up and died on us. My best friend from high school died last month of lung cancer… it made me realize that my time left is limited. My warranty has already expired, but fortunately the clock keeps ticking. But I’m feeling so old.” The last word emerged with utter distaste.

  “Well, for me,” Burt continued to mock Mabel’s Southern accent, “it was when I started to shop for gasoline prices before filling up.”

  “Burt,” Mabel said with frustration. “Are you ever serious?”

  “No,” he responded seriously.

  “Well, anyway,” Gus interjected, “everybody shops for gas prices. You can drive one extra block and save two dollars when you fill your tank, for pete’s sake.”

  “Really?” Mrs. Storrey asked. “I just drive the Lincoln until the little red needle hits ‘E’ and the light starts flashing and then I pull into the nearest place.” Smith decided that he would take care of filling up her car from then on. He’d even enjoy washing it for her. Not to mention save them some money. He did shop for fuel prices.

  “For me, it was the bedroom slippers,” Nell spoke up.

  “What?” three people said in unison.

  “Mabel asked when we started feeling old. For me, it was when I began wearing slippers,” she explained slowly.

  “What in the hell do bedroom slippers have to do with anything?” Smith demanded.

  “Did you even own a pair of bedroom shoes when you were twenty or thirty? Even forty?” Nell asked him. Forcing himself to concentrate, Smith though about it. He cleared his throat.

  “No, actually. I guess I didn’t ever own them when I was younger. I went barefoot. Or wore flip flops. If it was cold, I’d just go in my socks indoors.”

  “Exactly!” Nell said. “Only us old folks wear slippers. Them and drug store reading glasses. Jack and I must have fifteen pairs of the things, strategically placed throughout the house.”

  “Well,” Mrs. Storrey pondered, searching for a way to make Nell feel better. “Did you buy them for yourself or were they a gift?” It was a fifty-fifty gamble.

  “They were a gift,” Nell answered immediately.

  “Don’t worry about it, then,” Mrs. Storrey said, relieved. “It’s different if you didn’t actually go and buy them for yourself. Actually shopping for, and purchasing bedroom slippers is an old-fartsy thing to do.”

  “I bought them for her,” Jack deadpanned.

  ***

  The evening breeze had morphed into sweater weather, and the seniors had grown revealingly tipsy. Even Gretta had joined them for a drink, which she clutched in the hand that wasn’t holding her iPhone.

  “You know what?” the woman at the end of the row asked. It was due to the momentary silence and not her presence of voice that got the group’s attention.

  “What?” Maggie replied automatically.

  The woman was silent.

  “What, for pete’s sake?” Gus prodded.

  “Well,” she said then paused. “I’ve lived at Great Wings a year, since my husband died. My life revolved around him and his golfing buddies, and then suddenly I had no husband and no friends. Nobody to fuss over and cook for. No more wives to pal around with during the golf tournaments. Basically, just very lost. And, quite frankly, you guys can be a bit intimidating when somebody’s trying to make friends with you. I mean, can anyone here tell me my name?”

  No one could.

  “Talk about irony,” she said, her words slightly over-pronounced but still slurred. “I’m like one of the ‘Willies’ of the world. Well, without his money. Or his penis. You know, I mean I have the woman parts down there. But, it could have just as easily been me that died, and I bet none of you would have known who I was either.”

  There was a long silence as everyone contemplated this. The truth in her words was too poignant to deny.

  “Ice me some pass, would you Burt?” Smith said. Understanding, Burt did so without correcting Smith’s jumbled words.

  “Pass the ice, dear,” Mrs. Storrey corrected.

  “Sure,” Smith said, “coming your way next.”

  “So what is your name?” Maggie asked.

  “It’s Ruth,” their neighbor stated.

  “Pleased to meet you, Ruth.” Nell raised her glass for a toast. “To our new friend, Ruth.” Several plastic cups touched rims together, squishing slightly. Happy with this, Ruth smiled and thanked everyone.

  Burt scratched his face. It held three days’ worth of salt and pepper-colored growth. “I really need a shave,” he complained.

  “Ah, hell. I’ll give you a blade, Burt,” Jack told him. He’d be the Good Samaritan.

  “Really! But I thought you didn’t have any.”

  “Well, that was before the scotch,” Nell explained in defense of her husband. “Besides, Jack ran out of gout pills and needs to borrow a few of yours until we get back.”

  “Okay. It’s a deal,” Burt agreed. “I’ll swap you two gout pills for a razor blade. But it has to be a new one, right out of the dispenser.” He stopped scratching his face and the seniors were silent for a few moments as they listened to breaking waves crash and fizzle as the water rolled ashore and retreated.

  “Three.”

  “Huh?”

  “Three gout pills, and you’ve got yourself a deal.”

  “They cost over a buck apiece, those damn pills! A single edge
blade only costs about a quarter, if you get them in a twenty-pack!” Burt countered.

  Jack shrugged his shoulders. “You may be able to do a beard well, Burt. Use some of that Grecian formula dye and you may even look younger.”

  “Son of a bitch.” Burt rubbed a hand over his irritated chin. “Okay. Deal. One blade for three gout pills. But we trade tonight, before you change your mind.”

  With the exception of Gretta, who shouted an expletive at her iPhone screen, the group cheered.

  “Well, Burt’s beard is all taken care of,” Smith said. “You still constipated, Mabel?”

  Mabel shot him a smirk. “For your information, I am no longer constipated. And by the way, whoever left the gallon sized jug of prune juice for me at the front desk—it wasn’t funny!”

  “I think it was the hotel manager who bought that for you,” Jack said. “We heard him and the night clerk talking about your…uh, little problem.”

  Mabel rolled her eyes so far back, her mascaraed lashes nearly got stuck in the lids. “My colon is perfectly fine thank-you-very-much. And if anyone asks me about it one more time, I swear I’ll throw Gretta’s smartphone at you.”

  Gretta slid the iPhone into the hand furthest away from Mabel, just to be on the safe side.

  After a few beats, their conversation turned to Willie. Did he have dark hair? Light hair? Did he even have hair? What had he done for a living? What had his wife looked like? Was she nice and what had happened to her? How did he accumulate so much money, and why did he care about a bunch of prisoners? Why hadn’t he tried to make friends with anyone at Great Wings?

  “He was probably a good man,” Gus muttered, “just trying to get along in this world like everyone else. You know, living the quality life after retirement and all that.” The putter, seemingly tired, lay across his lap in a resting position. He figured he should probably get a part time job. Work a few hours a week. All the conversation with Maggie about publishing had reminded him how much he’d enjoyed it. And, after the run-in with the young drunk, he was feeling a bit cocky. Especially after Maggie had bragged on him.

  “Right,” Jack agreed and added, “watching young men around you do all the things that you can’t do any more. Needing friends in your boat—the geriatric paddle wheeler—as you watch the new, slick power boats speed by.”

  “By God, Jack,” Burt said, “that was profound.”

  “Scotch,” Jack replied. “It does a mind good.”

  An hour later, a consensus had been reached. After some debate and more spirited conversation, the seniors were completely sure of their decision. And quite drunk.

  “Well .... Sylvia, why don’t we, um, talk a wake. I mean, take a wake. A, uh, walk. You know, on the, uh, beach,” Smith said thinking how radiant her skin was.

  “Who?” Gus asked.

  “That’s your name?” Maggie said to Mrs. Storrey. “Hot damn! That’s her first name, Gus. It’s Sylvia!” Maggie poked Gus in the ribs for emphasis.

  “Yes, it is my first name,” Mrs. Storrey said, feeling very exposed. “I rather like it from Smith’s lips. But I’d prefer Mrs. Storrey from the rest of you. It’s... just… what I’m used to.”

  “So, anyway,” Smith said and cleared his throat. “How about that walk?”

  “There’s something we should do first.” Ruth’s grin was huge. Now that she’d made friends, she had a desire to instigate something. Happily tipsy, she drank in the feeling of belonging like a youth serum. Everyone listened as she relayed her idea.

  ***

  Sherwood had just drifted into an uneasy sleep, filled with jumbled and disoriented thoughts of Freddy, Willie, and Jane Sullivan…when loud and persistent knocking awoke her. Upon getting out of bed, she realized that it was actually more like a pounding on her door. She unlatched and opened her room door to find a group of drunk residents sway-standing in front of her.

  “We’ve decided to do it. Bury him,” Maggie informed her with a slur.

  “You mean burn him,” Smith said.

  “For pete’s sake, Smith. That’s sick,” Gus said.

  “Well, that’s what cremation is,” Mrs. Storrey told Maggie.

  “What we mean, is,” he looked directly at Sherwood, “that we want to boat a charter,” Smith told her with authority.

  “You mean ‘charter a boat’ Dear,” Mrs. Storrey corrected.

  “Right. That, too. And throw the ashes.”

  “Scatter,” Mrs. Storrey said.

  “Who’s fatter?” Smith said.

  “Not throw. Scatter them, I said. Scatter the ashes.”

  “Exactly,” Ruth said, just to be adding something.

  “We may be inbreeded, but we know what we’re doing,” Smith told Sherwood sincerely. “We mean what we say.”

  “Inebriated, Dear.”

  “You, know, Sylvia, you always correcting me is starting to grow with me,” Smith said.

  “Grow on you, Dear.”

  “I’d love for you to blow in my ear,” Smith agreed.

  “I have to pee,” Maggie announced pushing her way into Sherwood’s room. “Can I use your toilet?” The bathroom door shut and Sherwood heard the lock click shut before she had a chance to reply.

  “Me, too. Do you mind?” Ruth asked.

  Sherwood was too groggy to speak, so taking her lack of response as an invitation, they all shuffled into her room. Minutes later, Freddy knocked and entered. He had just gotten back from cleaning and fueling up the bus. Hearing the commotion in Sherwood’s room, he couldn’t contain his curiosity. Upon learning of the group’s plan, he smiled brightly at Sherwood. She looked very sexy in a sleep-ridden, disheveled sort of way, even though she was wrapped in an oversized terry robe. He fantasized about kicking all of the Great Wings folks out, throwing her on the bed and jumping on top of her. She was gorgeous, even with no makeup and tired eyes. With a stab of unexplainable jealousy, he briefly wondered if any other man had seen Sherwood as he was seeing her now. He figured that the professor had probably seen her in much less, and decided that he’d like to punch him out. One well-placed fist, square on the bridge of the professor’s academically upturned nose.

  “Freddy?” Mrs. Storrey questioned. “Are you okay?”

  “Of course he’s okay,” Smith answered before Freddy had a chance to. “He’s just checking out our activity director in that big bathrobe and wondering if she’s wearing anything underneath. I would too if I was forty years younger,” he admitted.

  Mrs. Storrey elbowed him. Somehow he managed to find the right comeback.

  “Right now, I couldn’t imagine thinking of what anyone’s got on under their robes. I mean except you, Sylvia,” he said. A beat passed. “Oh, wait. You don’t wear anything to bed. That’s even better – I don’t have to figure out what’s beneath what you’re not wearing,” he explained, with drunken logic. Mrs. Storrey gave him a pinch on the butt.

  Freddy wisely remained quiet. And wondered if Sherwood was naked under the robe.

  “Do you think Willie can hear us?” Ruth said, looking up at the ceiling, but seeing something else in her mind. “Willie, we’re sorry we didn’t get to know you before. But, we’re gonna do right by you now!”

  “Hear, hear!” Maggie said, and Freddy realized with relief that nobody was even paying any attention to the situation between him and Sherwood. Or the lack of a situation between them. He relaxed and watched her patiently discuss the plan with her unexpected visitors. Freddy knew it was difficult to reason with a group of sloshed elders, but Sherwood was doing a great job of it.

  It was half an hour later before Sherwood could get them all to leave. Freddy lingered so he was the last one out of her room, and she had a crazy urge to kiss him goodnight. Instead, she gave him a quick hug. She fell into bed and surprising herself, dozed off within a few minutes.

  Twenty

  Willie

  Nicknamed Willie, the boy grew up on the heels of the depression. He was a well-mannered and quiet child who rarely complaine
d and was helpful with the daily chores. As a youngster, he never could understand why his parents refused the free food distribution programs that were available. Their two-bedroom cottage was cramped with worn furniture and extravagances such as a new pair of shoes were nothing but a fantasy. A healthy boy, Willie was not starving and there was always something to eat from the garden his mother tended. But his appetite was never thoroughly satisfied, either.

  It was difficult for the eight-year-old to comprehend why his friends had fresh oranges to eat while his family did not. His best friend, Joey, used to invite him over to eat dinner occasionally. Joey’s mother always served whatever the weekly food truck delivered that particular Tuesday. Willie learned from Joey that the recipients never knew what they were going to receive that week. It could be a bag of potatoes, some corn meal, and a bag of fresh fruit such as oranges. Or it could be some wheat flour and sugar.

  Once, Joey invited Willie to dinner exclaiming that they’d hit pay dirt. The truck delivered corn meal, butter, dry beans, and blocks of cheese all at the same time. They’d gorged on sweet cornbread dripping with butter, thick slices of cheddar cheese, and pinto beans cooked with pork. Willie asked Joey’s parents if he could take some of the mouth-watering leftovers home to his parents. They declined his request, saying there wouldn’t be any leftovers. But there was plenty left uneaten in the kitchen and, even at his young age, Willie understood that they were saving the food for themselves. He knew that his family’s dinner table would be sparse the next day. There would be squirrel, stale bread toasted enough to be edible, and possibly a few wild sour berries.

  The next day, when he asked his mother why they couldn’t get the cheese and oranges and corn meal from the weekly food truck like everyone else did, he was scolded and told that his family was too proud to accept charity. His mother’s eyes had glistened with tears while his father lectured him on the concept of self-sufficiency.

  Deciding that he could buy as many bags of oranges that he wanted if only he had the money, Willie took an interest in investing and read every financial book he could find. He performed chores for the local businessmen, studied their work habits, and learned their job duties. He quizzed the local banker on interest rates and investing. If it was a slow day, the elderly man would take the time to answer the child’s probing questions in detail.