Redneck Riviera

Why I should have been startled this morning when the doorbell rang promptly at 7:00 AM -- interrupting my shaving ritual and propelling me precipitously into a pair of pants -- is puzzling, since he materializes on the same third Thursday of every month, the exterminator, short, pudgy, beetle-eyed, creeping through the house in his shiny yellow uniform, canister in hand, squirting his toxic chemicals in every nook and cranny. He's really an amiable fellow -- he has to be at that devilish hour -- who will sustain a running commentary on the weather or his workday with his six-legged friends even in their death throes should no one else be listening. Next week, he tells me, in his good old country-boy twang, his red neck protruding from his blue collar, he's going to -- where else -- Myrtle Beach.

After all, it's June. The temperature's rising, well into the nineties, and the solstice is not even here yet; my short-sleeved shirts have emerged from their nine-month hibernation; my beloved Oakland A's have already fallen from contention, barely one-third into the season; and the local legions of lumbering school buses and their annoying flashing lights and retractable stop signs have all been herded into their summer corrals -- unmistakable signs of another eagerly-anticipated hedonistic respite from one's daily routine of work or study: vacation.

Around these parts, for those not fortunate enough to own or have access to a second residence at "the Lake" -- Smith Mountain, that is, to the unenlightened, a scant sixty-minute drive -- that means "the Beach."

While references to "the Lake" clearly imply the one and only, the term "the Beach" -- with apologies to my exterminator friend -- opens up a near hemisphere of possibilities.

Years ago, at least fifty, it was shorthand for Virginia Beach -- where my parents and grandparents (never together, of course) would migrate, often staying at the egregiously misnomered (by today's standards) Gay Vacationer Hotel, because it was owned by a friend; where my father rented a house for the family one summer, and took full advantage of our month-long absence by spending three weeks at home; and where ten high school friends and I camped out for our version of Beach Week, at the shabby Cherry Cottages (for $8 a night), filling the better part of two rooms with piles of empty beer cans, since we weren't suave enough to lure any females there, in spite of trolling for hours along the scenic Boardwalk and through the smoky dance halls.

In time, however, the appeal of Virginia Beach, and the advantage of its relative proximity -- four hours from Lynchburg -- faded as inexorably as the relentless tide eroded its broad shoreline, although a recent reclamation project has restored some of its former grandeur. Hemmed in on the north by Fort Story and on the south by the Oceana Naval Air Station, all its growth west took it further from its tourist roots. Improved highways shortened the distance to more pristine, glamorous, and spacious destinations -- in North and South Carolina.

Like the friend who said he was returning this summer after several years' hiatus to his family's traditional retreat -- Ocean Isle -- having managed to lasso his four children, their spouses, and his ten grandchildren for a miraculous reunion, everyone seems to have his prized address, with more than I would have suspected until I began researching this report having become attached enough to purchase or build a condominium or cottage there.

But why should I be surprised that, when it comes to a second home, where my hidebound conservatism sees risk, headaches, and expense, and no greater amenities than the first, others see adventure, repose, asset appreciation, and social opportunities. Perhaps had I yielded to my ex-wife's entreaties to invest in any one of the resorts we visited over the past fifteen years -- particularly Bald Head Island -- I could indeed have made a fortune, which I could have then used to pay her off when she moved out -- although rumor has it that these properties are not the cash cows they once were.

I've never been to Ocean Isle, nor to most of the other places whose names I've heard dropped in casual conversation and whose locations I'm now compelled to pinpoint on Mapquest -- Emerald Isle, Topsail Beach, Figure Eight Island, Carolina Beach, Long Beach, Holden Beach, Litchfield Beach, and Pawley's Island. I went to Nags Head once, over thirty years ago, but understand that its once remote serenity has succumbed to rabid commercialism. And, to be fair, my ex-wife did arrange some very pleasant week-long family getaways, renting houses at Sanbridge, Rehobeth Beach, Martha's Vineyard, and the aforementioned Bald Head Island.

The allurements there are universal and undeniable: private accommodations with roomy common areas both indoors and out, many with glorious ocean vistas; football fields of sand just footsteps away, where in relative isolation vacationers bask in sun or shade, test the cooling waters and playful waves breaking offshore, sip refreshing beverages, rouse themselves from their reveries, kindles, games, and i-pods for long, leisurely walks, or simply while away the afternoon in idle chatter; fishing, sailing, and golfing expeditions for those possessing the requisite coordination, inclination, perseverance, and patience; and on-site home-cooked meals -- sizzling steaks, steamed crabs, grilled tuna -- which happily eliminate the often contentious discussions about where to eat out.

For me, this kind of relaxation comes perilously close to boredom, although that may be a function of a personality which long ago dismissed golf, boating, and cooking as tolerable pastimes, whose capacity for aimless conversation is usually exhausted after one hour, and whose preferred avocation is print (as opposed to water) immersion, although even this bibliophile can't consume words at the same rate he once did.

Consequently -- or maybe it's just because I'm a creature of habit, and nostalgia, who can't escape his memories or his comfort zone -- for over thirty years, usually at least once a summer, but sometimes twice, I've packed up myself, my wife or my girl friend, and whichever of my five children were available, into whatever vehicle I was the proud owner of at the time -- once even renting a van when I had to transport seven -- and set my cruise control for the exterminator's delight: Myrtle Beach, South Carolina.

When, in a weak moment, I actually reveal this folly to my sophisticated friends, most react with a jaw-dropping stare of stunned disbelief, barely able to mouth the words "You go where?" with hardly any emission of sound, as if the moon were less far-fetched than this landfill for besotted high school graduates, tattooed motorcyclists, and gap-toothed rednecks. In fact, one drive-by is enough to convince the most naive that this is, indeed, the latter's Riviera -- I didn't invent the term; I'm not that clever -- but I worship every tacky square foot, for about four days, which is about as long as the most devoted acolyte can bear it.

At this point, full disclosure is in order. That annual Myrtle Beach trip is a perk, a freebie -- five days and four nights courtesy of one of Schewel Furniture Company's vendors: Spring Air Mattress Company.

Back in the early '70's, just as I was dipping my big toe into the family furniture business, the sponsor was the Dixie Appliance Company, a distributorship which supplied Schewel with its refrigerators, ranges, washers, dryers, and televisions. In time, Schewel's volume with Dixie declined -- the company eventually folded -- as it became more practical and profitable to purchase these products directly from manufacturers. Since Spring Air was looking for a stimulating way of rewarding executives, store managers, and top-performing salespeople for their business, my father suggested to the owners that they pick up the mantle.

In recent years, Spring Air has hosted as many as eighty Schewel employees and their families at their second most favorite destination -- "the Beach," the first of course being "the Bank," where they go regularly to deposit money earned from selling Spring Air mattresses, in the memorable words of its jovial company president and perennial cheerleader, JRG. Enduring a few other tired cliches and his garrulous enthusiasm during the one-hour pep rally held to satisfy the IRS's write-off requirements is a small price to pay for his warmhearted hospitality and the photographic collage of smiling faces he sends out to commemorate the festivities.

My father loved that trip. Neither a golfer nor a fisherman -- I came by my ineptitude naturally -- he spent most of every day lounging by the pool (rarely at the beach, which wasn't social enough for him), cocktail in hand (usually scotch-and-water, occasionally vodka-on-the-rocks, never a beer), newspaper within reach (but never a book), his darting eyes veiled behind dark lenses but his wiry-haired chest exposed to the elements, floating from one store manager or acquaintance to another, giving advice, telling stories, entertaining. He made friends so easily, like Walter, the bellman, who, when he heard my father was terminally ill, said he wanted to drive to Lynchburg to visit him, and Daryl, the house singer/instrumentalist/comedian, from whom he annually purloined a string of one-liners and stored them in his steel-trap memory for future use.

Like every one else, he was always looking for a better route to Myrtle Beach -- or maybe not, since he so enjoyed those long summer drives with the top down in any one of the convertibles he drove until cancer overtook him: Ford Galaxie, Buick Wildcat, Chevrolet Impala, Dodge Coronet, Oldsmobile Cutlass, Chrysler LeBaron. I remember one trip we made together, probably in the Chevrolet, along some newly-discovered back road which, much to his gratification, took us by a highly-recommended country diner. I'm sure he ordered pinto beans, sliced tomatoes, and grilled crisp bacon, while I most likely had a hamburger.

There are as many ways to Myrtle Beach as there are to leave your lover -- at least fifty -- but it's been my experience that they all take the same amount of driving time: six hours. A few years ago my brother-in-law -- who has tried, and meticulously timed, most of them -- instructed me as follows: Take Rt. 29 South to Rt. 86 South (turning off at the Efland-Cedar Grove Road to bypass Hillsborough) to Interstate 40 West to Interstate 95 South. At Lumberton, N.C., take Rt. 211 South intersecting with Rt. 72 South to Rt. 74 East to Rt. 410 South through Chadbourn to Rt. 701 South through Tabor City to Rt. 9 South to the new Rt. 31 South Myrtle Beach Expressway. Get off at the second exit and take Rt. 22 East to Wal-Mart at North Kings Highway. I had to write it down three times before I memorized it, and even now, after a dozen tries, I always make a wrong turn.

Despite its efficiency, the journey seems incomplete, as it omits two unforgettable landmarks: South of the Border, for which one's appetite is whetted by a series of tantalizing road signs progressively announcing its imminence at the Carolinas border, only to be spoiled by the sight of a giant sombrero casting its long shadow over a depressing adobe mini-mall of Mexican-themed restaurants, shops, and motels, its stale vulgarity a sad commentary on our current immigration controversy; and North Myrtle Beach, which boils the neck an even deeper red than her southern sister, its own seediness a fitting gateway to the phony glamour of the main event.

From Wal-Mart it's only ten minutes to the fifteen-story beach-front tower which by now, after twenty-five years, is as familiar to me as any one of my furniture stores I might visit once or twice a year -- the Ocean Reef Resort, formerly the Martinique, formerly the Sheraton. Along with each name change came extensive renovations, most notably seven or eight years ago, when the new owners realized the adjacent parking lot was a waste of valuable real estate and constructed on the site a whole new wing of condominiums, adding more meeting rooms, a workout facility, a lazy river, and an indoor pool in the process.

Although bordered north and south by similar high-rises, the Ocean Reef, located at 71st Avenue and North Ocean Boulevard, is pleasantly off the beaten path. (Revisiting my running days) when I get out early enough -- 7:00 AM -- hardly a car disturbs my concentration as I trudge along the four lane thoroughfare, hopping aboard the ample sidewalk should one happen to rumble by; I revel in the flat terrain, a welcome contrast to my Hill City home, and moderate compensation for the already sweltering 75 degree temperature and 100 per cent humidity.

Within minutes I exit the hotel strip and find myself in a quiet residential neighborhood of lush green lawns and white clapboard houses, which could be anywhere, except on one side, through the picket fences or shrub barriers, I glimpse the first tentative rays of sunlight dancing on the water and wonder how many millions it would take to own one. I usually never get further than 35th Avenue (3 miles), but one cool morning I run another couple of miles into the old Downtown Myrtle Beach, where the streetscape turns on a dime, deteriorating into a garish assortment of two-star hotels, restaurants, bars, and tee-shirt shops, like a faded Legend dressing up for one last show.

Back at the Ocean Reef, a typical day unfolds. I cool down on the balcony of my oceanfront room -- which may be one of luxurious corner suites reserved for the VIP's of one of our host's best customers. Five or six stories below, other compulsive exercisers and leisurely beachcombers are enjoying the relative solitude, while double-duty lifeguards are setting up chairs and umbrellas. Downstairs, a sinful hot breakfast buffet (courtesy of Spring Air) awaits us: unlimited quantities (until 11:00) of fruit, scrambled eggs (plain or with cheese), pancakes, French toast, bacon, sausage, pastries, and, of course, grits.

While the fisherman and golfers head out in pursuit of their respective trophies -- Myrtle Beach is reportedly home to more golf courses per capita than any other city in the world, the carefully-nurtured roots, some say, of its phenomenal growth -- I strap on my five-year-old Tevas and march resolutely to the beach for the first of three days of my habitual vacation activities: reading, dozing, and bathing suit watching.

At this stage of my life, I'm not even sure why I bother to leave the coziness of my air-conditioned room, other than out of some dutiful homage to the sun god or perverse justification of my six-hour drive. Since it's really too hot -- and, according to my dermatologist, too dangerous -- to be out here, I plant myself squarely beneath one of those aforementioned -- and expensive ($15 a day) -- umbrellas, and immediately cover with a protective towel whatever body parts are not already shielded from hazardous radioactivity by my tee shirt, ball cap, and swim trunks.

I open my book -- but the distractions are endless: friends dropping by, an off-shore breeze kicking up sand, acres of tanned flesh crossing my field of vision, noise blasting from a nearby sound machine, a plane flying overhead trailing a banner "Eat at Joe's," elaborate castles rising from the underground, an errant bocce ball, a parched throat that demands fluids, a general torpidity that leeches me of all energy.

Do the invigorating ocean waters beckon me? Not really. Much to the chagrin of my sons -- who at 35 and 29 still love the surf -- I might chance a swim once in three days. It's just too much trouble -- stripping off one's tee shirt, storing one's valuables (eyeglasses, wallet, room key, and lip balm), floundering amidst the crashing waves in a state of sightless anxiety, adding salt to the grit already embedded in one's skin, and reapplying oily sun screen lotion after washing ashore.

By now, I'm looking forward to the night life.

Restaurants in Myrtle beach are as plentiful as shells on the beach; superior ones are as rare as pearls. While my palate is not the most discriminating, I have concluded that heatstroke has a tendency to anesthetize the most sensitive taste buds. What else accounts for the traffic jams clogging Restaurant Row and the packed parking lots of the Giant Crab and its sibling Calabash buffets, featuring all the fried catfish, fried clams, fried shrimp, fried potatoes, and hush puppies you can eat, for $16.99, and pushing the obesity index far higher than the heat index?

The blinking neon, bold signage, and fancy decors are all so enticing. Pick your poison: fine dining, mass market casual, hamburger havens, steak-outs, seafood shacks, Italian villas, Mexican haciendas, Chinese pagodas. Or, explore a quiet side street or an older part of town and discover one of those best-kept secrets patronized by the natives. Or, drive thirty minutes to Murrell's Inlet and enjoy the fresh catch of the day on a patio overlooking the bay.

One night we choose Fiesta del Burro Loco, where the homemade chips are thick and salty, the veggie burrito loaded with broccoli, carrots, and spinach, the shrimp tacos tasty and bountiful, and our waiter Mike prompt and helpful. That's hard to beat, but it can be equaled at Umberto's Italian Trattoria, where the family style beans and greens, garden salad, angel hair pasta with marinara served with every meal barely leave room for the eggplant parmigianna or chicken umberto main courses.

Since Spring Air is kind enough to host a cocktail party with heavy hors d'oeuvres on our arrival and departure evenings, those wise enough to arrive early can avoid Restaurant Row and save their cash by feasting on cheese cubes, chicken strips, pineapple and beef shish kabob, egg rolls, and pizza, as well as flaunt their hard-earned tans and model their newest Hawaiian print shirts and flowery sun dresses.

After all, shopping is Myrtle Beach's third favorite activity, behind sunbathing and golf, and quickly rises to number one should a thunderstorm blow through and drench the afternoon. Snubbing the city's traditional malls and centers, our family heads straight for the Tanger Outlet, a 100-store outdoor village where the deals are too good to resist, even for a tightfisted skeptic like me; most of these expeditions have culminated in my returning with heavier bags than my companions. In fact, my son David hoards his precious New York dollars all year in anticipation of this annual buying binge.

Who knows (especially me) if the values are genuine? The prices are low; the selection abundant; and the crowd so frenzied one would think the stuff was free. Males and females, young and old, peel off like scavenger hunters -- to Polo Ralph Lauren, Tommy Hilfiger, Guess, American Eagle, Aeropostale, Gap; to Banana Republic, where I grab half a dozen printed boxer shorts, always a YMCA fashion statement; to J. Crew, where I snatch two bold checked shirts, now in style after fifteen years of stripes, according to my Manhattan resident expert; and to Clarks Bostonian, where, I steal six pair of socks and three pair of shoes -- brown dress, black loafer, and beige moccasin -- for a measly $154, including tax and a 15% discount coupon I download on my new Droid smart phone.

If you can't play real golf, there's always miniature golf, or mini-golf, or putt-putt (actually a brand name which has become part of the vernacular, and I'm not even sure if the original franchise survives). According to the web site Roadside Attractions, Myrtle Beach is that non-sport's world capital, boasting over forty courses along a twenty-five-mile strip. Dressed up to look like theme parks and decorated with titillating titles that promise adventure and mystery -- Rainbow Falls, Jungle Lagoon, Jurassic Golf, Captain Hook, Shipwreck Isle, Dragons Lair -- they wander through mazes of waterfalls, boulders, rivers, landscaping, volcanoes, ships, dinosaurs, giant fish, animals, caves, and haunted houses, with the appropriate music playing in the background. I confess a lingering affection for this children's game, but since all mine long ago renounced its simple challenges, I can only gaze with wistful curiosity at each passing magic carpet kingdom.

One attraction I'm not sorry to miss now that my children are older is the water park, the most elaborate of which is Myrtle Waves. A frisbee toss from one's hotel room are all the roiling surf, sand dunes, diving pools, and lazy rivers he could wish for -- free, or at least already paid for. But they're not enough. Instead, we pile into the van, drive twenty minutes, and pay $30 a person (plus equally exorbitant amounts for food and drink) to replicate the experience, although I will concede that barreling down a near vertical slide like a runaway truck and sloshing through an elongated plastic tube like a mouse being ingested by a snake must be considered enhancements, though not necessarily desirable ones.

Just as my offspring have outgrown foolish things, so have I put the clubbing scene in my rear-view mirror, although frankly it would rank just below golf and fishing if I were compelled to measure my proficiency at it or to assess my level of enjoyment. A friend of mine hardly has his suitcase unpacked before swooping in on Ocean Annie's, where, apparently, a bevy of buxom beauties and handsome hunks parties all day long to shagging beach sounds and free flowing alcohol. I won't deny a few hopeful excursions to the Doll House to ogle the wet tee shirt contest or to the twin 2001 night clubs, confining myself to the side where the term "oldies" refers not only to the musical selections but also to the company. But even there, I rarely got past a plaintive "Would you like to dance?"

Less intense and more family-oriented are a pair of outdoor shopping meccas -- the original Barefoot Landing and its even gaudier imitation, Broadway at the Beach. Should one be fortunate enough to find a parking space, he can then spend hours exploring the winding pedestrian walkways lined with gift shops, beach wear stores, sunglass emporiums, fast food joints, ice cream parlors, and even a zoo (consisting of one lion).

The artificiality of it all is embodied in the long wooden bridges connecting one neighborhood with another. "Is this a natural lake?" one is prompted to ask. Not really. Because what has always fascinated me about the Grand Strand is that, once one moves inland, it's a swamp, and all those commercial and residential villages are the harvest of massive drainage systems. The savvy developers have transformed these dismal wetlands into picturesque Venices, perched on buried stilts.

In recent years, Myrtle Beach has witnessed a proliferation of impressive auditoriums, marketing itself as a destination for professional entertainment. While the shows I've seen are a pleasant way to spend an evening, they have the feel of near misses -- not quite the real thing. It's like the gambling cruise you can take -- which is not quite a Las Vegas casino. Or the Carolina Opry -- which is not quite the Grand Ole Opry. Or Le Grande Cirque -- which is not quite Cirque du Soleil.

Or if you can't see the real performers -- Elvis Presley, Michael Jackson (or their real impersonators), Aretha Franklin, Tom Jones, Madonna, Alan Jackson -- how about Legends in Concert?

This show, which I went back to last week for probably the fifth time, is the ultimate charade. It's difficult to mangle some of the greatest songs of all time -- Good Time, It's Five O'Clock Somewhere, It's Not Unusual, Delilah, Respect, A Natural Woman, Thriller, Billie Jean, Material Girl, Don't Cry For Me Argentina, Hound Dog, Jailhouse Rock, Suspicious Minds -- but, while the bogus Michael Jackson was sensational -- changing costumes four times, moonwalking across the stage, mastering his role model's entire repertoire of body movements and dance steps -- and a vintage Tom Jones garnered his fair share of laughs, poor Elvis's skin-tight body suit and some ferocious rock and rolling could not overcome a voice 3000 miles from Graceland, and the other three failed to light my fire.

It was the not-so-grand finale to the true Myrtle Beach experience -- to quote my son's text to me after I described to him our full day: early morning walk on the beach, breakfast at the Southern Pancake House, noon under sun and shade, afternoon at Tanger Outlet, dinner at Burro Loco, evening at Legends.

And I'm destined to repeat the script next year -- well, maybe I'll skip the Legends, and, heading south, I might even stoop to follow the directions of my Droid navigation app -- because in spite of its sunburnt orange crush, plastic pretentiousness, redneck reputation, and crass commercialism, Myrtle Beach will always be my most interesting vacation spot.