Davidfarrow’s Weblog

I had occasion to cut through Marion Square the weekend of the Food and Wine Festival. I was actually visiting concierges trying to drum up business and was walking from the Holiday Inn to the Francis Marion when I decided to take the long way.
I entered the park on Meeting and Calhoun then proceeded northwest. As soon as I got in the park a surreal tableaux unfolded. As I walked in I looked to my left and saw that the benches were lined up with the homeless (we used to call them winos, anybody remember Freddie? Ask George Bellows). They reminded me of seagulls along Low Battery lined up like tin soldiers, the sunset soon to eclipse them.
It was the first warm afternoon of the season, but no one told these people. Still swaddled in layers, their mouths agape, lolling under the shadow of the food and wine tents, they seemed as content as anyone alive.
Then I wandered through the festival just to watch the people. I won’t say that they were well-heeled, but there was most certainly money. I’m not a fan of festivals – the whole community/commodity thing – but this brought in a lot of out of towners. There were a lot of corporate sponsors. My objection is spending city money on any of it. Traffic was crazed. Cops patrolled the festival. I hope one of the corporate sponsors paid for that. Fat chance.
The interesting thing is through the bass weejans and Gucci loafers, through the clods and whatever the hell women think is hot, everyone was happy. There seemed to be a lot of lust being sated, and I really thought it was kinda cool.
It was then I came upon lust unrequited. In the years I was gone, I had forgotten about the College of Charleston girls and their bikinis. I had forgotten the wisdom of Wendell Gaillard (former Charleston city councilman and now state rep.). The good reverend protested the immorality of girls wearing bikinis in public.
I maintained in print then that I and every other male in Charleston, didn’t think this sunbathing thing was such a bad thing (although I’m given to understand that many wives were cranky). Well, in between the tents were college girls in their skimpiest.
I was alone. I had sunglasses on. I ogled (any man who says he doesn’t is a lying sack o’…). So did every other man. Sometimes, between sips of wine (I did notice that one would not swill in public. There was a definite line. You stepped over it and the cops would be on you like the Chicago Seven), professors and cattle callers, sheet metal company owners and rug merchants glanced long and hard at the nubile young things almost fecund with sensuality.
Mind you, the men with women were at a disadvantage. I stood over a flock of bikinis to see how this dynamic would turn out (I swear, that’s the only reason). It was quite telling.
One could spot the long-standing married couples. The women were basically disinterested or were carping about some injustice at home that I’m sure the man was quite happy to have left behind. As she prattled about how Debbie treated Ann at the Wal-Mart, the man would desperately sneak a peek then nervously avert his eyes as if staring would give him away that he longed to be in the arms of a beautiful stranger.
The disinterested woman presented a scene akin to the early bird special at Ryan’s. I haven’t been any place like that since my divorce, but I always marveled at the older couples sitting by the window staring into space, into their mortality with a grim look that signaled existential defeat or ill-fitting dentures. They were all talked out. My ex always said that it was a comfortable silence. I don’t think so. There’s a difference between a neutral “whatever is, is” look and a “to hell with it, kill me” look.
One could see that look change demonstrably as his eyes lit upon a young girl’s charms. As their mate for life stared dourly ahead, I could see the wistfulness in these men’s eyes, the longing for a touch that had not atrophied. Just as quickly, they were back in their world, waiting out their time.
Ahh, but then the young college boys – the intended prey — were all but dancing through hoops just to be noticed. As I left my station and walked over to King Street, there was an enclave of two girls – one with her top untied – and five or six boys.
The boys didn’t seem to be connected, but one of them had a dog that was doing tricks. All seven were pretending that they were paying attention to the dog, but the boys would sneak a peek, and the girls would check out the boys.
I have always had a theory about the way men think when they see a woman. It all takes place in an instant. The first thought is “Would I?” The second is “She wouldn’t!” The third is “How do we change that?”
There was a great deal of “How do we change that?” going on as the dog pirouetted through time and space to the delight of all. Some stood away, but the interest was definitely not on the dog.
I went over to the Francis Marion and had a delightful chat with Wendy Weeks. When I left, I walked east down Calhoun. Lined along the sidewalk in front of the oblivious sawing logs on the benches were a bunch of protesters.
They were Sri Lankans (of course) who were protesting Tamil terrorists holding high signs which exhorted passing traffic to honk for their cause. Everyone seemed to be pretty good natured about it. The Ceylonese were very reserved. I suspect most of those who honked couldn’t give a royal damn about the Tamil Terrorists, but the Sri Lankans seemed to be pleased, so I guess all in all, things worked out. If lust was not involved, certainly a degree of satisfaction was.
As I walked in the first warm day of spring, the warm sun on my back indicative of a different kind of light, I thought about “the change” as I am wont to do. I thought about the fact that I was exposed to more walking around that park than I was in two years of college here. Not that I wasn’t exposed (with many others for company) to a lot back in the 70s, but that Saturday afternoon globalization was truly manifest in my mind. Everything had changed save the winos. They weren’t the same winos, but the idea was the same.
Twenty-five years ago, there was a liquor store next to the Francis Marion where the restaurant was today. The bellmen were black and knew the neighborhood, so to speak. I remember going into the liquor store about 4:40 one Saturday. There was a black wino with a television set in a shopping cart.
As I came out of the store armed for the evening, the wino regarded me with weak rheumy eyes and grunted, “Hey I sell you a TV, innit? I just gottom froms my aunt.”
I said I really didn’t need a darned hot television set, or words to that effect.
He said indignantly, “Hot? No he ain’ hot.”
I turned to go to my car, and he took a couple of steps towards me dragging the cart and a perfectly fine looking televsion screaming, “Why you say he hot? I ain’ teef him!”
By now, the bellman who could provide anything your little heart desired – for a price — began to come our way. I have to say that if I had to face an adversary, drunken winos were certainly high on the list. I felt no danger as I got back in my Chevrolet.
I thought about that time as I turned down Anson Street. As I walked past the side of the auditorium, I thought of the myriad occasions, functions and concerts I had been to in that venue. Experience tumbled upon occurrence in layers each one more richly textured than the last.
I thought about the afternoon as I stood on George Street and watched children playing with their parents. Their layers were scant, the texture yet to be woven. Who knows what they will run across fifty years hence as they walk through Marion Square?
Who knows if Marion Square would be there?
There seemed to be only one constant, I mused as I reached my car on Laurens Street. The winos. I suspect that if Marion Square is around, there will be winos for they will ever be with us like the poor.
The way things seem to be going there might be more winos in the coming year. Oblivion is a seductress.
I started my car and stopped on Anson as the children and their parents ambled by. I really hoped their childhood was as magic as mine. I hoped that they grew up, found and lost love, were consumed by a passion, that life was a happy journey.
For a minute, nothing changed. Time stopped for a millisecond. I felt that I was where I was supposed to be, doing what I was supposed to be doing as the rich brick colors of Ansonborough were lit up by the sun.
Then the clock started again. Time continued its march into change.
I turned on the radio and sang with Bob Dylan all the way home.
Sometimes, a cigar is just a cigar.