I know. Hey – you got your reading done for the meeting tomorrow? C.B. wants everybody in the group to know about The Fourteen Words, RAHOWA, and the history of the W.A.R. Skins. Company’s comin’ tomorrow, and he wants to impress the guy.”
“Get real. My head still feels like a garbage can with somebody bangin’ on it. I can hardly even stand talking to you. And my body feels like a toxic waste dump.”
"You gotta do it, April. You gotta be strong and know the drill if you want to be a W.A.R. Skin. C.B. says we all gotta be ready for the Racial Holy War and know why The Fourteen Words are so important. He says it’s us or them. We’ve got to be ready when Black Bike Week starts next week. It’s things like that – an invasion of blacks – that could start the Racial Holy War. He’ll be counting on us.”
“You’re way ahead of me, Wendy. Oh, crap,” April said. “I gotta....” and ran to the bathroom. Through the phone, Wendy could hear her gag, throw up, and flush.
“Ooooh,” April moaned when she returned to the phone. She fell on the bed, rolled over on her back, and moved her head close to the handset, which lay on the mattress. “I love C.B. and you guys, but I don’t give a shit about the stupid Racial Holy War he’s always talking about. I don’t want to be in any wars with anybody. I just want to get out of my house, out of high school, and live someplace where nobody hassles me.”
“You don’t even know The Fourteen Words yet, do you?”
“Yes, Wendy dearest,” April replied in her most sarcastic tone, “I do. ‘We must secure the existence of our people and a future for White children.’ But who cares? And who cares about black people, anyway? They usually stay together with their own kind, just like we do.”
“Oh, yeah? Then why do all those black speed bikers come down here alone on the second week of Bike Week? The Harley crowd – God-loving, patriotic white people like us – usually bring their wives and girlfriends with them. Those black guys all come here lookin’ for white chicks to hook up with. C.B.’s right. Race-mixing is gonna be the death of the white race. Hell, we’re already a minority in our own country. Somebody’s gotta draw the line. That’s why God made W.A.R. Skins like us. If we don’t keep the white race pure, who will?”
“Get real, Wendy. Half the white people in Myrtle Beach who don’t work in the tourist trade leave town for the Bike Weeks anyway. So who’s there for any of them to pick up? Some of the strip clubs even close down for Black Bike Week. I’d never talk to a black guy ‘less I had to, but if they don’t mess with me, I won’t mess with them.”
“’Ya comin’ to the meeting tonight?” Wendy asked. “One of C.B.’s friends from the Hammerskins is gonna be there. He’s a Christian guy. Has his own church. Plays in a Skinhead band. He’s got the latest CDs from Aggravated Assault, Max Resist, Bully Boys, and No Remorse. You can tell your Mom you’re goin’ to church. I bet she’d let you go to church on Sunday.”
April laughed – to the extent that her splitting headache would let her do anything. “I thought their motto was ‘When you’re a Hammer, everything looks like a nail.’ I like punk and ska, but I don’t like all the violent stuff. My motto is, ‘If you don’t like ‘em, ignore ‘em.’ Anyway, my mother was pretty pissed about last night. I’ll be lucky if she doesn’t lock me up until I turn eighteen. Fortunately, that’s only three months from now. I’ll see what I can do. Bye.”
8. Quality Time
Fantasia Lingerie Shop
Two weeks later
You look pretty tired, Dolly,” Shaniqua said. “That new boyfriend of yours wearin’ you out already?” The other girls chuckled. It was a slow time of the day for sales. The tourists were still on the beach, the regulars were still at work, and the new strippers in town for Bike Week had already done their shopping for the weekend.
“Don’t worry, ladies, he’s not too hot for me to handle,” Dolly said with a wink. “I’ve been in training for years. But it’s only our second date.”
“You goin’ out on The Love Boat this weekend again?” Harriet asked, snickering.
“It’s not The Love Boat, Harriet. Anyone can buy a ticket on The Love Boat,” Dolly said, sticking her nose high in the air for full effect. “It’s open to the public for cruises. The FunTastic, my dear, is private. A 42-foot-long private yacht. Full bar, kitchen, private salon with TV and surround sound. Sleeps six – by invitation only.”
“Meow,” said Harriet.
“Meow,” said Melissa.
“Eat your heart out,” Dolly said with a grin, flouncing her hair as she walked out the door. “Kenny has custody of April this weekend. Gotta make hay while the sun shines, girls.”
“You make hay in the master cabin yet?” asked Shaniqua.
“None of your business, you little nympho,” Dolly replied. smiling. “Take care of the place. See you Sunday. I gotta change for Willie’s.”
Even before Memorial Day, the traditional start of the summer tourist invasion of Myrtle Beach, the Friday night shift was a killer at Captain Willie’s. By 6:00 p.m., traffic in the two-mile-long Restaurant Row section of King’s Highway between Myrtle Beach and North Myrtle Beach crept along in near total gridlock. Every year, more theaters, theme shows, and amusement parks opened along the Redneck Riviera, bringing with them ever-growing hordes of tourists. The merchants and promoters were already talking about overtaking Branson, Missouri, as the live family entertainment center of the country.
At this rate, pretty soon I’ll need a helicopter to get to work, Dolly thought as her overheated Honda wheezed into the staff parking lot, half a block from the restaurant. By the time she walked across the hundred yards of broiling asphalt, she was already sweating hard.
The crush of hungry tourists and the pace of work were exhausting, but the time flew by quickly, and the tips were pretty good. When the crowd finally left for the stage shows, clubs, bars, and strip joints, Dolly was able to take a break and check on April.
Eighteen years earlier, her widowed mother, Anne, nearly had a fit when she found out that Dolly, seventeen, was pregnant. Then Anne got the really bad news: the baby’s father was none other than Kenny Devereaux, ten years Dolly’s senior.
Dolly had been swept off her feet – and into bed – by an older man, one, she supposed, who could replace the loving, hard-working father she had lost early in life. She got about half of her wish.
Kenny was loving, all right, but a little short in the hard-working department. He was only looking for a pretty young girlfriend who enjoyed good weed, good acid, and good sex anywhere, any time. At the time, Dolly had no problems with that list of priorities. It seemed like a perfect match – until Dolly missed her period, and Kenny found himself in the fast lane to fatherhood.
Anne pressured Kenny to marry Dolly, and he reluctantly agreed. The low-key wedding took place in a small, country chapel near her father’s ancestral home next to the Darlington stock car racetrack.
Six months later, April Moonchild Devereaux – she had been conceived one night while Dolly and Kenny floated among the stars on a cannabis cloud – made her wet-haired debut into the world. Unfortunately, the duties of raising his girl-child proved to be less interesting and more demanding than those of conceiving her, and Kenny soon departed the domestic scene for one more closely aligned with leisure and raising psychotropic herbs.
A decade and a half later, with April now in her late teens, Kenny Devereaux was still a cheerful, long-haired, bearded, acid-head throwback, trapped forever in The Land That Time Forgot. Like his Hippie contemporaries in the late 60s, Kenny had furnished his single-wide trailer with peace symbols, strings of multi-colored love beads, floor pillows, tie-dye throws for the couch, hand-knotted Indian wall hangings, and a two-foot-tall party bong. On a side table, a small candle burned in front of a framed snapshot of Kenny with Timothy Leary.