My plane lands in the Florence, South Carolina airport. Or, rather, my “plane” lands in the Florence, South Carolina “airport.” I had taken one of those puddle hoppers that are, I suppose, the closest thing we’ll ever get to a real live Magic School Bus. You know - the type of deal, where instead of saying, “Flight attendants prepare for take off,” the pilot announces over the intercom, “Brian, have a seat.” These Greyhounds with wings always scare the Bejesus out of me, as their stability depends largely on whether there is a breeze, crosswind, or swarm of gnats.
Just landing feels like a real accomplishment, so my spirits are high when I touch down. Until my writing partner calls. He’s delayed five hours. Now, I am great at killing time in airports. I can spend an hour trying to justify buying the newest US Weekly - ‘It’s a Britney one!’, have a glass of wine and a quesadilla because it’s not nine a.m. where I’m from, and silently judge people based on what they’re reading - Dr. Phil in hardcover? That’s simply unforgivable.
So, there has to be something here to keep me occupied. I scan the room (yes, the room) and find: five rocking chairs, a stack of Clarendon County coupon books, and a snack bar comprised of three bolognae sandwiches circling sadly around in a vending machine. Looks like I have five hours to take in not so sunny Florence. I approach the TSA officer who sits with his feet propped up on a rocking chair. “Hi. My friend’s flight is delayed, and I have a lot of time to kill. Is there somewhere around here I can walk to?”
He looks at me for a few moments. “Walk to?”
“Yeah. I have a while, so...”
“Closest restaurant’s a mile away. So...no.”
“A mile I can do. Which dire--”
He calls over his buddy the luggage searcher, “This girl wants to walk. To the restaurant.” They both have a nice belly laugh at my expense. Baggage Checker shakes his head, “They’ll think she’s one of those girls,” One of what girls? A local cheerleader? Can I still pass for high school? “Those girls?” I inquire playfully. TSA guy nods humorlessly, “A lady of the night.” It’s noon. I’m wearing a flannel.
“Oh. Well, I live in L.A. I think I’ll take my chances.”
I head toward the exit, and they both bid me farewell with a look clearly means “Pity.”
“I hope you have a knife,” says the TSA guy. Who just saw me walk off a plane.
I hit the streets, and right of the bat, I am disappointed to see that I won’t be rubbing elbows with any local harlottes. There is no one on the frontage road. It’s actually quite peaceful. I trudge along, taking in the swamp on my right and the charming hum of puttering Chevy mufflers to my left. Just before I arrive at the restaurant - I do see something that may spell trouble - a giant lighted arrow with the word ‘Klassy’ spelled out in flashing bulbs, resting all lonesome like in the soil. How am I going to walk past this without succumbing to the urge to steal it? I remind myself that I won’t get to eat lunch for a while if I go to jail, and carry on to Nick’s Diner: specializing in down home cooking and Thai food.
I open the door. Every fork in the place stops scraping. Twenty white guys of varying levels of obesity stare at me. “Hi. I..uh..table for one.” A teenaged waitress with a sweet smile and a fierce tramp stamp seats me. The old fat whities gradually resume their conversation, but stop every few seconds to watch me do bizarre things like take out my notebook and look over the menu. I’m tempted to try something off the Thai portion of the menu, but am steered the other way when I notice that one of the options is ‘Pad Thai with Liver and Onions.’ So, grilled cheese it is, and I sit back and let the smell of smoking butter and frying cigarettes whet my appetite.
An old gentleman one table over is the first to break the ice. “Where you from?”
“Who, me? California.”
He nods kindly, “I can’t hear you.”
“California.”
“I’m hard of hearing.”
“I’m from California!” The place goes silent once again. Deafie chuckles, “Sweet girl.”
By the time I’m done with my sandwich, the place is empty, save me, Deafie, and the waitress. It’s by no means my idea of a good time in here, but my only other option is the rocking chairs at the airport room, so I decide to stick it out as long as I can tolerate listening to the waitress express her love for cheese, grits, and sleeping. I tell her I’ve never had grits, and Deafie responds with another chuckle, “Happy Thanksgiving.” All three of us could easily just be supporting characters in one of the others’ dreams.
When old girl starts telling Deafie about how she’s too smart to get pregnant, I know it’s time to head out. I ask for the check, and Deafie becomes very adamant about giving me a ride back to the airport. I almost accept his offer, except that by this point, I’m not sure his ears are the only thing on his head that don’t work correctly. He continues to insist and, I find myself clutching my vital organs protectively and yelling “Really! I’m fine!” I run out the door so fast, all I can hear as it closes is, “Sweet girl.”
On my way back, I find a grocery store, and leap at the opportunity to waste a little more time. I’m in the wine aisle trying to decide if it’s easier to walk a mile with four bottles or two magnums, when a grocer walks up to me smiling. I wave back, timidly. He continues smiling for so long, I’m convinced he thinks I’m someone else. Finally, he announces proudly, “I saw you walking.”
“Thank you?”
On my walk back to the airport, I enjoy a smattering of horn honks and tapped brakes from fellows making their way down the highway. This must be what it feels like to be famous: garnering attention from even the most mundane activities. I may be walking alongside a cricket infested swamp, lugging bags of wine, Cheez-its, and peanut butter, but I can’t help but feel down right ‘Klassy.‘ They love me here, they really love me. Either that, or “Sweet girl,” and “I saw you walking,” are just a Southern gentleman’s way of asking, “Excuse me ma’am, but are you a lady of the night?”
