Mayhem in Myrtle Beach

by T. Lynn Ocean

  Out of reflex, Smith opened his mouth to offer a witty rebuttal about the basketball team, but stopped himself, even though it would have been one of his better comebacks. Mrs. Storrey’s eyes were misty and her voice sounded uncertain. Vulnerable, almost. Weird for sure.

  “Um, yes. Right. Sure, I guess,” he said. “Are you feeling okay?”

  “I’m fine,” she said with one upward nod before maneuvering through the chatty crowd to a wide spiral staircase. Bewildered but drawn like a magnet to its opposite, Smith dutifully followed. Even though there hadn’t been an empty seat on the main level, the balcony was almost deserted. Mrs. Storrey selected two seats on the very front row, right side. When they settled in, she spoke softly and Smith wasn’t sure if she was talking to him or to herself, so he just sat and tried to pay attention.

  “…my younger days,” she was saying. “I was a dancer, you know. Good, too. Very good. I had a job offer to go on Broadway. It was one of the biggest days in my life, dreaming of living in New York and performing on stage in front of all those well-bred people. I figured I could dance my way into some acting parts and make my way into the movies.” A soft sigh massaged Smith’s eardrums. “But I got married instead,” Mrs. Storrey said, rubbing her half-bare arms as if she were cold.

  The balcony felt quite warm to Smith. He looked sideways at his companion and caught light reflecting from one tiny tear, rolling down from the bottom lashes of a dark brown eye. Smith fidgeted, thinking he might be violating a private moment. On the other hand, she had asked him to sit with her. But he didn’t know what to do. Or what to say. His gut rumbled and he worried that he might pass gas. Entire body clenched tight, Smith’s head snapped forward. He studied the activity below as people carrying candy and popcorn and drinks were reclaiming their seats to watch the second half.

  Mrs. Storrey suddenly brushed away the offending tear away, as one might shoo off an annoying gnat. Smith remained quiet, bewildered. And curious. He wanted to know more, but she didn’t offer and he didn’t ask. Overhead, the theater lights flashed twice in warning, then dimmed to indicate the show was about to resume. In silence, they watched the final scurry as people hurried back to their assigned seats, and Smith finally exhaled and took another breath when the theater went completely dark. A round white circle of light appeared on the center of the stage’s curtain. Smith focused every ounce of his attention on the spotlight to avoid wondering if any more tears were popping out of the woman next to him.

  Ten minutes into the second half of the show, every muscle in Smith’s body contracted when Mrs. Storrey slid her hand into his. And his hand had been resting loosely on top of his thigh. Not only was she holding his hand, but their entwined fingers were resting atop his leg. All muscles completely clenched up again, Smith reminded himself to breathe. If he passed out, he’d never hear the end of it from Burt and Gus. Filling his lungs to capacity, he covertly studied the profile of his seatmate. He had no idea what crazy thoughts were transpiring inside her head. Women. Exhaling, Smith tried to relax. He knew that she, in a stoically noble sort of way, disliked him. Well, he wasn’t too crazy about her, either. Her and her boat of a Lincoln Towncar that she still hadn’t figured out how to park. Her and all the stupid frilly red hats she paired with purple dresses when she went to meet a bunch of other women in ridiculously large red hats. Her and her ongoing mission to out-do herself on a weekly basis during purposeful shopping missions. Her and her slim, aerobically toned, seventy-plus-year-old body that could have competed with a forty-year-old’s any day.

  Well, he liked that part of her, at least, Smith thought, fighting the urge to move his fingers. He didn’t want to give her the impression that he was actually caressing her hand. His palm felt hot—the one she was holding—and he hoped like hell that it wasn’t sweating. He had enough problems without giving Mrs. Storrey something to gossip about at her next Red Hatters luncheon. It was the cutest thing, he could hear her saying to the group of old biddies. His hand got all sweaty, like a boy who’d just held hands with a girl for the very first time!

  Smith shook his head like a dog who’d just inhaled ground pepper, blinked a few times, and tried to focus on the stage below. They were doing something down there—a bunch of lithe bodies moving in sync to the booming sounds—and the synchronicity of the lights and music landed in his chest. Still, the entertainment seemed miles away. Mrs. Storrey was right next to him. Mere inches. Her shoulder began touching his each time she swayed to the band’s pulsating tempo and his body stiffened up again. His chest felt tight and he wondered if he might be experiencing the early warning signs of a heart attack. A wave of nausea rolled through his abdomen and he felt sure that it may be time to dial ‘911’. His mind doing rapid calculations, Smith recalled seeing a fire/EMS station about three miles from the theater and figured the response time could be as quick as five minutes. Another four or five to get inside the theater and find him in the balcony. Feeling sweat beads pop out on his forehead, Smith wondered if Mrs. Storrey knew CPR.

  In the sparse audience lighting, he saw an outline of her smile. It was one of Mrs. Storrey’s genuine big and bright smiles, not the one she used for posed photos. She leaned into his space to tell him something about the exceptional drummer, whom she declared to be a Jamaican. When a whiff of her perfume worked its way into his nostrils, Smith detected a hint of flowers and spice. Suddenly her slim hand felt very good nestled beneath his. His palms were decidedly wet now, as though he’d washed his hands and the restroom was out of paper towels. Absolutely dripping. He recalled that profuse sweating was another early warning sign of a heart attack—he’d seen it on one of those doctors’ TV shows. But the nausea in his gut had morphed into a weirdly pleasant sensation. Odd.

  Pretending that he had to cough, Smith removed his hand to cover his mouth and then nonchalantly rubbed both palms on his pants to dry the moisture. The five fingers that Mrs. Storrey had been holing now felt tingly. And restless. After a long beat of internal debate, Smith gingerly reinserted his hand into hers and, after some awkward resituating, Mrs. Storrey took control. She gripped his hand and placed it atop her thigh, midway up. His entire body tingled then, beginning with the damp palms of his hands ending with his toes. He couldn’t decide if the sensation swirling in his gut was adrenaline or lust. Maybe he’d eaten some bad food at the dinner buffet. Or maybe he really was in the beginning stages of a myocardial infarction.

  The next hour of the show passed without any crushing chest pain, much to Smith’s relief. He relaxed and stopped squirming. Comforted by Smith’s presence but lost in her own memories, Mrs. Storrey reminisced over the endless stretching and dance rehearsals during her high school days—back when her future was a bright and inviting beacon. She remembered back to her ballet days, when multiple pirouettes were easy and her balance was impeccable.

  Smith’s thoughts drifted back to the tender moments he used to share with his wife so many years ago, before her untimely death when a very drunk driver plowed into their convertible. The shock and pain had been so intense that Smith retreated into an internal abyss. He liked it there, the place that was dark and desolate—the place where people would leave him alone. It was a self-inflicted, almost righteous loneliness that fueled Smith’s soul. He hadn’t considered taking another as his wife, and he dismissed the idea of fathering children. He thought about both, once, twenty years ago with a pediatric nurse who’d announced that they would make good life-long companions. He’d even purchased a diamond ring. But when it came time to propose, Smith couldn’t do it. He felt as though he were betraying Marion’s memory. It was on that very day, the day he returned the ring, that Smith realized he would probably live alone for the rest of his life. But without warning, a storm of thoughts erupted like steaming lava spewing from a volcano. ‘What if’ questions shot forth in rapid succession. What if Mrs. Storrey and I were to go see a movie when we get back to West Virginia? What if I cooked my famous lasagna dinner for her? What if we went to the shore o
n vacation together?

  Snapped back to reality by a sweeping blue spotlight beam that grazed his forehead, Smith forced himself to pay attention to the entertainment. After all, he figured, he’d paid for it in his tour package price. He may as well watch it.

  Shoulders separated by mere threads, both Smith and Mrs. Storrey focused on the performers. Without warning, it dawned on Smith that, if he’d had a child with Marion, he could have been watching one of his grandchildren on stage. He flashed an odd feeling of loss for something he would never have. Then the subconscious part of his brain asked the present part of his brain if Mrs. Storrey had grandchildren. He couldn’t recall, but figured he’d enjoy mentoring them if she did have any. Finally, Smith ordered all the parts of his brain to shut up. His eyes locked on to a charismatic young dancer with bouncing boobs who seemed to be performing solely for him.

  Viewing it from the balcony, the show was surreal, Mrs. Storrey decided. While the dancers dredged up mixed emotions, they seemed a mile away as her senses continued to tune into the man seated next to her. She knew his palms were sweaty. His knee was bouncing with nervous energy, but only the one farthest from her. And he kept clearing his throat—a sure sign that Smith was way out of his comfort zone. Grinning into the darkness, Mrs. Storrey decided to keep him there for a while.

  ***

  It was after ten o’clock and outside the theater, nearly fifteen luxury busses were parked side by side, idling as they awaited their groups. Their respective drivers stood outside chatting and laughing as they waited for the show to end. The rough hum of diesel engines filled an otherwise quiet evening and a humid beach breeze rolled off the ocean, which was several blocks east.

  Freddy had watched most of the show but slid out along with the other drivers before the show’s end to ensure that his coach was clean and ready for its passengers. A few drivers who were regulars to Myrtle Beach sat outside during the entire second half to chat it up. The camaraderie between them was what one might expect in a local pub—minus the booze. Aged from young to almost retired and originating from all over the country, they swapped gossip, road warrior stories, and recommendations for newly discovered diners. Even though Freddy was a Myrtle Beach virgin, he was welcomed and slid into easy conversation with the other bus drivers. One of them was a seasoned driver nicknamed Rolo because he always had a pack or two of the caramel candies on him. Rolo used to work for Freddy’s father at Luxury Lines but, after saving enough money, left to purchase a coach and start his own business. He confessed to Freddy that it was a lot more headaches than he had anticipated, but business was good.

  “You ever want to come back to Luxury Lines,” Freddy said, “I know Dad would love to have you back.” Rolo and Freddy leaned against their busses, watching a steady stream of thick traffic flow by on Highway 17.

  “My boys are starting college next year,” Rolo muttered through a laugh. “I may have to keep running my business and moonlight for your dad.”

  They stood in silence for a few beats, studying the full parking lot. It was loaded with cars and crossovers sporting license plates from all over the northeast. A bus slowly lurched out of the bus lineup and pulled alongside the curb at the main entrance to the theater.

  “The hell does he think he’s doing?” Rolo said. Freddy’s shoulders did a shrug. Rolo headed over to the stray bus and Freddy followed, not wanting to miss the exchange.

  “Hey, Pal!” Rolo called through the driver’s side window. Its uniformed driver stepped out. He was a blond kid in his early twenties, about six feet tall and weighed maybe a hundred and forty pounds. Dripping wet, with clothes. He nervously straightened a company-issued red polyester necktie.

  “Yeah? Can I help you with something?” the kid said. His light skin looked even whiter in the theater’s outdoor street lamps.

  “What are you doing pulling up here to the curb at the front of the theater?” Rolo demanded as Freddy looked on with amusement.

  “To pick up my passengers. I’ve got a bus full of old people,” the kid answered.

  “New to driving tour groups?”

  “No. Well, yes. I drove city transit busses for two years. This is my third actual tour group bus trip. Well, the first one by myself.” The kid fidgeted with his tie. Sensing where the conversation was headed, Freddy suppressed a laugh. Even though he was new to the group tour business, too, he knew the rules. You just didn’t drive a tour group without understanding the unwritten rules. A theater security guard approached the trio in a golf cart but Rolo waved him off. He was taking care of the situation.

  “See these other eighteen busses, pal?” Rolo nodded his head in the direction of the motorcoach parking area. A few other drivers looked back, watching, arms folded across their chests. The kid nodded. He did in fact see the other busses and their respective drivers. “They’re all full of old people. What, you think that teenagers and young married couples just up and take a week off work to hop on a bus to come to Myrtle Beach? Open your eyes, Blondie! I got a few canes, two walkers, and one portable oxygen tank on my group. Not to mention three recent knee replacements. What you got, Freddy?”

  “I’ve got some walking canes. One hip replacement. Lots of arthritis. And a putter.”

  Used to eccentricities, the older driver raised an eyebrow and grinned at the inclusion of a putter in home health aides. He turned back to the kid.

  “You get your skinny little ass back on that fancy bus you’re driving and you park it back in line with the rest of us where it belongs. Now, before the show lets out. Your group will find you and believe it or not, they’re probably quite capable of walking across a parking lot.” Rolo’s eyes narrowed. “You’ve got about three minutes.”

  “But I’m already here. I’ll know next time,” the kid said.

  “You don’t understand.” Rolo looked at Freddy. “He don’t understand.”

  Freddy nodded in agreement. “I don’t think he does.”

  “Here’s the deal, kid. Security was on the way over here, but I waved him off. He was about to kick your butt out of here, but I figured I’d be nice to a fellow driver. Show you the ropes. So here’s the deal.” Rolo waved his arm in the direction of the busses, where every other driver was now watching the exchange. “All of us other drivers—we’ve got passengers, elderly passengers—who paid their money for a trip to Myrtle Beach, the same as yours did. Our people come out and have to walk to their bus, they’re gonna wonder why your people, getting picked up at the curb, are getting special treatment. Then my forty-five people, including my canes, two walkers, and one portable oxygen tank are going to board my bus and think that I’m not looking out for them. Why didn’t I pull up to the main entrance curb to pick them up, they’ll be asking each other. They won’t understand that some skinny-ass rookie driver is trying for a big tip and doesn’t understand the rules.”

  “Sorry,” Blondie said and scrambled back onto his motorcoach. He needed no further persuasion. The door hissed shut and the bus rolled away from the curb.

  “He’s got all old people,” Rolo said mimicking the kid. “Shit.”

  Attendants had begun taking positions outside the theater exit doors and from the sound of faint, but solid applause they could tell that the show had just ended.

  Rolo gave Freddy a quick man hug. “Good talking to you. Tell your father hello for me.”

  ***

  Several pairs of doors pushed open and people flowed out like water through an opened damn. Within minutes the bus parking area was filled with nearly several hundred tourists, many hurrying to locate their bus as if afraid of being left behind. They clutched an assortment of handbags, shawls, theater programs and souvenirs purchased from the gift shop. A warm, humid breeze greeted Smith and Mrs. Storrey when they exited the theater, still side by side. They were in no rush to leave the balcony and were among the last to leave the building. After the show’s end, when they’d stood during the ovation, Smith realized he felt pretty good. He wasn’t having a heart attac
k, after all. He resisted the urge to reach out and reclaim Mrs. Storrey’s hand.

  Outside, she gazed at the stars and pointed out the Big Dipper to Smith. It was the first time in a long time that he could remember taking the time to look at the stars. Once again, he decided that he was enjoying himself. It was a strange sensation and Smith wasn’t quite sure how to react.

  Ten minutes later, all of the busses were full with what appeared to be their rightful occupants. Before the drivers had a chance to pull out, performers appeared and quickly stepped from bus to bus to say thank you and autograph programs, while the group leaders did head counts.

  Sherwood boarded the Great Wings bus last, walked to the rear, and proceeded forwarded while doing a head count. Forty-six. She smiled to herself. She was getting the hang of this tour guide thing. Piece of cake, the thought. She signaled Freddy in the rear view mirror with a thumbs-up and he gently eased into the line of exiting traffic.

  It had been an excellent show, Sherwood thought. A very cool blend of country and gospel music, comedy, and dancing. The Great Wings group buzzed with rave reviews, occasional laughter and only a few snores as Freddy drove them back to the Sea Shell Hotel. It was ten-thirty. Sherwood spoke on the microphone to review the following day’s schedule as they cruised down the busy highway.

  Mrs. Storrey and Smith were not listening. They sat next to each other, sharing an armrest. When their bus stopped at the curb, they automatically followed everyone into the hotel lobby. Smith cleared his throat as they approached the elevators. Twice.

  “Yes, well. Um, would you care to join me for a stroll on the beach? It is a warm evening. Not too windy.” He was unaccustomed to being polite, and unaccustomed to the shaky feeling in the pit of his stomach. He figured it might be lust, and that there was no need for the Alka-Seltzer he’d packed in his ditty bag.

  “Yes,” she said close to his ear. It was a purr.