Join Date: Aug 2004
The Crepe (creepy) Myrtle
This is a true story that I wrote for a creaqtive non-fiction class last semester:
03 Mar 05
The Creepy Myrtle
“We’re going to Myrtle this weekend Ben, so get ready.” Private Garcia, Rob, was my best buddy.
“Alright, who’s coming with us?” I always had to know. There are the guys who just want to get drunk and have a good time, and then there are the guys who you just know are on the fringe of going to jail every time they have a couple drinks.
“Baker,” He replied, expecting some reluctance.
“Spaz boy? Man he’s going to get us in trouble.” Baker is the kind of guy who will yell insults out of a car window to anybody walking down the street then, if he’s drunk enough, throw a bottle at them. Garcia liked him though; they were both from the Bronx so they shared a connection like two long lost brothers who finally met. Rob is short, about 5’5”, but he’s tough for his size. He’s spends his free time during the week lifting weights and running. He is always trying to look his best and do his best. He may get in trouble every once in a while; like his first weekend here at Fort Bragg he passed out drunk in front of Brigade headquarters. At age 19, after less than six months in the Army, he got his first “Article 15,” a months worth of pay and extra duty. He was branded the trouble maker, but at least when I was around he would listen to me and stay out of trouble most of the time.
We did this at least twice a month; pick a place as far from base as possible, preferably with a boardwalk lined with bars and women. Myrtle Beach was perfect for this and going there meant we would be staying at the Crepe Myrtle; Pronounced “Creepy Myrtle” by everyone including the owner, a barefoot Indian man from India. He wore a white robe and, no matter what time of day or night, he would be sitting there behind the counter smoking a cigarette. He likes to negotiate and we were frequent customers, so Rob talked him down $20. $40 isn’t bad for a place 100 yards from the beach and even closer to the bars. As we walked to our room I checked that my Jeeps doors were locked; we passed 2 homeless men who stood there by the back gate as if they came with the property. Down the way in the parking lot are six homeboys with their tightly braided hair, wife beater shirts, and gold chains hanging out. We walk up the stairs that flex like diving boards under our feet into the room. The carpet is dark green, highlighted with beer stains, the three beds look like they haven’t been washed in a month and the faint smell of stagnant alcohol lingers in the air.
“Nice room, three beds and a fridge,” Baker seems to like it.
“Why do we stay at this craphole again,” I ask Garcia, he’s the one who insists we stay here.
“It’s by the beach, it’s a big room for when we get the honeys back here, and there’s a fridge for the beer,” he replied like I should have already known. So we spent the next couple of hours getting ready to go out.
“Let’s go; it’s time to drink,” said Rob, even though we already split a 30 pack.
When barhopping, smart soldiers never stay in one place for very long. The first thing you do is take advantage of the dollar beer specials, always Bud Light. While partaking of the beer, you chat up the bartender or some kind folks at the bar. Make sure to mention that you’re a soldier and if you want to embellish, like Rob always does, tell them about Iraq and killing the bad guys and the scar on your left shoulder. Then enjoy the free drinks until the generosity runs out. It’s easy to drink all night with this method and we did. Around three in the morning it’s time to head back to the Creepy.
“Damn! We couldn’t pick up any chicks,” said Baker, like he actually expected to.
“I almost had that one, but Baker ****ed it up,” Rob thought he was slick, but he was so drunk she would have had to carry him back with her.
“You wouldn’t have gotten her anyway.” I was the only one who seemed to know we were there to get drunk and nothing more.
“Well, I need something!” said Garcia as we got back to the Creepy Myrtle.
There was his something; sitting on the steps to our room smoking a cigarette like it was her front porch, was a black girl. All but 2 of her teeth were missing and her face looked like an oil painting that’s beginning to melt. She was wearing a tattered blue tank top and white pants; well they were probably white at some point.
“Rob, don’t do it, she’s nasty!” I told him.
“I just want a blow job; I’ll give her 5 bucks.” He replied. He was too drunk to see what I saw, like the short nappy hair that spends its nights with nothing but the ground as a pillow.
I was too drunk to win a fight with him, so I let him go. I just hope he doesn’t catch anything. They went up to the room and began negotiations, I stayed outside; I’ve got no business with whores. Baker also went in, trying to get seconds.
It’s hard to pass time at three in the morning, drunk like the first time I rode “The Viper” roller coaster, but I didn’t have to wait long.
“Get back here you dirty *****!” Rob yells as her shadow slithers down the street and disappears. “She stole twenty bucks and took off! It’s all Baker’s fault for giving her the money first.”
Relief came over me as I held Rob back from chasing her down the street where the homeboys were waiting for him. Baker started to go, but stopped when he realized he was the only one. It was a difficult battle to keep them both from chasing their pride into what was a definite ass kicking, or worse. However, I was successful. On our way home later that morning, after a few hours of sobering sleep, Rob thanked me for saving him from his own pride as if I had pulled him out of battle after being shot in the chest. Our drunken weekends continued, but we never stayed at the Creepy Myrtle again. It was like a drug addict friend that couldn’t be saved so we finally cut our ties to it.