Notes on Charleston: People

 "If I'm an advocate for anything, it's to move. As far as you can, as much as you can. Across the ocean, or simply across the river. Walk in someone else's shoes or at least eat their food. It's a plus for everybody."

—Anthony Bourdain

        I enjoy meeting new people.  I really do.  Ok, so I’m incredibly shy and introverted without a few drinks in my system and over the last few years I’ve grown increasingly antisocial, misanthropic, and give off this loner vibe.  For anyone who has met me over the last seven years, I hate to break it to you.  But you’ve never met me.  I’m a meet new friends in a bar and mingle with strangers kind of person.  I just haven’t had that opportunity for a long time.  I feel really comfortable around new people, I just don’t trust them.  Once you get past the first sober meeting where I’m reserved and quiet, I get more sociable.  When I’ve had a few drinks, that awkward meeting never takes place.  I’m in the zone and there to crack jokes, score numbers, and take names.

    So far I’ve met an interesting assortment of people who I will chronicle here for the delight of my handful of readers.  Meeting new people is exciting.  Learning about their interests, their stories, their pasts, their likes and dislikes…it’s like diving into a good movie or opening a fresh book.  You never know what it’s going to be like when you cut to the next scene or flip the next page.  The more you learn the more you realize you have not even scratched the cover.  Each person has a story to tell.

    The roommate:

    He’s twenty years old, six months out of a relationship he still has not gotten over.  A relationship that ended abruptly and without his consent.  He moved down here at 1:00AM and waited at the gate for another car to pull in and mash the FOB to open the doors.  He hates his hometown of Greenville, North Carolina and the state in its entirety.  Also his former job at a barbecue joint.  He has dark hair and long bangs.  I just found a hair on the dining room table that almost mangled into my supper.  He’s upbeat, heavily into music, and always talking about “the vibe.”  He incessantly vapes Delta-8 and real weed when his work buddies provide.  Constantly high at work.  I like the kid.  He reminds me of myself at that age.  When he looks at life or Charleston or whatever…he wants it all.  He wants to consume himself with life and love and laughter and music.  But deep down, he admits, he’s “a sad boy.”  He really cared about his last love and that’s the reason he moved down here.  To distance himself from her memory.  I hope he finds what he’s looking for and moves past what he’s running from.

    The Bossman:

    Late 40’s, smart mouth.  Fit and sharp.  He used to be a Meat Specialist but settled down as a Market Manager for a less stressful job.  He’s meticulous and particular, sarcastic about the path the company is headed down and the people in the upper ring running the show.  He expects a lot, but is understanding.  He’s worked for the company almost as long as I’ve been alive.  He lives on the island with his wife.  I don’t know if he has children.  We haven’t really talked like that.  I like him.  He works hard for a manager.  He does the things he could simply delegate and I respect him for that.  That’s how I was when I ran a market.  Never ask something you’re not willing to do yourself.  So far he likes me, and I want to keep it that way.  I’m told you don’t want to get on his bad side.

    Assistant #1:

    My store has two Assistant Market Managers (in-training).  The first one is 6’5”, thirty years old and in shape, with dark hair and a man’s man beard.  He doesn’t go out or socialize, but drinks at his apartment and bangs more women than you’ve even met in your life.  He came into work yesterday complaining “I have no testosterone left in me.”  His ex-girlfriend came over and they banged it out.  Then “an old flame” came over and he knocked a hole in the wall fucking her brains out.  The good looking women in the store, yeah, he’s had them.  And he was talking about an overnight stocker hitting on him.  He’s going to bang her too.  “My boss is a man whore.” A coworker explained.  You’ve got to have good game if you can get laid that much without ever leaving your house.  He used to be a bartender so he’s got that gift for gab persona and can talk his way into anyone.  He seems genuine, just incessantly horny for new tail.

    Assistant #2:

    I don’t have a good feel about this one.  It’s not that I don’t like him.  He seems like a good guy.  But he just seems a bit distant to where I can’t gauge him.  He’s short, from New England, and has been all over the country from California to New Hampshire and south to Florida.  I never thought to look for a ring, but by his stories he sounds a lot like me: 36 and single.  He used to work for a restaurant but came back to cutting meat because “chefs are worse than working with the public.”  He’s proudly Italian and very adamant about what constitutes “good” or “authentic” Italian food.  

    Carlos:

    So that’s not his name.  But there’s too many Chris’ and he’s Mexican so my boss refers to him by at least two stereotypical Hispanic names.  He’s a bit tubby, probably not old enough to drink, but has a good work ethic.  He doesn’t want to sign the two year contract to apprentice as a meat cutter, so he’s content working as a clerk.  He still cuts meat, though.  He’ll cut some chicken breast up for kabob meat and similar things.  Not requiring instruction, he walks the case and searches for what job needs doing.  If only all the kids of that generation were like him, America would dominate the world with an iron fist.

    Dixon:

    He’s the Pickle of John’s Island.  Pickle was our designated closer because his work ethic was so lackluster he wasn’t good for anything else except to hose down the saws and squeegee the floors.  Everyone hates him.  He’s thirty, happily married to a girl who works for Starbucks and rarely sees because they work different shifts.  He has black hair and a patchy beard.  I get along with him well enough.  He comes off as nice, though very broken and bitter that he’s on the shit list.  Wanting to transfer, he tells me he loves the company but hates the store because they treat him so terribly.  I never get in the middle of the conversation but just let him spout, learning whatever it is I feel like I need to take away.  He’s given me some advice about where to eat and drink, meet women, and insight on the different personalities in the store.  I’d take him over a Pickle any day.  He doesn’t get a lot done.  He’s slow and a sloppy cutter.  But he’s more productive.

    Fuzzy:

    I have not met him yet.  But I’ve heard the stories.  I don’t even know his real name.  Apparently last summer he cleaned up on the Thai girls working at the store.  No one could quite figure it out.  Apparently he’s not the looker, but he’s funny.  And that was something new and novel for them.  One day he told my boss he needed to go to the doctor because his mouth tasted fuzzy and he had some other issues.  He had gonorrhea.  Sounds like a fun guy.

    That’s all I’ve met so far.  The rest of the store is gay guys or women on the other end of menopause.  No hotties yet to write about or lose my shit over.  I’m still looking, waiting, drinking.  I’m getting the feels for this place, the “vibe” as my roommate calls it.  Just all down for good times and good peoples as my buddy Curt always said in a toast.  I’m chronically everything down so I can remember it.  I’m trying to write a novel.  I suck at fiction, but the key to it is to draw from experience and real life.  There’s some things and people you encounter that are stranger than fiction.  And the only way people will believe the story is to write the truth down as a lie.