"Charleston at Table" is a limited series by Thomas Ellen. It is in the fashion of Eugene Briffault's "Paris à Table" (pictured).
Click here to read the other parts in the series.
--
A taxonomy is necessary, one of extremes. What may seem a digression will inform the rest of this physiologie—the study of our moeurs intimes here in Charleston by way of the table.
What follows is tragedy.
Imagine, if you will, a man neither short nor tall, neither handsome nor ill-featured, neither smart nor stupid. His shoulders are not broad nor are they hunched. His proportions are that of an anatomy textbook—neutral, oddly balanced, no wayward marks. When you look at him there is no pull to follow his lead, yet neither is there an innate sense to avoid him. Curiously there, he is. He radiates neither exuberance nor interest, neither meanness nor antipathy. When his brown or green eyes pass over you there is no kindness yet no judgement. You consider approaching him, asking how his day has been, where he is from, what is it all about—but you don’t. There is something off, and you can’t explain just what it is.
He is there at the popular bar on Upper King or along the waterfront of Shem Creek. He is there with his girlfriend of a number of years. She is also not unattractive and neither are her friends she is speaking with, friends she has made at work—nursing, education, or marketing colleagues. They stir their simple mixed drinks, sharing occasional glances with the man they’ve been dating, for two of his friends are there, dressed in a similar manner: t-shirts and shorts, no matter the season. These gentlemen seem to get along in a way that indicates they’ve known each other for years. They talk about the latest game over their cheap beer, about the highlights and replays now on the screen above the bar.
They speak in neutral accents, but there are moments you hear a bit of an inflection indicating they are from somewhere North of here. This is true for each and every one of them, man and woman. A reminiscence is shared about a time together back home in Rochester, New York, or in some town not New York City. They talk about college years spent at an alma mater not known anywhere but up there. They talk of Division-I athletics in sports no one watches, like volleyball or lacrosse.
Did you change gyms? How are you liking it? Have you been to the new tiki-themed bar? I heard it is fun. You won’t believe what happened at work…
Then he brings up recent events, our case study. Some guy jumped off the Ravenel Bridge, did you hear about it? You strain to listen over the thumping. He washed up on Folly Beach; he was a doctor, engaged to a girl; jumped off at the dead of night and washed up on Folly Beach.
But you know: it wasn’t Folly Beach where the doctor came to rest, but Shutes Folly—right in the center of the harbor. This man of no distinguishing qualities does not know the difference, or does not know what lies under the bridge he crossed to reach this bar from his suburban home in West Ashley or James Island. He doesn’t know how the tides work, how the currents run. It’s ridiculous to think any Man or chattel could be tossed from the Ravenel Bridge and float its way between the breakers and down against the Gulf Stream to Folly Beach.
But all of this is mystery to him.
The entire city and landscape he now resides in is unknown and never will be known. He enjoys the weather and the job opportunities only.
Will they say their condolences? Will one say a short prayer for the soul of this young doctor? No—one will shake their head, another will say damn, and our gentleman will only relish his moment of conveying the tragedy to his friends.
They order nachos served in a bucket. It is turned upside down, shoveled out onto a plate by the server as the group all watches and tells each other to watch watch watch how this bucket is served. They are five deep in cheap beer. They all eat the plate clean.
Checks are closed. They ask each other what they will do tomorrow, a Sunday—they do not go out on weekdays, this crowd. Two girls say they will go shopping; they ask the rest if they have heard of Second Sundays on King Street—none have. Our gentleman from Nowhere, New York takes his girlfriend around the waist—neither slender nor rotund—and tells the group they are going to Folly Beach for the day. None say they plan to attend the city’s social clubs, more popularly known as church.
He will go on through his life here not knowing how the city is ordered. He is too incurious. It is not for a lack of talent, but a lack of interest. Instead, he will place his bets illegally. He will draft his fantasy. He will go to work and have a successful career. He will be married to this girl—also not from here—and invite not a soul he met in Charleston—for he has met none. All his life is still somewhere outside Albany or whatever town it is but is not New York City. They will stop at two children. They will upgrade to a larger home in West Ashley or move to James Island to be closer to their favorite beach.
He is at your local brewery, he is at the themed bar. He is there with his crew. They will not bother you at all. They will not even know you are there.
If his persona is one of lacking curiosity or involvemen, then the opposite is one who craves to know too much and to be everywhere.
These are men typically from the surrounding region. They can hail from Georgia, North Carolina, or even, in some particular cases, a neighboring county.
Let’s say our case study grew up in Summerville. He comes from a middle to upper-middle class family that settled in the area only a generation ago. The father owns a business, something like construction, or perhaps he owns several franchises which produce a good income. The parents are divorced and have their three children—one eldest son and two daughters. The day comes when the Old Man croaks after a long day golfing at Kiawah. The son has been out of college for a little over ten years now and is placed at the head of the household and company. He’s been working as an apprentice of sorts for his dad, so it is not unwieldly. Furthermore, his mother remarried years ago and is settled. However, his two sisters have grown accustomed to a certain lifestyle and do not want it infringed upon by any inconvenience like a death in the family.
But the son is ambitious. He tells his sisters to marry, to shape up, to find their own way. He is going to take the name and the sum of his father’s fortune to the Holy City where he will make his mark.
But his father made no connections in the city. There is no old friend the son can call upon to introduce him to the important figures having a drink behind the garden walls. After moving into a high-rise apartment along the river in Mount Pleasant, where does he begin?
Where men with no talent often go: to Politics.
So, he finds the local Republican club and joins them at happy hours.
He carries himself with great confidence, our case study. His ambitions lead him to believe he is taller than he is, more pleasing to the eye—he does know to dress well, and in fact does. It is easy for him to make friends at these events—everyone is, after all, so like-minded.
He moves through the gatherings often hosted in reserved second floor rooms of bars or at newer facilities along the Ashley and gathers three or four close acquaintances. They range in age from mid-twenties to late sixties. These older ones can give him nothing in social capital, he laments—they are odd cranks, too in deep with the television. But they do tell him of a monthly salon where debates are held in a mock fashion and that all the power brokers attend. They tell him if he wants to meet those who pull the strings then he needs to go next Thursday. Hesitant, our case study inquires about it with the younger acquaintances. They tell him they’ve been, that they always attend, and wouldn’t think of missing it.
He cannot afford to miss any opportunity to spread his name, to share his face with others, to let them hear him say his name aloud and give a firm handshake. So, naturally, he goes.
He is introduced to local activists, mostly school board types and strange men with delusions of unseating Democrats from their gerrymandered fiefdoms. It is a good mixture of the sociable and asocial. This is fine, he thinks. He tells himself he must work from the bottom up, that soon he won’t need to interact with these cable-addicts, that he must keep attending each salon and each happy hour and each speaking event. Get your name and face out there, he thinks.
But the months drag on. At this point, he is taking part in the salon, thinking it will help him ascend. He is approaching each and every official and flexing his checkbook, asking them just how he can help. When Young Republicans come and announce before the audience that they are in need of a quick cash infusion, he stands up and demands to know just how much they need.
$4,500.
All eyes turn. Will he fund their trip to the Pro-Life March in Washington DC? He is not even pro-life himself—he enjoys meeting younger women through our modern means of dating, and he does not plan on having kids soon, let alone marrying. There is silence, he is standing with his precisely measured suit, all waiting, collective breath held. Put me down for half! Applause! Applause all around!
It's time, his younger cohort of friends tell him, it’s time he runs for office. I think so too, he says, tracing a finger through the sand out on the beach near Fort Sumter—for they took his rented boat out there and invited all the women they knew. You should run for Republican Party Chairman of Charleston County. The guy who plans to run is from the North. It should be held by a local—it should be you!
And thus, it begins. They triangulate. They run an online campaign. They get the members of the salon to all agree it should be him, the guy who plays his part, the guy who attends everything and does everything the right way. We need one of our own!
Sadly, the campaign is short lived. He is squashed by the powers that be—the string-pullers that he has only seen in passing and not yet had the pleasure of introduction. Publicity of any kind is good, he says. This is reaffirmed by his young friends. Next year, they all say.
More meetings. More salons. More fundraisers. More speakers. He bides his time. He intrudes upon conversations and introduces himself. He brings his young girlfriend to every public event. He wants to demonstrate his appeal.
He and his cohort are at Hall’s Chophouse after a meeting with only the select members of this lower rung. They managed to squeeze into a table on the first floor, next to the bar—a cancelled reservation. Passing by is a gentleman in middle age. One of our case study’s younger acquaintances stands and shakes the hand of this figure. Someone important! Time to stand up! He exchanges pleasantries. The gentleman says he has heard of him (delightful!) and wants to talk to him more, but he must take to his weekly table at Charleston’s premier steakhouse. Call me. Our case study is handed a business card.
That night, in his furnished luxury apartment that faces the parking lot instead of the Cooper River, he lays believing he has found his way to the next ledge of the spiraling tower.
He joins a church—St. Phillip’s to be precise, because he is not yet welcome to join St. Michael’s. Services are attended intermittently—he prefers going to their happy hour events reserved for younger adults, for the years have not yet taken a toll on his appearance. He is inducted into lower clubs but is still meeting more important local figures than he was the year previous. He can almost do away with the salon, with the political crowd—so close yet so far.
Then one week he receives a message from the gentleman he met at Hall’s: come with me as my guest to the [club that cannot be named]. Our case study has never heard of this club. He inquires for more detail. It’s a gentleman’s club, in the true sense. You will meet many important people there.
He can hardly contain himself.
They are South of Broad, outside a lovely antebellum home. He is invited in. Upon entering he is greeted by the host, a man bearing a distinguished name, from one of those first arrivals—he’d be knighted in a better world. Our overeager man signs the guest book: I have entered History. It is the best signature he has ever scribbled. He can hear boisterous talk above—it must be close to fifty men up there. He goes up and up, where all the gentlemen are. He sees they are much older, though most middle aged. He can see familiar faces. He can overhear their conversations, their greetings. The names exchanged are historic.
He gets a drink made for him at the bar—yes, they even have service here. He turns and sees the gentleman who invited him is speaking with the host. Surely about me. He decides not to bother them, to let them come to him.
There are no seats, as all are taken by the senior members. He stands alone in the corner, not too far from a clique, to make himself not stand out too much.
Soon he is invited to meet some gentlemen by his host. Pleasure; pleasure; nice to meet you. They talk local events. They wonder how the election will go. They wonder where some other member is and if he will come this evening. Our case study listens. He sips his scotch. He does not want to impose.
The host and another drift off to talk to someone who entered. Soon it is only he and an old man. He decides to make small talk, to talk about how much Charleston has changed in his interlocutor’s life—but as he gets halfway through the question the old man interrupts, for he had heard none of what he said, being close to deaf, and not finding much interesting in this young man before him. The old man asks if he goes to St. Phillip’s, because he’s seen him in there before, once or twice.
I do, he says.
Ah, very good.
Our case study stands, waiting for the follow up.
But there is none.
I’m going to recharge my glass. Excuse me.
The club only runs a short while. Soon they all shuffle out. He shakes the hand of the host, who says it was a pleasure to meet him, and that he hopes he returns.
But there will be no return for him. It was only once, he found out, as the months passed without another invitation. No matter, he thinks, if I keep going to church, keep talking to the right people—I’ll get back there.
But until then, there is a town council election he must enter.