Winston-Salem Revue by Mike Bozart - HTML preview

Act I: The drive.

The weather on this April Fools’ Day morning was in three words: perfect for driving (sunny and mild). The 85-minute drive – primarily up Interstate 85 – to Winston-Salem (NC, USA) from Charlotte was acceptably uneventful. Monique (Agent 32) and I (Agent 33) disembarked after watching the Liverpool-Everton match (LIV 3-1 EVE) at Valhalla Pub in 3^rd Ward. I would chant ‘Olé, olé’ and Monique would follow with ‘Coutinho-o-o, Coutinho-o-o’. Yes, we had forgotten to bring our CDs, so we had to improvise until a radio station picked up its game. As we neared the intersecting metal arches on US 52, a short conversation arose.

“Look, mahal, [love in Tagalog] we’re going through a giant gyroscope,” I said to Monique. Huh?

“But, where is the pull string, Agent 33?” I just know that he has switched on his audio recorder.

“Maybe it’s not yet finished, Agent 32.” [Actually, it – a piece of modern sculpture – was installed in November of 2016.]

“So, that’s why it’s not spinning.” She’s already on her game.

“Score! I’ll make sure to include that opening goal when I write this trek up later.” I just knew that he was recording.

Eight minutes later, we began to scale High Street from Brookstown Avenue (from the Tar Branch valley) in our gray 2005 Kia Rio hatchback. At the STOP sign, I rolled down my window and peered over my left shoulder. I guess traffic from that freeway exit ramp has the right of way. Yep, that car just cruised right through. Hmmm … Can’t see if anyone is coming that well. Bad sight lines. Ah, just ease out slowly.

It was not an unlucky motor-vehicle day. We safely made it up the semi-steep hill to The Hawthorne Inn & Conference Center. Whew! Note to self: Don’t enter this hotel parking lot from lower High Street.

Act II: The hotel.

The Hawthorne, an older complex, had been refurbished. Our room, 601, an end unit, was behind the conference center. There was a medium-size, water-filled but not yet open, swollen-hourglass-shaped swimming pool in between the two buildings.

Our room had a balcony. In fact, all of the hotel rooms had separate balconies. However, none were accessible. Or, I should more accurately state, access was strongly discouraged. “What do you mean, Agent 33?” I heard one of you ask in the UK. Or, was it from the USA? Anyway, all of the balcony doors (the sliding-glass type, I presumed) had been replaced with aluminum-framed glass panels (similar to the storefronts of those ubiquitous American strip malls).

Now, stay with me for one strange feature: the screen-less upper-left window panel – drumroll or spring roll? – could be widely opened! Yes, you could step over – well, with the aid of an adjacent dining chair if under 6’-7” (2 meters) tall – the meter-high (39.37 inches) first panel and alight on the black-mesh-cloth-covered concrete balcony, which brings up some other interesting items of concern.

For one, the balcony itself would probably not pass current building code. Oh, it still looked structurally sound. And, I’m sure that the reinforced-concrete slab could still safely support a party of four. Well, as long as they didn’t start hopping about like overgrown cheering rabbits, which we certainly didn’t do. (We didn’t even go out on it.)

I opened the large vertical-hinged window to let in some 68º Fahrenheit (20º Celsius) air. We picked a perfect day.

The welded, semi-ornate, wrought-iron railing system caught my eye. “Monique, look at this railing. If you were a safety inspector, what would jump out at you?” Jump out at me? Is there a mumu? [Tagalog for phantom]

“You wouldn’t make it to the pool if you jumped from here. Splat! Extra-large spatula needed in the courtyard.” She then enjoyed a cha-cha-esque chortle.

“You’re thinking overboard; look below-board, Agent 32.”

“Woah! I see that gaping gap hazard. A baby could easily roll under the railing, Agent 33.”

There were about 11 inches (28 cm) of vertical clearance between the slab and the lowest horizontal rail segment.

“Good safety eye, Monique. You must be reading those hot tomes, IBC [International Building Code] 2015 and OSHA [Occupational Safety and Health Administration] 1910 nine hours a day.” Yeah, right! Was OSHA created in 1910? [OSHA was established in 1970 by the OSH Act.]

“Make it ten, Parkaar.” [my ailing alias] Monique then smiled.

I chuckled for a couple of seconds. “Anywho [sic] or whom, that’s probably why their legal and safety departments got rid of the balcony doors. I bet a small toddler crawled under and off.” Yikes! How terrible!

“Also, 33, look how close we are to the next room’s balcony. [about 4 feet, 1.22 meters, to the right] You know that drunks would attempt that. I bet one of them doofled, [sic] [defn: doofle, (v.i.) to awkwardly or unexpectedly fail when performing or attempting to perform a physical task or body movement] to use your term, and made an unforeseen earthly exit.” Maybe so.

“Yeah, I could see it happening, Monique.”

“And, what’s with this black fabric over the balcony’s concrete deck, Agent 33? Is it supposed to deter people from stepping on it? Is it sticky like flypaper?” Huh?

“Oh, I think it’s for aesthetic reasons, my lovely pinay, [a Philippine woman] enchanting Agent 32. Maybe it was cheaper than exterior concrete paint. And, maybe it lasts longer. Paint tends to get flaky on concrete.” How does he know this? / Wonder if any acrylic paint is left on that raised sewage-line cone off Executive Center Drive? [in east Charlotte] When did I paint that mumu on it? 1983, I think. It’s probably all gone now. Sure wasn’t much left in 2003.

“Ok, enough of balcony safety. Did you bring any condoms, Pumperazzi? [sic] No glove, no love.” Where in the world did she hear that phrase?

“On course, 32.”

“I thought that the saying was ‘of course’, 33.”

“Of and on, and on and off.” Why did I have to ask?

“Ok, put your sausage wrapper on and prepare for organasm.” [sic] Organasm, what a hilarious coinage.

Act III: The stroll.

With the delightful weather and the close proximity to downtown, we opted to go it on foot. We walked down to the southernmost point of the hotel parking lot. We turned left and crossed Marshall Street SW, passing a conglomeration of three restaurants (Twin City Hive Coffee Lounge, Di Lisio’s Italian Restaurant and Señor Bravo Mexican Restaurant).

“Want a cappuccino, Monique?”

“I’m fine for now. I’m more hungry than thirsty.”

“Ok, I know a safe bet that isn’t too far from here.”

“Lead the way, Parkaarwalkski.” [sic] She’s on a roll.

We walked hand-in-hand across South Cherry Street. And then we turned left onto The Strollway, a pedestrian and bicycle passage which slipped under the west-side overhang of a five-story building before emerging in the parking lot as a paved, tree-lined, generously wide, urban greenway trail. Whereas most greenways follow creeks or rivers, this one seemed to connect contiguous parking lots. We had never experienced anything like it. This is really unique. Linking downtown surface lots: an ingenious idea.

Soon we were passing under the Business Interstate 40 / US 421 freeway. We crossed West 1^st Street and saw the city’s tallest building, the 34-story, 460-foot (140-meter), round-topped Wells Fargo tower (100 North Main Street) across a vacant plaza. I think that was formerly the Wachovia tower. [It was.]

We soon came upon the emerald-green-windowed, quite modern, angular, 21-story BB&T Financial Center tower on our immediate right at 2^nd Street NW. This is where The Strollway officially ended. This must be the northern terminus. Will have to bring our bikes next time. I really miss that old Plymouth minivan. It sure made bicycle transport a breeze.

We walked directly across the street, continuing up the western sidewalk of Town Run Lane NW. When we arrived at West 3^rd Street, we looked right and saw the older Winston Tower a few blocks away. Its name was spelled out in tall, dark, Times-font letters atop the 29-floor, completed in 1966, rectangular tower. Funny, I didn’t see that building from our hotel balcony. [It was completely blocked by the BB&T Financial Center.]

“Is there a Salem Tower, too, Agent 33?” Monique asked.

“I don’t think so, Agent 32,” I replied as a multiracial pack of middle-aged joggers overtook us. Wonder if any of them heard the agent-number nonsense. / That red-haired guy just called that Asian lady ‘Agent 32’. Who in the world are those people? Too many weirdies [sic] here now.

“Did you know that this city actually started from the combination of two neighboring small towns, Agent 33?” Monique must have pulled up Wikipedia on her smartphone.

“Uh, yes, I actually did, Agent 32. And, get this, Winston and Salem are both RJR [R. J. Reynolds] cigarette brands, mahal. Imagine if they had built a matching pair of buildings to the exact proportions of a cigarette pack, and painted or decaled them accordingly. A 350-foot-tall (107 meters), 90-foot-deep (27.4 meters), 220-foot-wide (67 meters) Winston pack o’ cigs building next to a same-size Salem pack o’ cigs building. Then, exactly halfway-up, an over-alley connector could be the requisite dash.” Or, would it be a hyphen?

“Yeah, that would have been interesting, Parkaar – a real tourist attraction, no less. But, how would the reverse side of those cigarette-pack buildings be imaged?” So keen she is.

“Oh, you’re right, mahal. There’s a dilemma there. Would they switch the package fronts? Or, would they just leave them blank? Or, paint/label the respective package backs on the buildings?

“Well, it’s academic now, 33. I really doubt that they would be built today. You know how cigarette smoking is now frowned upon.” Yeah, she’s right.

“No doubt, 32. Such would have had to have been built prior to the early 1970s – before the prevailing cigarette-smoking sentiment changed in this country.”

On the other side of West 3^rd Street, the public way’s name changed to Park Vista Lane. We walked up to West 4^th Street and turned left. In just two blocks we had arrived: the Mellow Mushroom of Winston-Salem. Our readers are going to think that we are working for this gourmet pizza outfit. But, I just know that Monique is craving another Thai-dye pizza. I wouldn’t mind a couple of slices myself.

“Yey! You knew just what I wanted, mahal!” Monique exclaimed at the front door.

Act IV: Eats and drinks.

It wasn’t too crowded in the corner building (at North Marshall Street). We were quickly seated and ordered our favorite to-date, pan-Asian pizza. The curry-chicken-cucumber pie was on our table ten minutes later. I chased it down with a local porter beer (forgot the name). Monique just had a red tumbler of ice water.

“Monique, would you happen to have any GOLD cards [business-card coupons for free downloads of my 2013 e-novel Gold, a summer story] on you?”

She opened her large brown handbag and started checking the zippered compartments. Thirteen seconds later she handed me a one-centimeter-thick (0.4 inches) stack.

“Thanks, mahal. I’ll hide a few.”

“Hide them?” How does that help?

“Semi-hide them. Delayed discovery, remember?” Gosh, what a feckless book-promotion method.

“Is your alternative technique working, 33?”

“Well, it’s been downloaded over 3,500 times on that one website; over 5,300 times in total. It just takes time.” He’ll be in the grave before it gains any real traction. / At least by the time I die, thousands will have been exposed to – and mentally infected by – it, versus just a handful if it was a book on a shelf.

Monique devoured a couple of slices. She then handed me the crescent-shaped crusts to eat. Man, I love their dough.

After clearing her plate, Monique looked at me. “Ok, what’s our next stop, Agent 33?”

“Foothills Brewing, Agent 32. It’s just a few blocks down West 4^th Street. Their Jade IPA is killer! It has won awards.”

En route to the brewpub, on the now-crowded sidewalk, we spotted a late-20-something African American lad in a red Liverpool FC jersey (Origi) who was walking a small dog. Wonder where they watch Liverpool matches in this burg.

I gave a thumbs-up just before passing him. I was still wearing my black Liverpool FC T-shirt, which had a large, white, iconic liver bird on the front and The Pride of Merseyside on the back. Nevertonians [sic] be hating me.

Monique then yelled to him: “Yey! We won!”

He just nodded, smiled, and continued heading east.

The mood inside the taproom was college-hoops festive with many sky-blue UNC shirts. It was Final Four semifinal Saturday, and both South and North Carolina would be playing later (against Gonzaga and Oregon, respectively). Such a splendid day, worthy of bottling.

The Jade IPA was indeed as good as the last time I had it (in the NoDa area of Charlotte, I think). However, the People’s Porter missed the mark this time. A wanker-clanker. [sic] Should have stuck with Jade.

I switched back to Jade. Monique then had a Carolina Strawberry, a cream ale brewed with local strawberries. She liked it.

We just relaxed and slowly sipped our brews while taking in a perfect spring day in the piedmont. We got a wee inebriated, but neither of us acted the April Fool.

Having knowhere [sic] to go (and all day to arrive), neither of us monitored the time. Well, not until we heard a cell-phone chirp. It was now 5:45 PM. The afternoon sure has flown by. And now it’s almost time for the first basketball game.

“Want to check out Second & Green Tavern, Monique? It’s a sports bar. I saw it on Google Maps. It’s very close to here.”

“Sure, mahal. Let’s let our adventure continue.”

We walked down West 4^th Street for three blocks. Then we turned left onto North Green Street. In a bock and a half, we had arrived at our destination.

I grabbed the door handle. Wonder what this place is like.

“Well, here we go,” I told Monique as I opened the door.

We were greeted by stares and even some glares from an apparently locals-only, standing-room-only barroom. Hmmm … not exactly what I was hoping for. They must know that we’re out-of-towners.

We made a perfunctory loop around the wooden tables, but there were indeed no seats to be had. Thus, we just politely slipped out.

Once outside, I turned to Monique. “I think that they knew we were from Charlotte this time.” I laughed.

Monique wasn’t amused. “Hon, they were staring at me, up and downing my body with their eyes. I don’t like it.”

We backtracked to West 4^th Street. At the corner of North Spring Street was a classy Italian eatery: Quanto Basta.

Monique looked very intrigued. “How about a little Basta pasta to finish off our outing, Parkaar?”

“Sure, asawa.” [wife in Cebuano]

It was a charming little Italian restaurant. Our young Caucasian waiter was first-class. We ended up ordering a flatbread seafood pizza. It was divine. Pizza twice in one day. And both were winners. / Those clams were sarap. [zesty-tasty in Tagalog]

I splurged on an $8 bottle of German dark beer. The Ayinger Celebrator Doppelbock was delicious. Too bad this beer costs so much. A case sure would be nice.

We paid up 27 minutes later. We left the waiter a generous tip and, par for the curse, [sic] a GOLD card. He looks like he reads. And, I bet he likes film noir. Maybe he will like the erotic passages, if nothing else.

“Well, Monique, do you just want to watch the basketball games in our hotel room?”

“Sure, that’s fine by me. But, let’s stop somewhere for bottled water. I think we’ve had enough beer.” Depends on what beer the store has.

“There’s a Mobil gasoline station with a convenience store on the way back.”

“Ok, Parkaar. Lead the way.”

We walked down a vacated North Spring Street for three blocks, and then made a soft left onto Brookstown Avenue. A block and a half later, we were walking under the Business Interstate 40 / US 421 freeway. It was almost dusk. Glad we’re passing through here before darkness falls. Looks like a good place to get rolled. / I can tell that homeless people live under here. Maybe some really bad guys, too. Where is my pepper spray? Oh, there it is in the side pocket.

We walked past High Street, noticing our hotel on the hill. Then we made a right turn onto Cotton Street SW and passed by Machine Gun Graphics (left) and a dialysis center (right). Holey renal decals. Why’d I think that? / Where in the world is he going?

The road soon ended at a vacant parking lot. We were then staring at a hillside that was covered with tall grass, ivy and kudzu. The Fairway One Stop was at the top, some 60 feet (18.3 meters) upslope. There was a faint coyote path that wound to the summit.

“Ready for it, hon?” I asked Monique.

“Can I make it in these boots? They have heels.”

“I think so. If it gets too hard, I’ll carry you.” Yeah, right!

“No, that’s ok; we would both fall down.” Possibly.

We then slowly marched up the verdant incline. It wasn’t too treacherous. In a mere four minutes, we were in the store.

The beer selection was about what I feared: lame as hell – all macro-swill. Thus, we just bought some bottled water and white cheddar popcorn. Probably had enough beer anyway.

“Who’s winning the game?” I asked the rotund, 60-ish, African American cashier.

“I don’t have time for TV,” he tersely replied. Ok. Moving right along.

We descended the viny slope safely, just as the sun dropped behind some bare trees. We were back in room 601 right as twilight permeated the mild air. What a nice walking excursion. / I’m so glad that we made it back safely. I hope he doesn’t want to go out again tonight.

Act V: A Nightcap.

We watched the two games together. Gonzaga would fend off South Carolina, despite a gutsy comeback from the Gamecocks. North Carolina would barely survive against Oregon, despite missing their last four free throws. The Ducks just couldn’t buy a rebound at the end.

After the games were over, we looked at the lighted buildings off in the distance. The completed-in-1929-just-before-the-crash Reynolds Building caught our eye. Multicolored floodlights pulsed, illuminating the terraced crown of the smaller-scale Empire State Building.

“Those lights are a nice touch, Monique.”

“Yes, it’s lovely, bana. [husband in Cebuano] Did you get enough material today for another short story?”

“Probably more than enough, honey.”

“What will be the theme?” Searching for significance in an insignificant existence – the usual psecret psociety paradox. No, bite your tongue; don’t say it. Way too nihilist.

I laughed. “There probably won’t be one again.”

“I wonder how many people have stayed in this room over the years.”

“More than 601, I would bet.”

“What if we are the 60,106^th party?”

“Nice palindromic number, princess. But, I don’t think this hotel is over sixty years old. Therefore, that’s less than 22,000 possible parties, even if it was occupied every night, which I’m sure it hasn’t been.”

“How about 016,610, with a zero in front to get palindromic credit?” We’re ridiculous.

“I like it, Monique. Now, where does that gets us?”

“It gets us to here, silly.”