Just Like Home

Dear Cousin,

I wanted to fire off a few words to you, now that I’ve set up shop here above the South Carolina state line in North Carolina. Believe it or not, things are not so much different here, north of Rock Hill, north of Charleston, south of New York.

I rented a room, first-off, in what might be called a boarding house, allowing me time to look around for a place where I might avoid meeting rabid Baptists. But just like at home, churches brag and apartments hide.

During my first night there, I sat in the kitchen, which doubles as the living room, with three of my new house-mates. They were having beers each, so I thought I ought to join in, and I did, all upbringing to the contrary. Seemed like the polite thing to do.

About an hour later, my new friend Billy, who was drunk, took a playful swipe at my new friend Ralph, who was drunk, and real big. Well, Ralph was not impressed, and he growled a warning to Billy not to touch him. Billy laughed it off and teased Ralph with another playful swipe, and before I saw enough to know to excuse myself, Ralph had leaped up, tackled Billy, and sat on top of him on the pearly linoleum, screaming, “TOUCH ME AGAIN AND I’LL F*** KILL YOU!!!”

Well, not yet feeling at home, I took a side – the outside. And then I moved out.

I still haven’t yet run into our relatives, who live somewhere close to Raleigh, but people are people – I’ve met some fine ones and noticed some interesting ones. I imagine (and hope) they’re not blood kin. Beer, like at home, is the big daddy here. Canadian Whiskey must be highly taxed here, or something, as it is not offered in a lot of night spots. There’s a crime of unusual taxes here.

Concerning fashion, Kelly green is numero uno, and madras shirts also. Just like home. The bartenders, like at home, must be waiting to share some private danger, or dangerous privacy, with each customer before they’ll speak as a friend.

Here in Raleigh, Cousin, I don’t feel that rush of stadium fever like we all know from Clemson, even though there are football teams on all sides. Maybe that’s because there are football teams on all sides. Too many rivals too near to home make claiming a champion dangerous, since glory fades week to week. I guess people hate to be wrong. Just like at home.

Raleigh is a pretty big place, with an obvious fondness for brick. Just down the street from my large, tanned brick office is a large, tanned brick prison. A big boy. Turns out there are four or five prisons in this big city, and this is the city where Sheriff Andy used to take Opie to see a “moving picture show,” if Opie had been behaving. Remember that? I guess, with all these handy prisons, Sheriff Andy would bring Opie here if Opie had not been behaving also.

Seems like everyone I’ve met here is either in school, teaching school or mocking school. I did, however, meet some nice people who were waiting tables and that at a restaurant (now get this) inside the local museum.

This museum is not, like we once joked, a tribute to tobacco products. It’s very nice. There is, however, a Jesse Helms wing, in the extreme right wing of the building. Unfortunately, just down the street from the Jesse Helms exhibit is the North Carolina State Veterinary College, and the incredible, nauseating vile stench that wafts over is just awful. Nearly ruins the ambiance of the Vet School.

Cousin, remember all our trips to the hazed-up Blue Ridge Mountains that we used to visit, that seemed to lock Tennessee out of North Carolina? Well, I’m so far removed from that glorious land that we don’t get any snow ski reports on the local weather. We get beach conditions and small craft advisories. Too bad. I guess when big city buildings curl up towards heaven, they forget the heaven that curls up the halcyon mountains. Too bad. Just like home.

The state fair has been here for about a week now, and I went in to walk around it last weekend, on a Sunday night. An amazing amount of people was there, and I mean the entire food chain.

I didn’t ride any of the flipping, spinning, whirling, heaving, undulating, pitching, tossing rides, since I like to taste my food just once. But the best entertainment at the fair was free. Near the back corner of the “midway,” I guess they still call it that, was one of those sad, disappointing ghost mansion deals, where two people get in a car and spend about 2-3 minutes mocking a bunch of poorly-made cloth dummies intended to frighten one to near death. You know the type. Just like at home.

But this one was different. This one had a real person, dressed up in a loose black outfit, with one of those old-man masks on. And this guy was great. He would run in and out of the ride’s various doors, hang off the side of the structure, hide in empty cars and that, run up behind cars with jeering kids and moms and couples (”Aw, that weren’t nothing!!”), and he would scare the hell out of everybody. Eventually, this guy had a huge crowd standing in front of the ride, tensely holding their breath and waiting for his next attack. People were rolling laughing, and actually applauding from time to time.

When I finally managed to break away to walk on, I turned around and screamed. Standing right next to me was the most horrible nightmare I had ever seen, with this big round bowl of wiry hair, pale skin, big black eyes and blood-red lips, dressed in some kind of drizzly blue coveralls over a garish red baggy shirt. Straight from hell this thing was. But no…it was somebody’s mother. Which was even scarier.