After a two hour standstill with my wife, about whether I could go to camp or not, this past Thursday, I pulled my "road trip" car out of the drive way. 1997 Saturns are fine tuned machines and as such require certain levels of maintenance. I got it's oil changed and a new set of tires installed, I even took it to another shop for an inspection and a freon charge, and on my way out of town I got my tag renewed.
Safe in the assumption that I wouldn't get pulled in SC for having an expired tag, and not being entirely sure that I could, in fact, leave the state, I pulled away from Shallotte at 11:30 am excited for my 4 1/2 hr drive ahead. About 30 minutes outside of town the compressor for my newly charged AC dies, fugsocks. I roll down my windows, (only the front ones mind you, the back ones don't work) crank up my Rammstein cd fresh from my middle school years, and begin to sweat my ass off on my sweet Saturn fo-leather seats.
Florence SC is a beautiful town, a nice historic district, beautiful architecture, lovely trees. When you are stuck in traffic for 3 hrs because some stupid fat guy ran his SUV over a fire hydrant and your stripped down into nothing but sweat soaked nut hugging boxer briefs you fail to notice such things. fug you broken AC.
I arrived in Spartanburg at 8:15, to late to make it to practice, sweat soaked, cranky, hungry and in need of a drink. I'm staying at the "Marriot at Renaissance park", a full service hotel, and after spending 15 minutes explaining to the nice gay front desk boy that I wasn't interested in a Marriot gold card, I put my bag away and went to the hotel bar for some food and a drink.
I got a Ruben and enjoyed three jack and cokes while I ate it. Afterwards I asked my cute little waitress where a good place to go for drinks would be. She directed me to a place called Delaneys, about three blocks up the road.
Delaneys is an Irish pub in downtown, and was actually a pretty nice spot. There was a horrific local band playing, but they had about 30 beers on tap. Finding a seat next to what appeared to be an attractive female (yes I'm married but I much prefer to talk to women strangers), that is until I saw her remarkable catfish like face. I got a Dogfish 90minute IPA draft and struck up a coversation with the catfish. She is an artist/yoga instructor and works as a director for the locals Girls and Boys club. After a few drinks she asked me if I'd like to see some of her art at her house. She told me it was only a few blocks away and that she would give me a ride. Being an art lover I agreed.
Turns out the catfish is a crazy cat woman. She had six cats, and her whole house smelled of cat pee. One of her cats had three legs, missing a front, and would try to scratch it's phantom limb on my leg, which looked remarkably like I was being molested by a three legged cat. The catfish smokes a bowl while she hands me her portfolio, which was decidedly Meh. All of her art was overlayed squares "Pixelated" and was some metaphore for Mac computers according to her, I didn't really follow. She leaves to the bathroom and comes out a while later in a night gown and smelling of some horrific hippy combo of Nag Champa and Patchouli. Clearly I had been slow on the uptake and I reminded the catfish that I was married and that I must have given her false pretenses. If you could imagine a catfish giving an "eat poo and die look" that's what I received. She told me she was going to bed and shut her door refusing to give me a ride back.
I pushed the three legged cat off my leg and walked outside. Having not payed attention on the way there I opened my phone, got a 5% battery message and opened google maps praying that it would last till I figured out where the fug I was. I did and I walked about two miles back to the Marriot. When I got back to the hotel I heard music across the street coming from a bar I hadn't noticed earlier, Ferguson's.
Ferguson's had a picture of a pool table and a frothy beer mug on the door and I assumed it was another Irish style pub. It was only midnight at this point and it was right across from the hotel so I thought "well fug yeah" and went inside. Immediately after opening the door I felt like the short dick at a porno casting. I was the only white person in there, and it was packed. I wasn't about to just turn back around though, I came here for a drink and I'm not racist so I showed my ID and sat down, at the only open seat at the bar, next to a huge fat woman.
You know that when the coke for your drinks is poured from a two liter you are in a classy place. I talked to the hippo next to me and she bought me another drink. Score. Shortly after that a rather attractive girl came up next to me and introduced herself, I don't remember her name, but the first thing she said was this:
"Where's your woman?"
"She's back home, I'm from out of town"
"Well I'm single and ready to mingle and I like white boys like you"
I didn't really know what to say, but she asked me if I liked to dance and I told her that I was tired and just wanted to drink so she left me a lone. There was some other attractive girl next to her that stayed and I tried to talk to her but I'm pretty sure she faked having the hiccups, that was weird.
I start looking around the bar and this guy sitting behind me in an urban camo fishing hat and Hawaiian shirt nodded me over.
"you looking for some pussy?"
I told him no and that I was just here for some drinks and that I was staying across the street at the Marriot. I talked to this guy for a while, and eventually I started talking about how I worked for myself because of how it was hard to get a job working for someone when you are a twice convicted felon. Well apparently this eased old boy up, or maybe it was the giant Crown and cokes he was drinking, but he confided in me that he was the "Crack King" of Spartanburg. Everybody comes running to him he said, he cut it and cooked it himself he said. So being a curious young man I asked him about the local price of a kilo of coke, that he gets to cook his crack with. He told me between 18 and 32k, depending, so if you are trying to get a kilo in Spartanburg, shoot for within that 14,000 dollar range because that's apparently the going rate according to the crack king.
The crack king left eventually and I decided to strike up conversation with the guy sitting next to him that everyone called the Sandman. The Sandman wasn't really a big talker. Until to this point in the night, he had mostly just sat there with his head lowered and eyes closed, every once in a while he would look up, take a sip from his bud light in a can, look around, close his eyes and lower his head again. When I said whatsup to him, he looked at me put his fingers to his lips and lowered his head again. Clearly he was meditating.
I bought the Sandman a budlight in a can and he liked me after that. We chatted some but I don't really remember what about. When Fergusons was closing down Sandman asked me if I could give him a ride home. I told him sure but that I wanted to drop my money off in my room first because I don't particularly like getting robbed. After going across to the hotel and dropping my money off, among many assurances from the Sandman that I was his friend, he said that we should go out and have some fun first, before I took him home. I like fun, so I said sure.
Initially he took me into some neighborhood and told me to pull over, all the lights were off at the near by houses and there weren't many cars. Clearly an incognito party I thought. Apparently it wasn't and the Sandman said that this wasn't the place and to turn around. Starting to wonder what we were really doing, we turned a corner and there was a fug ton of cars and people.
The place was called Sidelines and looked like a converted old skating rink. It was huge. I payed my cover. Apparently this place works with the TSA because they pat you down when you come in. I felt safer already. Once again I was the only white person, among around 300 or so black people, no biggy though. I played a couple games of 5 dollar a game pool, won three games in a row and one guy started calling me a shark so I quit playing. Sandman got us a couple rounds of free shots and I danced with some girls wearing next to nothing. This place closed around 4 am and as I was filing out I got my ass grabbed by what I'm pretty sure was a man dressed as a woman, or maybe she was just really ugly. Every night when this place closes, apparently, there are three Spartanburg PD standing outside the exits with AR 15's. Clearly more TSA influence. I like this place it's safe. The Sandman knew one of the officers and he snuck up behind him and hugged him, neato I love police.
Sandman gave me directions to his house and I dropped him off, and then he gave me the wrong directions back to my hotel, so after getting lost and having a dead phone I had to stop at a gas station to ask for directions. I made it back to my hotel room at around 445 am, alive and well and ready for training camp the next day.
Edited by Floppin, 20 June 2012 - 12:17 PM.