Aiken, Chapter 1

In horror, I watched the slow motion tumble of my half-empty bottle of beer fall from my hands onto the floor. It went straight down. The bottle shattering into hundreds of pieces when it hit the dirty stone floor. I knew exactly what was coming when it happened. My shoulders slumped in anticipation.

“Jones, you’re outta here,” the barkeep barked at me from across the room. John was a kind fellow, but he didn’t put up with bullshit either. His old, dirty and soaking wet towel was in one hand. A fist was made with the other.

I nodded my head in agreement and stumbled out into the afternoon air. It was hot, humid and windy. A perfect New Orleans day, I thought to myself. Only problem was, I was in Aiken, South Carolina.

How I ended up in a bar in Aiken would explain a lot about how bad my life had become. I quit my job exactly 16 days ago. Jumped in my car and drove south. I figured I’d be in Florida by the end of the day. Instead, I got a flat tire in Aiken. And I hadn’t left yet.

That day, I was towed from Interstate 95 to a repair shop. There, I met George Pepper. When he said it, at first I heard Peppard and got a little bit excited. Even though I knew the actor was dead, I figured that this mechanic being named the same thing had to be a sign of good.

“It’s Pepper, not Peppard,” he replied to my query on his last name. I felt bad after that.

“Where can a guy get a drink around here?” I asked.

“Soda pop machine’s out front,” George said with a smile.

“Something a bit stronger, I was thinking.”

“Oh,” he said. I could feel his disappointment in this stranger in his place of business.

“There’s a bar about six blocks from here. Turn on State Street. A left, I believe. Then a right on Main. You won’t be able to miss it.”

“Unless it’s a right on State?” I said with a chuckle.

George didn’t see the humor. I gave him my cell phone number to call me.

“This’ll be long distance,” he replied. “Just stop by in a couple hours. It’ll be fixed.”

I shook his hand and left. His grip was tight. Mine, not so much. My dad always told me to shake a man’s hand like you meant it. I really didn’t mean it that time. And it showed. The mechanic, according to my dad’s philosophy, now had the upper hand on me.

I trudged down the road for a few blocks. The sweat was already showing through my t-shirt. I looked up at the sky, a solitary blue jay few past me, landing on a stop sign. It shrieked. I stared at him. Wondering if the shriek was a warning to me. I chuckled when it stared back and seemed to nod a yes.

A black pickup truck slowly ambled down the road towards me. “Overnight Male” by George Straight was flying out the windows. I watched the truck go by. Inside the cab were two women. One blonde-haired. The other a redhead. They whistled at me and I tipped the brim of my baseball cap with my left hand. I heard giggles from the truck as it whisked away around the corner.

My steps were leaden. I’d only heard of Aiken from one other person in my life. A kid named Donnie. He was a tough kid. A lot tougher than me. He wasn’t very smart, but for some reason, we got along. Usually those types of guys wanted to beat the crap out of me in middle school. Not Donnie. In English class we’d sit in the back and try to come up with contests to prove that one or the other knew more about heavy metal music than the other. He looked the part, wearing leather studded arm bands and pentagram t-shirts. I usually wore a Joe Theisman jersey. But we both had bowl haircuts and had never even sniffed a kiss from a girl.

One day, after we’d spent the entire 45-minute long class writing the names of heavy metal bands – I had 146, he had 133, he told me that he was moving. All the way to South Carolina. We ate lunch together, talking about the band we wanted to form, the girls we wanted to “do” and the plans we had to stay in touch. We exchanged addresses that day. Mine in Virginia, his new one in South Carolina.

A handshake and a look was how it ended.

That summer, I wrote him. Told him how dull our hometown was. That the arcade was closing and the new Motley Crue album was “ok” but not as good as “Shout at the Devil.”

A few weeks later, I got a reply. He talked about how hot it was. How there was nothing but farms and niggers. I read that line over and over. The letter concluded with him saying how much he hated it there. Too many niggers. Again.

That was the last letter I got from Donnie. I never wrote again either.

Now, over 25 years later I’m in that town he hated so much. I wonder if he’s around?

Finally, I make it to the bar. An old brick building that most likely used to be something better. Now, it was a bar. Called “Sid’s Sitting Point.” I opened the big red door and went inside. Hank Williams was singing about being lonesome.

My eyes went from one side of the place to the other. There were four people in the place. Two old guys at the bar and a woman at the jukebox. The bartender was there too. I’d end up knowing his name – John Underwood – by the end of the afternoon.

“What do ya have in a bottle?” I asked.

“Bud, Bud Light, Miller Lite and Coors,” he said.

I winced.

“Give me a Bud and a shot of Jameson,” I replied.

“You got it buddy,” he said. “My name’s John.”

“Nice to meet ya, man. I’m Randy.”

He poured my shot and plopped down the beer. I took a swig. It was awful, but cold, so it felt good going down. Soon, I’d had eight beers and a couple of shots. I was feeling good.

The doors opened with a crash. In came the two ladies I’d seen earlier. They saw me at the bar and plopped down next to me. John gave me a look. I knew what that look was about. It said “be careful, bro.” I nodded in appreciation, but also knew I wasn’t going to take his advice.

“Hello, stranger,” the redhead said to me.

“Howdy, ladies,” I replied in a southern drawl that always came over me when I was drunk or nervous. Right now, I was both.

“You’re cute,” said the blonde.

“Well, ma’am, you’re pretty,” I said, taking a long swig from the just delivered bottle of beer. It was the best sip I had all day.

“You wanna get out of here?” the redhead eventually asked me after the three of us had talked about their dogs, their cats and their shitty jobs for about 45 minutes.

“Sure, why the hell not?” I said.

Within two minutes I had paid my tab, gotten a stiff handshake and a stern look from John, taken a piss and jumped in the cab of that black pickup truck. This oughtta be fun, I thought to myself as I looked at the redhead, smiling and looking out the window. Her legs were pale and firm. I noticed no tattoos, always a good sign.

“You think she’s pretty?,” the blonde asked out of the blue.

“Always had a thing for redheads,” I replied. This redhead looked at me now. She smiled. Then turned back to the window.

“Where we going?” I asked no one in particular.

“Over to the shed,” the blonde said.

“Sounds like a plan,” I replied. “You got anything to drink?”

“Of course, darlin’,” the blonde said, pulling a flask from between her legs.

She handed it to me. It was warm from her body heat. I clicked open the top and took a swig. It was tequila. I nearly threw it up, but held back.

“Whoah, there Tiger,” she said. “Don’t want you puking on my man’s truck.”

That should have been a warning. But I ignored it. I handed the flask to the redhead. She took a swig and then another. That should have been a second warning. My drunk ass thought it was awesome. Me, two hot southern girls, at least 10 years younger than me, driving around in the sticks of South Carolina. What could possibly ever go wrong?