(three)

      I needed money to pay the bills. Isn't that always how things start going wrong? Maybe it's some inherent fact that comes with the making of revelry. If the ratio of "that which you consume to have fun" to "that which you require to get by" exceeds that of your cash flow then one must make the decisions of the afflicted class. Do I continue the party and live on the beach, or do I take a straight job and live indoors? I took the job. It sucks, the choosing, or rather the lack of will to stick it out, to live outside and miss meals to continue playing music, continue the parties, the gigs, the practices, the cook outs, the getting noticed at the grocery store, and the swagger, the joy that comes with being that life. I had thought of Todd, husband of Lori of the Bistro where Joey and I worked in 1992 or '93, back before Boulder. Joey, wow, soon. Todd owned a tour business, I knew that much. He would take people up and down the beach in four wheel drive sand machines to see the wild Spanish Mustangs of Corolla. It seemed the natural move for me to make,having lived and worked with Todd and the family in Jamaica a few Winters before. It was one of the first few weeks I was back here. I remember standing at some pay phone somewhere around "french fry alley". My phone was gone, and the only food affordable was on the chain food stuff stores, the budget menu things. The leftovers. "Lori ?" I spoke into the nasty plastic thing.." Boo Boo ?...Hey, what are you doing...?, are you in town?" "yeah..." i sighed. "Well how long you here for?" "I don't know". "Well what are you doing, or...I mean what are you gonna do..?" she asked. "I don't know"...I said again "Well you know Papa needs help with the horses..." BANG! "Oh yeah...like........um....." "-with the tours, he needs some drivers...listen, you should talk to him, he's gonna be home around six..." and I dont remember the rest really. Only that a few hours or a few days later I would be sleeping on his couch, waiting for my first ride up to Carova since I was twelve. Turning, twitching, not sleeping....used to keeping junkies hours, and besides from back when I had first moved here in '89, I hadn't really seen a sunrise except from beneath the cold slab sidewalks of Montford Ave back in Asheville, as we peeked out of basement floor blinds just weeks before at the slightest notice of any little sound. I was about to enter the world of that time of day as the working for the first time in years.  

     Todd wouldn't just turn me loose with a truckload of tourists. There was a serious training process. A process that kept me at ten dollars an hour as opposed to twelve, like everyone else got. This period lasted about three weeks. The first week I would only ride along with the other guides, get to know all the pertinent information. The job of a guide was to drive the people up to see the horses, yes. But there was also quite a bit of information to detail for the customers during the two to two and one half hour Wild Horse Safari. There was the lay of the land, the knowledge of the boundaries, the rules of the road. There was the history, not only of the horses, but of the "petrified forest" (not petrified) the "lost village" the "old life saving station" and lots of other script that must be followed, for every tour. I learned early on that every tour was actually very different. Every driver was different. We had Todd, the fearless leader, who called me his "wayward son" and who I called "Papa". There was also Winston Carpenter, a man in his younger sixties with the zeal for life of a twenty year old. Winston and I both came from Portsmouth originally, and he went to High School with my Mom and Dad. We had worked together before at Chili Poppers, a local Mexican dive. I cooked and he washed dishes. Winston has two kids my about my age. It's sort of funny to think that all throughout their childhood Winston and my folks grew up within a stone's throw from one another but never met, kind of like me and my folks. Next there was Libba and Steven. Libba Faulk, short for Elizabeth lives up in Carova with her husband Skeeter. Aside from working for the company like me, she is an artist and has a beach glass jewelry museum and store at her house in the off road area. She also has a restaurant/bar background from when she lived in Pungo back in the seventies. Todd played in a band back then and she was their bartender whenever they fell into that little corner of Virginia Beach. They remained friends and now she worked for Scott, us like the rest of us. Steven Hyatt was a former Army Ranger. He fought in Desert Storm and was highly decorated, a hero. Years later, after being screwed in the ass by the V.A., he found himself down here with the rest of us. At the time, as a budding herpetologist and avid alcoholic he fit in perfectly. He would also prove a great mentor to me. But at the time, we were as rag tag a group of super genius dirty misfits as you would find. We all drank, smoke, spit, cussed, and made fun of the type of National Example we took the daily pleasure to "entertain".

      Most of the highlights of that first season as a guide are blanketed from my memory now. Dwarfed I guess by the constant yearning to be somewhere else, be someone else. I wanted rock and roll. I wanted women and drugs. There was plenty of low grade on all counts to keep me wet for the majority of that summer here, but I knew that the passing of each day drew me not only nearer to the Fall, and to the end of the Summer spoils, but nearer to another goal, another life.