The Great Hampstead Turkey Shoot: Isy and Vic’s Thanksgiving in the Swamp

Vic picked Isy up from the airport the day before Thanksgiving and took him directly to the bar. Vic had recently relocated to Wilmington, North Carolina, to escape a particularly bad breakup. The two former adversaries always tended to rendezvous at points of desperation. When all the windows in their cathedrals had been kicked in.

You need to get back to living like the Neverman of old! Isy exhorted Vic, as they punctuated their verbal sparring with puck clangs at the shuffleboard table. Isy was referring to Vics recent breakup, and on the balls of his feet, ruddy from day drinking. The two had been going toe to toe for hours now. Neither weakening visibly. I mean c’mon, Isy continued, flinging his shuffleboard puck down the table. You had to know this might happen going in. His puck slammed into the far wall like a 7-10 split. It’s Darwinian. Ever met a hot girl with a chill dude? Isy didn’t wait for an answer. Nope! The guy is twitchy. He’s pacing around like a silverback gorilla tensed for another charge into the jungle. Why? He knows everyone wants to fuck his girl. That’s why. And he can’t do a thing about it. All those wandering eyes. Unseemly thoughts. He just has to take it.

Vic, sensing Isy had more experience with barroom leisure sports,  grabbed one of Isy’s pucks behind his back and slid it off the table wordlessly. Isy pretended not to notice so he could finish his train of thought.

And you, mon frere,  married one of these. A real firecracker.

Your theories suck worse than your French. Vic said dismissively, walking around the table to take his turn. That’s not it. He sniffed his metal orb before gently placing it on the hardwood and testing its trajectory. Vic hated it when people thought they understood him, even if they were right, he wouldn’t admit it. And certainly not to Isy. It’s not about her. Vic said sternly, looking up and locking eyes on Isy. He continued aiming the orb without looking at it. This is about me. Vic said. I needed a change. I feel this small town fits me like tight pants, and it was time for a paradigm shift. And by paradigm I mean my balls. Vic gave Isy his fey deadpan. His head could rest so steadily above his shoulders and his expression remain so transfixed, he’d appear frozen in place. Vic’s eyes locked on Isy’s with a quiet intensity. Lips open. Wait was he being serious? Isy wondered. Vics eyes widened suddenly and he threw his head back and belted out a tremendous trademark Ulysses laugh.

I got a paradigm for ‘ya. Isy said, tapping Vic in the nuts with the back of hand as he walked by, causing Vic to lurch and spill some of his beer.

Perhaps it was out of self defense, but neither of them sought romantic attachment with much intensity. Yet a piece of them would always be in love. With some manufactured part of the past. Transformed through memory. It was an unavoidable byproduct of their true occupation in the world.

“Pabst Blue Ribbon motherfucker!” Issy yelled, giving his best Dennis Hopper impersonation while slapping another of Vics red shuffleboard pucks into the gutter of salt and sorrow. Isy cracked a pbr in honor of their shared Portland history. The cheap drink reminded them of their former hipster scene, and also inspired the visit to their current locale, The Barbary Coast. The bar was made famous by its association with the movie Blue Velvet.

The white linen suit Vic was wearing held legendary status with The Portland Dude Collective. He wore it well. Ol’ Victor had the foresight to pack his suit on many of his globetrots and often managed to snag a photo with it on. Vic entered these photographs as he did the world. Like an austere explorer. A Lawrence of Arabia for the working man. His big eyes and tendency to overact when called on in public hinted at a panicked gallantry he kept hidden just below the surface. The reality is, he just had a sensitive tummy.

How can I find a new lass if they are all masked? Vic inquired, looking around the bar. Isy considered telling Vic that he was in fact the only one in the establishment wearing a mask. A Zoro one at that. But perhaps Vic was speaking in metaphor? 

I don’t have easy answers, Vic. Isy said. Or any, really.  When it comes to romantic relationships, I have self immolated more than the entire Tibetan order. I do however know the names of every cliff one is tempted to jump off post-relationship, and that the best way to keep from doing so is not just moving somewhere new, but finding distraction. It hardly matters what. Take up bubble football, volunteer, join a cult.

The D-BATS! Vic interrupted just as Isy was starting to realize this was the actual advice he’d always followed.

SO THIS is why you want to visit Hampstead tomorrow for Thanksgiving? Too distract me? Those girls did seem a little cult-y, didn’t they?

Isy relaxed his posture as relief set in at Vic having finally connected the dots. 

So you want me to hang with the……. Vic stroked his chin after he finished his sixth Modelo of the hour and put it down on the coaster……. The Ding Bats, he said finally. His voice trailing off.

There was a long communal silence as the men deliberated their next move. They had a log of unspoken thoughts that ran between them over the last 15 years that could string together continents.

Vic began nodding yes to some unspoken question and kept at it for a long time. 

The D-BATS had already been breached by Vic earlier in the night. He made inroads with them in the most direct fashion. As Isy was drawing up elaborate diagrams on a cocktail napkin for initiating conversation with a group of girls playing scrabble at the bar, Vic lost interest, saw a cute girl walking by and blurted out “Are those moccasins?!” 

Within an hour they were invited by the girl, who was not in fact wearing moccasins, and her cohort to spend Thanksgiving with them at what Vic was calling their “Charlie Manson Movie Ranch”. They claimed to be sales representatives of a national chain of kitchen knives called Death By A Thousand Cuts  (D-BATS) that met annually for teambuilding exercises and leadership seminars. The team building often included plinking and pie baking, and this year it was taking place in Hampstead over Thanksgiving. But Vic was buying none of it. Highly regarded for his ability to sniff out fraudsters, the only reason he finally agreed to go was not Isy’s prodding, but to identify what brand of kool aid the cult was quaffing. The group of girls left shortly after their flirtation with Vic in a drunken glob following a Duke Nukem jawed high school wrestling coach with a man bun and an undersized T-shirt.

Knives and guns go together, Isy, Vic said, as they got into his car the following day, PIES and guns, do not.

This is the south Vic. They vote for Trump here. Anything goes.

Hampstead is an unincorporated community in Pender County located between Wilmington and Jacksonville on U.S. Route 17. It is a region famous for nothing. Aside from people routinely disappearing due to the quickened decomposition attributes in the ecosystem. And the high volume of truck stops. The soil is so nutrient bare it spawned carnivorous plants known as Venus Fly Traps.

You sure we should be doing this?  Isy asked, as they turned off Highway 17 and onto a narrow unmarked dirt road.  Oh now YOU’RE second guessing? Vic scoffed. A bit late Ishmael. There’s something off with these kiddos, and I’m aiming to find out.

Exactly. That’s what I’m saying. And if they live in a swamp so shitty that plants started to hunt meat it can’t be a good sign, can it? 

Speaking of bad signs, check that out, Vic said, pointing in front of them.

(Part 1 of 2)

What: Barbary Coast.
Where: Wilmington, North Carolina.
When: Day or night.
Order: Not Heineken, Pabst Blue Ribbon! (You’ll be in good company, the bar consumes the most PBR by volume in the country. Tall Boys are still $1.50.)