Currently: I am sitting on the corner of King and Calhoun on a breezy summer evening in Charleston listening to the 8 o' clock church bells ring. Beside me, the light spray of a fountain. Above me, the smell of Moes is in the air. In front of me, a Grande Caramel Macchiato triple with no foam. Life is good.
The Starbucks drink? Free for my birthday. My car? Currently parked for free about a stone's throw down the street. A strong man's throw to be more exact. These are all small and not insignificant blessings from the Lord.
"Every good and perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of the heavenly lights, who does not change like shifting shadows." James 1:17
About four nights and a few hours back, I found myself on this exact same street for a more interesting and less serene kind of experience. After checking out an MUSC anatomy post-gross party for the first time, I ventured to a hole-in-the-wall bar along King Street to hear none other than my dear friend, Jamie F, play his very own music for a crowd of rightfully enthusiastic fans. Since I was one of the few in the crowd fully sober and able to clearly observe the goings on, I felt it my duty to share my particular insights on this fine affair.
My first exchange was with a lovely young lady who seemed to have a surprisingly quick reaction time for her particular situation. Promptly after receiving my drink in hand, full to overflowing, the visor and polo shirt-clad boy behind me protruded his pointy elbow into my cup, quickly pouring my light beer thoroughly over the back of this white-shirted young lady to my left. Turning around with a threatening expression she told me what she thought of what had just happened and, sensing an uprising opportunity for a cat fight, I promptly apologized and took my leave of that particular location.
Soon thereafter, I enjoyed about an hour of Jamie's high quality music and the entertainment available from various dizzy and enthused individuals bouncing and banging their heads in such a fashion that I continued to be amazed when they failed to lose momentum as the minutes ticked past.
Highly unfortunate was a girl nearby me who danced all around what I assumed must be her boyfriend in such a way that could only be described as unseemly. These moves I would assume are more often found in other nightlife locations such as "gentlemen's clubs" (although with the name gentlemen's club I must fervently disagree, seeing as the men who frequent them are far from true gentlemen). But there she was. Not only did said boyfriend completely ignore her, he stood back just far enough to bang his own head, eyes closed, sweating profusely. He appeared to be oblivious to both her moves and less-than-modest attire, which I would venture to say was better for the both of them.
While I stood and observed this madness, swaying and bobbing my head just enough to avoid standing out awkwardly, a red goute-ed chap with glasses and much shorter than myself came over and attempted to make conversation. "WHY ARE YOU OVER HERE DANCING BY YOURSELF?!" He yelled in my ear several times before I understood. After some screaming directly into his curly red hair in the direction of what I hoped was his ear, we proceeded to stand there awkwardly bobbing our heads until we thought of something else to yell at each other several times. Soon after, the friends he mentioned that he had came over and some awkward yelling introductions were made. After a while, he seemed to come to terms with the fact that perhaps I wasn't going to be his new best friend, and bowed out graciously. Despite what it might seem, I appreciated his effort to be friendly.
Before the night was over, I had also met Justin, who lost the cover to his phone momentarily. After we discovered it lying on the floor, he attempted to interact with me as well. I saw immediately that his half-closed eyes and slow, far-off expressions probably weren't a good start to beginning a life-long friendship. Also, unfortunately for him, he couldn't understand what I had to say even when I yelled it directly into his ear. So, after a few tries and some awkward apologies, he also decided to walk away. We proceeded to avoid eye contact for the rest of the evening.
I watched a few people trip over the cord near my feet that was running the sound system and fixed the few worrisome plug tugs that resulted. I helped a large woman up who slipped and fell at my feet during an especially bumpin song. I moved out of the way and against the wall for a guy with a black eye as he limped out with his posse of friends. And best of all, I enjoyed some more pumpin' music. After all this, I decided to bow out as well.
After bidding good night to my one friend who had looked out for my social and physical well-being that evening, and reassuring him that I would be just fine on the streets of Charleston at 2am, I stepped out into the fresh air with my ears ringing. I promptly began my trek up the street looking for my little car exactly where I'd left it. After reaching a less-than-well-to-do area of the street, I circled back, profoundly confused. No one would think of stealing a dented 93 Nissan Sentra. It was parked legally, it wouldn't have been towed or booted. I proceeded to walk back up the street and back down it. After thinking through my arrival once again, I made one more circle, working my way up the street almost a mile this time. By this time I was carefully avoiding eye contact with police men and bouncers, who more-than-likely noticed me passing the first four times. On my way back this last time, I took off my sandals to reduce the foot pain I was experiencing. Soon after shoe removal, I stepped on a previously used cigarette's burning ember, which left a nice round hole in my foot.
Not until I was back in front of the bar for the third time, watching my head-banging friends filing out with minor confusion and some alcohol-induced swaying, did I realized that I had come from the opposite direction. How I got so turned around, I will never know. It was all that smokey, laser lighted head-banging I suppose. Finally, I found my dear car and headed home.
Late to bed, early to rise! Nine hours of manual labor at work awaited me the next day. Oh well. Such is the life of a college grad.
