God damn, motherfucking Myrtle Beach.
I've been to many of the South's various ports of call. And while I will openly and undeniably voice New Orleans as my number one with a bullet destination, Myrtle Beach is always a close and beloved number two.
Wild, untamed, and fueled by a pure desire to suckle every sweet cent out of whatever revelers might happen to clank along the Boardwalk, there is a delightful decadence in the sea air of Myrtle Beach, the multitudes gathering there for one pure, perfect purpose:
To get as fucked up as humanly possible…
But that quest for annihilation is not one without a wake that runs long and jagged, as I would find out...
How I Learned to Ask the Right Questions
"So where is it you said you were headed from?" Skeeter asks. His name want Skeeter if I'm being honest. It was probably Doug or Dave or something less stereotypical. But as far as I was concerned he was Skeeter, too drunk and fucked to know any better. I'd spent the better part of fifteen minutes talking to the old boy, waving in front of him on gummy drunk legs.
"Tampa." I work out, my words thick and drunk.
"That's in Florida, right?" He asks, his accent butchering the language.
"Yes sir." I burp out, my breath tasting like cheap beer.
He could tell I was loaded, the sun rising just over my shoulder through the poster covered glass of his roadside convenience store.
"Drinking the whole way, no doubt..." He hoots out, chuckling somewhat approving of my derelict actions.
I tell him how I ended up standing before him, drunk and disheveled. The evening had started out rocky, my Friday closing with some news concerning my divorce. It left me with a bitter taste in my mouth; needless monies chasing after the ruins of what had once been. It was a true "need to drink" night, and damned my luck every single friend of mine was either working late or too assed out from the night before to even think of pulling another long night so close. I had spent a chunk of the night drinking with loose acquaintances, finding little comfort in the slurred small talk and uneasy feeling of a stranger in their mists. So I called it a night at midnight, making my way to my car, but my soul still stirred. In a move divined by fate I turned to a gas station, grabbed a twelve pack and a full tank, and submitted myself to the call of the open road in my soul; the desire to clear my mind along the black snake of the American highways something I wasn't going to shake myself loose of.
I had originally intended (if drunkenly driving your car north along I-4 can actually be described as intent) to head to Daytona to see the sun rise over the Atlantic. But as I got closer, I saw I was still hours away from sunrise and felt little like just parking. So I continued north, ending up in some seedy Georgia exit just outside of Savannah. I had pulled over for fuel and direction, somewhere between Jacksonville and there having decided I needed to see Atlanta.
Ringing up a fresh twelve pack and a few packs of Marlboros, Skeeter gave another approving hoot to my tale, chuckling as I swayed uneasy.
"Man, you don't need Atlanta, brother." He said, taking my cash as I handed it to him.
"What you need is the sort of clarity that only drinking on the beach can give a man..."
I roll my eyes at him (or at least I intend to, certain my drunken eyes couldn't pull off that simple request).
"I do come from Florida, dude..."
"Florida beaches ain't nothing but uptight rich people and old Canadians ruining the scenery. You need young drunk girls and a good time. What you need is Myrtle Beach."
My interest perks a bit, my drunken mind having heard of such a place in tales my brother and his friends would bring back from their base in Jackson.
"Is it close?" I slur, for some reason at that point recognizing I might have been too drunk to attempt such a trip.
"Closer than Atlanta." He says with a smile reaching for a map. He quickly charts me a course, handing me the map when he's done. I thank him and head back to my car, aiming to my new direction. It was a long, hard four hours before I arrived, slow drinking beers to maintain my drunk.
I arrived a little after ten, checking into the first hotel I could find that took cash. It was a shithole, a worn out mistress sitting in the middle of a beer stinking room. But it was a hundred bucks for the night, no questions asked, no papers filled out... Good enough for what I needed. I took a quick shower to gauge my feeling. I was tired but good; the energy of adventure settling the exhaustion and brain fog.
I leave the hotel room shirtless, picking up some tacky airbrushed tank top and a fresh twelve pack at the first store I came across. Outfitted in my new shirt and catching the second wind from sea breeze and beautiful babies wandering around in bikinis, I headed for the beach.
Skeeter had been right with his recommendation, the beach crawling with packs of attractive young women all soaking in the blazing sun. I wander the beach for a bit like some disheveled prophet. It doesn't take me long to meet a few people as I wander, buying some pot of one friendly gang member looking to move his merch and eating half a speed pill that some trashy girl down from Tennessee had offered me.
I walked for about an hour before having had enough, my twelve pack having dwindled to a slowly warming six. I start heading back to my hotel room, feeling a nap might be in order before the evening's festivities (having made some loose plans with a few of the groups I had come across).
"Is that the Beast your drinking?" I hear someone ask me. I turn around, seeing the question coming from a girl. She had black hair, dreaded and matted from a few days of salt water exposure, and a friendly smile. She looked like Katie Holmes, if Katie Holmes gave up working on TV and had gotten stung by a few bees.
"Say again?" I ask as I turn around, taking her all in as I do. She was tall and thick legged, her bright blue bikini cutting a little into her light red burnt skin.
"I asked if you were drinking the Beast," she said again in her mesmerizing Southern twang, making sure I noticed her adjusting her top.
"Oh, yea... It's Milwaukee's Best," I reply, watching her hands press her breasts under the ill fitting fabric.
"Mind if I get one?" She asked, pulling her sunglasses down on her face, bright sun hanging merciless in the Carolina sky.
"I'd share the rest of these with you, but they're piss warm..." I reply, doing my best to focus on her face and eyes (her one size too small bikini making more difficult than it should have been to do so).
"Well, tell you what... Toss in one of them butts and I'll let you borrow our cooler for a bit..." She said, smiling.
I agree and follow her to her camp, a few feet from where she had bumped into me.
She introduces herself to me as we walk, telling me her name is Melissa. Once we arrive, she introduces me to her friend, a thin framed blonde with small perky breasts and an unflatteringly boney ass named Ashley. I put the beers in their cooler and share a butt with Melissa while we wait for them to cool.
The three of us get along like gangbusters, my away game always superior to my home game when it came to the broads. We drink the beers, smoke some pot, and spend the rest of the early afternoon together. They take off on me after a bit, claiming they had people to meet up with, and Melissa and I exchange numbers; the three of us arrange to meet up later in the evening.
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