A LOSS OF CIVILITY ON THE 4TH
My name is Warren. There was a time in my life when I found myself owning four homes simultaneously. I was doing well financially, and I was a single guy. So if I visited a place I enjoyed, I would merely acquire a place to live in that area.
One of my favorite locations was in Cashiers, NC. Cashiers is located at the beginning of the Smokey Mountains – The Blue Ridge Mountains not very far from Asheville and about three and a half hours from Atlanta or Dalton, Georgia. The vicinity is gorgeous with all the waterfalls and stone mountains. The surrounding area was known to be an upscale cultural center and tourist area. In Highlands, a nearby town, there was a great summer theater.
The fourth of July always brought the Charleston Symphony for their annual outdoor concert. This is a top-notch affair and is very sophisticated. It takes place on the shores of Saphire Lake with a stone mountain in the background. Attendance at the concert is usually at least two thousand attendees, all with blankets, beach chairs, finger food, and bottles of wine. Not a single bottle of beer is insight. The town is loaded with people. One section of the lawn was reserved for catered guests, and they were seated at tables adorned with table cloths and candles. All had a great time, and the festivities were never disappointing, especially the fireworks display from the top of the Stone Mountain across from the lake at the finish.
Carole and I always attended the event. Also, it was a tradition that our friends Jerry and Marilyn from Columbus, GA, would visit as our guests for the affair.
The weekend is just one of those events that would make one feel very elite and above it all. The entire time made me feel like I was attending a lecture involving books on primitive culture or some lofty subject. But, instead, it was a weekend of being supremely intellectual and snobby.
We had a beautiful two-story condo situated on the side of a very steep hill in the woods. The kitchen, living room, guest bedroom, and large fieldstone fireplace were located on the top floor, and there was a deck off of the dining room.
The lower level consisted of a huge master bedroom, master bath, and a second deck standing precariously at least thirty-five feet above the ground next to a creek.
The following morning I awoke early and decided to have a cup of coffee, so I quietly went to the kitchen. I made a cup and tipped toed down the stairs, then glided through the master bedroom and out the sliding door onto the deck. Note I had never stopped at the closet for a robe fearing I would wake Carole. The morning was beautiful. The sun was shining, birds were chirping, and the air was crisp and delightfully clean. All was right with the world. Suddenly, to break the moment, I felt the urge to use the restroom. I went to open the slider, and it was stuck. Oh my God. What to do. I looked off the deck, then right and left, and found welcomed solitude. I urinated off the deck. What’s a guy to do? When finished, I tried the door again, and it continued to be stuck. Not wanting to disturb anybody, I sat at the small table with my empty cup of coffee, hoping Carole would wake up soon. After a few minutes, I quietly approached the door and tried it again. Panic ensued. The fucking door wouldn’t open. Finally, I started to bang on it, pull on the handle, and loudly MOTHER FUCKER IT. The mood and spirit of the elitist and proper weekend soon disappeared. Carole came to the door as the decks of my neighbors started to fill with spectators wondering what was causing the commotion. There I was, standing out there on the deck, in my undies, screaming profanities and instructions to a hysterically laughing Carole.
She left for a few minutes and returned with a laughing Jerry and Marilyn, all with cups of freshly brewed coffee. The damn door wouldn’t open from the inside either. I was going to die there for sure. I was doomed.
I screamed through the glass for Carole to get the condo manager and the handyman. She returned to inform me that she had left a voice mail. Then came the bomb of an idea. CALL THE FUCKING FIRE DEPARTMENT. Whatever class I had acquired the day before during the concert had disappeared. The normal or worse, Warren had reappeared.
The fire department finally arrived. I was the only one who understood my predicament because the firemen even considered the situation numerous. They said the only thing to do was to break the glass. However, that was the last resort. Out came the pry bars. They managed to open the door just wide enough for Carole to slip a tee-shirt, a pair of shorts, and a cup of fucking cold coffee to me.
The firemen suggested that they pass a rope ladder through the opening and have me climb down. I shouted, are you guys nuts?. NO FUCKING WAY!!!!
Finally, the handyman showed up with a car jack and placed it between the door and the frame. He wedged the door open wide enough for me to escape. Thank God.
It turns out there was some debris in the track of the slider. The jack had become a simple solution to an exasperating situation. Obviously, it a remedy of local knowledge and was known only by handypersons in the area.
My life had been spared. What would have happened if I were alone? I’d still be there.
All is well that ends well, though – just another Warren story amongst many. Stay tuned for more.
