Layering
It’s windy as we cross the bridges toward Morehead City. The rowdy waves white cap along Gallant’s Channel and down Newport River. There’s a sparkle on the surface. I’m told this glint of light on clear water is why we strut the title Crystal Coast.
“We should move here,” says Smokin Hot Love Biscuit from the driver seat. If riding around mid-day in a state of relaxed happiness when we used to be working makes us retro, then that worn, well-heeled shoe fits and we are styling.
I smile from the passenger side, waiting.
SHLB continues, “Baby, would you like to move here? Wait a minute, silly me, we already moved here. We live here.”
I squeeze his hand as we do indeed live in a place that our friend Patrick renders with phrase and art as paradise.
SHLB and I are heading to Next Door Deli. It’s one of our favorites as they have mastered the art of the old school delicatessen. My go-to is the Italian from the “build your own” menu to which I add Dijon, banana peppers, spring mix, oil, vinegar, and sunflower sprigs. The ordering format involves self-completion on a ½ sheet of paper with pre-printed options, which deja vus the feeling of acing a multiple-choice pop quiz. I’m almost embarrassed at how much I love to print my name at the top of my paper and circle preferences for individual sammie construction.
I could go on and on about the brilliance of the form, but for now I’ll highlight the specificity of picking a complex carbohydrate. Part of the decline of America is the lack of understanding of the degrees of separation between cold bread, room temperature bread, warmed bread, toasted bread, and well toasted bread. Next Door Deli understands toasting and is righting our country one sammie at a time, and I’m sleeping better at night.
On this mid-day, lunch is busy, and we take a seat at the friendship table. SHLB isn’t a big fan of this style of seating, but it’s all that’s available. I like a friendship table as I grew up in a big family where people crowded around and nosed all up into one another’s grill. I’ve never really had abundant privacy, so I’m cool with eating in proximity of people I don’t know.
SHLB and I face one another on opposing stools. On the left are two people in US Navy service attire and an older person in civilian dress. On the other side is a pair of dudes in work clothes. Work Dude #1 ordered the special, teeter tottering between waffle fries and house made chips. It’s a tough call. He went with chips. It’s hard not to overhear at the friendship table, which is how I gleaned the next sentence from their conversation.
“I’ll tell you what I think of her,” Work Dude #2 said, pausing to take a long pull on his sweet tea, hydrating his opinion with the elixir of the south. “She’s a drunk and when she sobers up; she’s a bitch.”
I was cutting my toasted to perfection Italian into halves when this crossed the friendship table into our airspace. My eyebrows raised in big yikes fashion. Because of the close seating, I can’t unhear this, nor can I, in good faith, lean over and say, “Tell me more,” especially since SHLB is with me and buzz kills personal inquisitions with a swift kick in the mind your own business. So, I’m left to munch on my sammie and bat the quote around in the playground of my mind.
I picture a person with a reversible shirt, one side is drunk, the other, bitch, sort of like those days of the week underwear, except that she lost five days and is just left with Wednesday and Thursday. Then I consider a magnetic name tag system that she swaps out from a special compartment in her purse. Maybe a pocket breathalyzer helps her establish the correct designation. Dang, it just seems harsh that she’s being defined solely with a duo of adjectives.
I don’t know who friendship table work dude is talking about, and maybe because I don’t know her, I’m going to go out on a limb in her defense – very few of us have coin like personalities with only two sides. Most of us have oodles of ways that we show up in and to the world, layered into our very being through joy, suffering, and all that falls between.
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Post the passing of their parents, my high school friend, Steven, along with his siblings, inherited business real estate in Southern Pines. They commissioned an artist to render a mural on the side of one of the buildings. The completed Harbour Place Mural reflects two horses in motion, (a nod to the equestrian history of the area,) and two birds, (representing their parents, Doris Jean and Hayes.) The outdoor artwork, by Nick Napoletano, is nothing short of stunning.
Napoletano constructs murals by first painting positive messages on his wall canvas and then using the words as reference points to grid the art. It’s an inspiring process in both concept and reality. Under the horses and birds at Harbour Place:
“We thank and love you Doris Jean and Hayes.”
“Dream Big.”
“You are Incredible.”
“Shine.”
And my favorite, “You create your reality. What are you creating today?”
Perhaps if I hadn’t watched the updates of the mural being constructed, (as is depicted in the photo above,) I wouldn’t know what was underneath without x-ray superpowers. Or – would I?
Maybe what’s visible on the outside is a culmination of what’s etched beneath. It’s possible that those supporting words impact how I see the mural, even if I can no longer physically see them. The clarity of existence serves as a guide for the artist, seeping through in spirit to the eyes of the appreciator. Maybe it works the same way for humans.
I am many words (way more than two,) under my mural of skin, some inscribed by others, and some chiseled at my own volition. I’m also my own artist wielding free will and fluid stroke toward the redemptive possibility of rising to the creation of my own well toasted design.
