by Joe Coccaro
“What do you need, Sparky?”
“Tito’s and tonic, mostly Tito’s.”
“What, no white wine, wussy boy?”
“Just vodka. A tall one, please.”
Gil quickly poured and handed Carter a drink. “Good thing you’re decent looking, because you’re no dancer, Sparky. Looked like you were having a seizure out their dancing with Thin Lizzy.”
“Yeah, she’s got some movement. Kinda scary, actually.”
“Want to know what’s scary, Sparky? Lizzy in bed. I heard she wore out our honorable police sergeant. He couldn’t handle her. You know what they say?”
“I couldn’t begin to guess. What do they say, Gil?”
“The sweetest meat is closest to the bone.”
“Christ, Gil!” Lil smacked her boss on the back of the head. “That’s disgusting, and it’s mean. You’re such a caveman, a real asshole.”
“I prefer asshole, thank you very much. It’s taken me years to earn that distinction, and I wear it proudly.”
A barstool opened up, and Lil placed a glass down to hold it for Carter.
“Here ya go, sweetie. A front-row seat,” she said. “Wave if you need anything—anything. And don’t grow up to be like him.” She pointed at Gil.
Carter flashed a smile and leaped onto the corner stool, best seat in the house, just feet from the dance floor. He watched wide-eyed, thinking the scene was way better than anything on Netflix or Hulu, his only other entertainment option for the night. The Shantilly and Oyster Reef, the town’s two other bars, which had opened in the wake of Gil’s, were no doubt romping; and there were likely a few folks in art galleries sipping wine and contemplating color and texture, depth, and dimension. But Gil Netters was center court, the main event in town, and by midnight most would converge here.
Guys in their sixties wearing tie-dyed or Grateful Dead T-shirts shuffled and swooned next to a group of bridesmaids from Virginia Beach in town for a wedding. The girls were bombed, sucking down rum and tequila drinks laced with an assortment of sugary reds, orange yellows, and blues. By Carter’s estimate, half the place was stoned, the other half drunk, and the most wobbly in the crowd were hobbled by a combination of the two. Young girls took selfies. Strangers bought shots for strangers and hugged like reunited twins. Old guys with forearm tattoos from their biker days compared them to the calf and neck tattoos of hipsters.
The youngest among Gil Netters’ eclectic swarm were born when Bill Clinton was president and Dave Matthews topped the charts. Some donned pierced navels, drove hybrids, and FaceTimed the bar scene to friends at home. The oldest had fought in Vietnam or protested it, drove muscle cars, and used their cells more as phones than video recorders or pocket computers. Normally, such generational chasms alienated oldies from the post pubescent. But Gil Netters was neutral ground, a Swiss détente, where race, age, gender, and sexual preferences mattered little, and where boozers and stoners, married and divorced, rich and impoverished simultaneously merged into a single mind on its way to losing consciousness.
“La-la land for misfits and morons,” Gil would say as he stared from behind the bar at the boozy grins, flowing hair, ass-grabbing, crotch-grinding, bear-hugging hordes guzzling and slurping shots and mixed drinks like thirsty Texas cattle at a watering hole.
Carter watched a black dude break dance and then saw James, a white, cross-dressing delivery truck driver for Hen House Farms, standing and applauding. This night, James wore his Marilyn Monroe blond wig, lipstick the same ruby red as his Corvette, and a plaid dress with a brass lapel pin that said Jamesetta. Above it was another ornament: a black and gold life member NRA pin.
Carter had met James a couple of times before, once when he was sitting outside the bar smoking a cigar wearing his Hen House Farms work shirt, and another time during lunch at the pub. James’ voice and opinions never changed, regardless of his gender mood. When he was attired as Jamesetta, he was simply seen by the locals as James in a dress wearing lipstick. No one cared, except when James once tried to use the women’s restroom.
“James, you can’t be using the ladies’ room,” Gil had admonished. “You freaked out a mother and daughter who saw you walking out of there. Come on, man.”
“The courts say I can use the restroom according to my gender identity. Don’t you watch the news? It’s been all over TV. That transgender kid from Virginia, Gavin Grimm, won his case.”
“Yeah, and my man Trump is gonna fix that real fast,” Gil had huffed. “Just do me a favor, James, use the men’s room. If you have a dick, which I am assuming you do since you fathered children, then you’re a guy, at least for the purposes of this establishment. So, lift your skirt and use the urinal in the men’s room.”
Carter thought it odd that the cross-dresser James was ardently conservative and, apparently, the father of four. James bragged about his memberships in The John Birch Society and NRA. The bumper of his red Corvette donned decals of both organizations, along with a silhouette of a family holding hands.
When James, he drank IPA beer. When Jamesetta, mojitos. James might have been viewed as a nut elsewhere, but in Cape Charles he was considered just one of the gang, just a few more degrees slightly off-center than most. Doesn’t everyone stray a few degrees? Carter thought. People here were just people, warts and all. Perhaps that simple acceptance was the binding force that glued together this strange little town by the Bay. It made perfect sense to Carter. Cape Charles is an outlier, an outpost away from the normal pace of strip malls, rush hour, soccer fields, and Walmarts. People looking for normal don’t come here.
***
One of Carter’s favorite eccentrics was Timothy John, a happy-go-lucky fatalist who had built a bunker in his basement and stuffed it with bottled water, canned goods, and plant seeds. Tonight, he made his way to the dance floor in his trademark tank top. He wore them almost year-round, so everyone called him “Tank Top.” He lived perpetually convinced that a financial apocalypse loomed just hours away. The collapse would trigger street rioting, even in his sleepy hometown of Cape Charles. For protection from neighbors and outsourced marauders, Tank Top kept under his bed two semiautomatic rifles, a .38 Special, and a hand-launcher for explosives. A gas mask hung from a hook on his bedroom door.
Tank Top had an IQ of 143 and had earned a PhD in physics from Washington and Lee University. While finishing his doctoral dissertation, he took lysergic acid diethylamide to further expand his consciousness and add depth to his words. He had read Carlos Castaneda’s The Teachings of Don Juan seven times. Peyote, prescribed in Castaneda’s tale to enhance spiritual awareness, was hard to come by. And the hallucinogenic buds plucked from desert cacti tasted bitter, so acerbic in fact that chewing them induced vomiting. Being adaptive, Tank Top had opted for the synthetic instead of organic and binged on blotter acid for nearly three years in his quest to evolve into a shaman sorcerer. He had emerged from that experience disillusioned, seeing humans as little more than warring monkeys about to self-destruct. The least he could do was get the word out, so Tank Top had started blogging for preppy websites.
To earn money, Tank Top worked from home writing algorithms used by conservative groups to inflame right-leaning voters and track shopping habits. He would also add summer income by renting out his screened porch to college kids working at Gil Netters or the Oyster Reef or Shantilly’s. There was one rule: No one was allowed in his basement under any circumstances. It was speculated that Tank Top kept stashes of ammo, two generators, canned beets, jerky, bottled water, and instant oatmeal—but no wheat products. Tank Top was gluten free pre-apocalypse, and, by God, he would remain so when the world collapsed.
Tank Top was a celebrity of sorts in town too. He was tapped each year to lead the Cape Charles Shuck-N-Suck parade, which he’d done in the morning on this very day. Shuck-N-Suck was celebrated with blaring fire trucks, locals wearing masks riding golf carts and tossing candy, kids darting into the street to chase clowns, and, best of all, Shriners doing figur
e-eights in their motorized go-cart cars.
Hours earlier, Carter had awakened early in the morning to witness the famed parade and Tank Top in action. With coffee mug in hand, he had begun his walk to Gil’s and what would inevitably be a crowd of locals gathering to cheer on the promenade. Most of the historic streets in Cape Charles, Tyler Lane included, were a canopy of chestnut trees, sycamores, and pecan trees, some a century old. In their shadows were crepe myrtles, many senior citizens themselves, fully bloomed in a painter’s palette of pinks, reds, and purples. Residents of the historic district coveted these shrubs, grooming and feeding them as if they were family members. Some of the oldest looked human, their torsos contorted and branches elbowing skyward.
They reminded Carter of the talking apple trees that chased off Dorothy and her entourage in The Wizard of Oz.
Carter had arrived to the parade just in time to see Tank Top riding point in the bed of the mayor’s red Chevy Colorado pickup. He wore the same outfit he had donned almost every other year, and not too dissimilar to his regular attire: a foam cap that vaguely resembled a clam, oversized mirrored sunglasses, a Rudolph nose, and his signature tie-dyed tank top, frayed cutoff blue jeans, and yellow flip-flops. He smiled broadly, flashing a gap in his front teeth wide enough to slide a quarter through. And when he waved, he exposed armpits with more hair than was on his head.
“Tank Top oughta shave his armpits and make a wig,” said Gil, who had sat with Carter in front of the pub mocking the festivities. “I love Tank Top, but he’s out there.”
“Seems pretty harmless to me.”
“They all do until they snap,” Gil had said. “I hear he’s got some lethal stuff in his basement and even more extreme weaponry buried in metal boxes behind his house.”
“Guess we better stay on his good side then,” Carter had quipped.
Tank Top loved oysters, so much so he harvested his own. He would wade chest deep into the Bay during low tide, plucking the bivalves from the mud with his toes. He loved shellfish so much that he had even won a few clam-eating contests. This made him a natural poster child for Shuck-N-Suck, which celebrated the Eastern Shore’s booming oyster and clam farming industry.
The parade culminated each year when a long flatbed trailer pulled by a green farm tractor rolled down Mason Way. On it were watermen shucking oysters and handing them on the half-shell to parade watchers bold enough to run into the street to fetch the slimy treat. No one had ever reported getting sick from the handouts, so the town health inspector never waved a red flag.
Standing on the corner, just a few yards from Gil and Carter, had been Major and his trusted canine colleague, Minor. When the oyster flatbed passed, Major had called out to Skip, one of his buddies on the flatbed shucking oysters for the crowd. Skip and Major regularly hunted waterfowl together in the fall. So, anytime Minor saw Skip, he knew he was going hunting—and nothing excited the Lab more.
Skip had given a shout-out to Major and Minor when rolling past. Minor’s ears had perked and he’d bolted from his master’s side, leaping onto the deck of the trailer in a miraculous athletic feat. No one was hurt, and everyone who had witnessed the leaping Lab had laughed and applauded. Some had figured it was part of the show.
“Let ’em ride with me, Major,” Skip had called, scratching his full beard and laughing. “I’ll bring ’em to ya when the parade ends.”
Everything had settled down until Minor did what male dogs do: He lifted his leg and sprayed one of the bushels of oysters.
***
Tank Top had recently introduced Carter to his best friend, Dude, an ex-Merchant Marine injured in a storm while at sea. Workers’ comp paid Dude plenty, so his only paid gig was booking small-time rock bands into small-town venues and playing drums in cover bands. Dude looked like a Samurai warrior with a slight goatee and deep-set Asian eyes. He hobbled from his injury and could only hear out of one ear. Yet, if rock music played, he’d be among the first to start grooving and looking for a dance partner. He was high most of the time, which was abundantly evident by his brown-stained teeth and fingertips. His eyes were as glassy and as slick as the Bay on a windless day. When stoned, he grinned like a Cheshire cat.
Dude always remained remarkably coherent regardless of how much tetrahydrocannabinol he ingested—or how potent. Lately, he’d been smoking THC-enhanced marijuana harvested in a greenhouse outside of Colorado Springs. He desperately wanted to move to Colorado and be a marijuana tester for growers out there, the equivalent of a sommelier for wineries. But, alas, Dude was on probation for dealing weed and therefore restricted from leaving Virginia. So, with Tank Top’s help, Dude imported the best stuff coming out of the West. He had packages mailed to a P.O. Box two towns away on the Shore.
“Smoke a bowl of this stuff and you’ll be dancing the two-step with Alice in Wonderland,” Dude had told Carter one evening as they stood outside of Gil Netters. “Four hundred an ounce and worth every dime.” He had tried to hand Carter a tightly rolled duby tucked into a cigarette holder. “I can hook you up anytime.”
“No thanks,” Carter had said. “The stuff makes me paranoid and dumb. Every time I smoke it, I turn into a drooling mess.”
“And the problem is?” Dude had quipped. “Drooling paranoia can be fun, if you let it.”
“You’ll have to teach me your secret sometime, Dude, but not tonight. I need to clear my calendar first and update my medical insurance before I enter your pot smoking academy.”
Occasionally, a band Dude booked would let him play drums on a song or two. In fact, Gil claimed Dude only booked bands that indulged his sitting in. That was his version of a kickback. When flailing the skins, Dude would keep his head turned with his good ear pointed toward the bass player to help keep time. He loved banging away on Saturdays at Gil’s, where he was revered. Locals would chant Dude, Dude, Dude to coax the band to let him jam. And that’s exactly what was happening this Saturday night, many hours after the Shuck-N-Suck parade had ended, as Carter watched from his corner barstool.
The crowd started chanting, and a few thumped their fists on the bar. Dude happily complied, acting embarrassed. He took a bow and sat in as drummer for the Freddy Mac Lenders as they played a set of Otis Redding.
***
The band took a break after its second set, and the room quieted as sweaty patrons stepped to the sidewalk for fresh air or a smoke. Carter felt a tap on his shoulder—more like three finger jabs on his shoulder blade.
He whipped his head around, hoping one of the hot bridesmaids had noticed him, or, at worst, one of the bulky women with red hair was ready to collapse him into her cleavage. He saw neither. In fact, no one was behind him. He shrugged it off, drained the rest of his Tito’s, and signaled Gil for another.
“How is it going, Sparky? You trolling or just watching everyone else have fun?”
“Just spectating. This is better than box seats at a Yankees game.”
“Yeah, and you’re striking out. Where’s your girlfriend? The psychic chick? Home humping the old guy? Guess you can’t compete with a limp-dick seventysomething.”
“What can I say, Gil? Viagra changed everything. Old guys can keep up with us young bucks, thanks to Pfizer. Just look at this place. You got guys in their fifties grinding on girls in their twenties.”
“Beautiful thing, ain’t it, Sparky? Never thought of it that way, but I guess Viagra helps keep me in business. The old guys have money; they’re the ones buying drinks. The young dipshits buy Miller Lite.”
“I guess that’s true. You sell booze, and Pfizer sells hope. Together, they add up to confidence, and there’s a lot of that raging in here tonight.”
“Where’s yours, moron? It’s Saturday night. You’re single.”
“Did I hear somebody talking about Viagra and getting laid?”
The voice from behind him sounded familiar—too familiar. Carter spun the barstool 180 degrees. When the rotation stopped, his face was inches from Kate Lee-Capps.
“Holy
shit. I mean, this is crazy. It’s you.”
“Yes, Carter, it’s me, and you’re the crazy one. Remember? That’s how we met.” Kate giggled.
“So, who’s your friend?” Gil chimed. His eyes locked on Kate’s, and his grin was equally as broad. “Welcome to the Island of Misfit Toys.”
“Gil, this is Dr. Kate Lee-Capps from Norfolk, my umm—”
“Friend. I’m his friend,” Kate said, careful to keep her status as Carter’s shrink under wraps.
“My condolences,” Gil smirked. “I feel your pain. He’s my friend too.”
“Island of Misfit Toys, Gil? Do explain.”
“Stick around, and you’ll see what I mean.”
***
Kate looked better than Carter had remembered. Her hair flowed over her shoulders. Her V-neck short-sleeve blouse accented her long, thin neck and cut arms. Her blue jeans hugged her hips and thighs and rode just above her ankle. There, she wore a gold ankle bracelet that matched her flat leather sandals and hoop earrings. She smelled like lavender.
“Without heels, we’re on eye level,” Carter said. He stood to give her a hug. “You look great, and it’s great to see you.”
“You too, Carter. I thought I might find you here.”
“Not many options. There are only a couple of fishing holes in town, and most of the guppies congregate here late on Saturday nights.”
“So, I’m a fish?” Kate laughed.
“More like a mermaid. And watch out for those,” Carter said. He pointed to the gill nets draped over the windows. “Wouldn’t want you to drown. So, the obvious question: What brings you to this little outpost?”
“My friend has a weekend place here, a condo over at the golf course community.”
“Your friend a he or a she?”
“He. Name’s Arnold. He’s a physical therapist. Gives great back massages.”
“Great back rubs, huh. That’s hard to compete with.”
“Oh, you’re competing are you?”
“Like my friend Gil says, you can’t win if you’re not in the game.”
