A Moveable Drink

by vanimal3000

In this long-awaited episode, Van travels into the heart of the Deep South, arriving in Savannah, Georgia, where he ruminates in what might be described as an ethereal manner on the town. From what I’ve been able to gather, there was a lot of drinking going on down there (which is perhaps continuing to this moment), so if you find him waxing poetic, well, I’m sure you’ll forgive him. It’s hard to resist the charms of a Southern belle in her home territory. Home field advantage and all that.

cheers,
-midas

For those lucky enough to visit Savannah on their spring break, it will always remain with them, no matter where they go, for Savannah is a moveable drink. The South is known for friendly greetings. This is only heightened, I’ve found, with a plastic Dixie cup of rum and coke while strolling down the boulevard.

The town has 21 surviving green squares and the general rule is if there is a block of grass and more than one year has passed, surely something has happened, and surely someone from Savannah has contributed. Add hedgerows, a monument, a dash of park benches and a sturdy copper plaque, and it has been another successful legislative season for city council.

However, more happens at midnight than just time. While in most places, the days events drift off in darkness, here the floating memory clings to the Spanish moss and the town wakes up to find the atmosphere batting the memories back down, never fully released. As a result, the town is cocooned in reflection, with ghosts that haunt the soul if a memory tries a repeated nighttime escape. The city cemetery has an iron wall corralling in the unsuspecting corpse when floods force up the old pine boxes from the sandy dirt. Even Noah’s flood couldn’t free the living from the remnants of the dead here.

Perhaps it’s to drown the memory or the constant reminder of impending mortality which explains how in the midst of the Bible belt, a notch is added for the copious amounts of alcohol consumed on a weekly basis in this port town. While in the day the angels and seersucker traditions thrust a stately aura to the pot bellied tourist, the devil and lacey cleavage push up the pine box of rebellion that civility hushes quiet during business hours. Pints are served in trendy bars while women search amidst the dwindling crowds of men—perhaps a future name in copper has a beer tab open tonight. The trees blow these warnings for all who may hear, but the city’s charms abound and after another bar and another stroll with a red Dixie cup, all of this is forgotten and the reason for the added notch becomes clear.

Despite the past, the future is stronger. And I’m wide awake; it’s morning. “Where are we going?,� I ask. “To Thunderbolt, for lunch with Dusti,� she says. We drive up to a restaurant with a large front porch and rocking chairs. The food is battered and the tea is sweet. Her voice is gentle, but direct. “Yeah the town won’t give up its independence, despite being surrounded by Savannah, it’s only a dozen blocks or so. See across the street, there’s the sound, and then the ocean,� she looks off, but doesn’t see it. We do find a shrimp boat, “Hey, look, it’s named Captain Van!� I hop out and take a picture. She seems impressed.

We drive off with a tune from High Fidelity. I glance back. The ship is pointed towards the sea, and the wind swoops in to remind of its vastness. The town of Thunderbolt does not have much shade, thus the mood is lighter. The only monument is to the sailor. High tide is coming in. And Captain Van seems to understand. Soon, he will have to return.