Travel & Outdoor Story Writing Contest Winner! Antler Girls By Lois Gordon The road trip was one of those spur-of-the-moment ideas conceived during the euphoric afterglow that often accompanies an empty wine bottle. My friend Donna and I were looking for an escape from that most overrated time of year. "Myrtle Beach for Christmas!" "No obligatory family festivities!" "Just a beach, some sun..." "...a round or two of golf..." "I´m there!" I declared with exuberance. A week later we packed my station wagon with golf clubs, suitcases, a cooler full of food, and I-don´t-know-how-many pairs of shoes. (In our defense, we were leaving snowy Ontario for temperate South Carolina. We would need boots for sure; walking shoes no doubt; golf shoes we hoped; sandals if there was a God; slippers for the hotel room; water shoes for the shower; and dancing shoes if we were supremely lucky. And an extra pair of most of these, because black is not a neutral color. I don´t care what they say.) "Mornin´," said the cheerless guard at U.S. Customs. "Where are you headed today?" He didn´t sound like he cared much. "Myrtle Beach," I said, wishing encounters with authority figures didn´t leave me feeling like I was a fugitive from justice. "For eight glorious days," Donna chirped from the passenger´s side. He peered into the back of the wagon, then regarded us over his bifocals. "What´s in the cooler, ladies?" "Oooooh!" Donna squealed, bouncing in her seat and flapping her hands like she was trying to put out a fire eight inches in front of her face. "We have smoked salmon—and all the accoutrements!" She started to drool. "And Brie and kiwis and grapes and Clamato, because we have to have a Caesar before lunch. And best of all, cham-pagne!" I groaned. I was pretty sure we were in contravention of at least three laws that would send us straight back home—importing food, booze, and nut bars. "We just have to stop at the Duty Free for some vodka and we´re all set!" Donna added, batting her Doris Day eyes and endearing herself even to me. The guard raised an eyebrow, grinned a half–smile, and said, "Have a nice trip, ladies." "And the best part?" Donna called to him as I began closing the window. "We´re playing golf on Christmas Day! Wahoo!" "Good thing you´re cute," I said, shaking my head, "or we´d be cooling our heels in Customs while they poured your Dom Pérignon down the sink." There was only one impediment to what could have been a quick trip. Donna, it appeared, had an abiding fear of bridges. "Ohmigosh, a bridge!" she exclaimed during her first turn behind the wheel. "Uh–huh. Very good," I said. "And do you know what that is over there?" I pointed to a green barn. She played along. "A barn. And that´s a cow!" "And this is the Susquehanna River," said I, consulting the map. "And this would be the problem," Donna sang. "I don´t do bridges." "What do you mean, you don´t do bridges?" "I´m terrified of them," she said, pulling off onto the shoulder. "I can´t drive over them. I panic." "Just do what I do. Close your eyes." "Seriously, I can´t drive over that bridge. We´re stuck here if you don´t drive over it." "You´re kidding." "No, I´m not kidding. If I have to drive over that thing, we´ll die. I´m telling you ... we´ll die!" "What would you do if I wasn´t here to drive us over the bridge?" "I´d turn around and go home," she said flatly. "Okay," I sighed. "Trade places. I´ll drive." It was going to be a long trip—we were heading into the watery states of Maryland and Virginia. I swore that if I ever took another road trip with this lunatic, it would be to the Gobi freakin´ Desert. As we approached the river, I tried coaching my friend into accepting bridges for the valuable structures they are. "Look at the view off to the left," I said in soothing tones. "Isn´t that pretty? And to the right, see how the sun sparkles on the water? Beautiful! See? The bridge is our friend." "Oh dear, oh dear, this isn´t good," Donna moaned, covering her eyes. "You just need a distraction. Let´s sing!" I suggested, with the condescendingly sweet voice of an impatient babysitter. "Jingle bells, jingle bells..." "Jingle all the way..." she joined in, her eyelids still squeezed shut. "Oh what fun it is to ride..." "Da da da da da!" Donna finished. I stopped singing and stared at her. She opened her eyes and stared back defiantly. "So, I don´t know the words, okay?" "You don´t know the words to `Jingle Bells´? Everyone knows the words to `Jingle Bells.´ Yasser Arafat knew the words to `Jingle Bells´!" "Well, I get them mixed up. I just know it ends with `fa la la la la.´" "No. That´s `Deck the Halls.´" "Oh yeah! Deck the halls with boughs of holly," she trilled. "Fa la la la la, la la la la!" She looked so proud. It was like I had just watched my daughter tie her own shoes for the first time. And we had made it over the bridge. Her next turn at the wheel, though, was the same story. "I can´t do this," she whimpered through clenched teeth. "I´m right here beside you. We´ll sing." The bridge loomed. She tightened her grip on the wheel. "I don´t know..." "Oh, little town of Bethlehem..." I trilled. "How still we see these ryes..." "How still we see thee lie." I rolled my eyes. "Do you know any Christmas songs?" "Well, there´s that one about the three wise men," she offered hopefully. "You mean `We Three Kings´?" "Yeah, that´s it! `We Three Kings Of Orientar.´ I could never figure out where that was. Go ahead and try ... you´ll never find it on any map," she declared. I wonder if my friend is one of those people who hovers between being brilliant and insane. It´s a fine line, I´m told.                            *                              *                              * We rolled into Myrtle Beach and checked out the shopping district. In keeping with the spirit of the season, we purchased headbands sporting brown felt reindeer antlers. Donna´s were festooned with a plaid ribbon and golden bells. Mine featured dangling Christmas tree lights. Donna looked adorable. I looked like Bullwinkle with breast implants. We arrived at the hotel after dark, when the only view from our room was of faintly lit palm trees. Beyond lay a black ocean. We left the balcony door open and listened to the steady swish of waves. In the distance, a foghorn sounded faintly, turning the mood melancholy. However, the decorated miniature Christmas tree we had toted from Canada cheered us, and we toasted our success in arriving unscathed. Hungry for dinner, we ventured down to the lobby, reindeer headbands in place, in search of the restaurant. After poking our heads into many doorways to find nothing but quiet darkness, we finally came across the bar. The dim room was silent as a funeral home. Three couples drooped on bar stools; the bored bartender wiped glasses with a cloth. No one spoke. Donna and I looked at each other with raised eyebrows. Well, wasn´t this just a jolly old place to be. I´ve seen friendlier faces inside the offices of Revenue Canada. We edged forward. Eyes peered at us through the smoky haze as though we were apparitions materializing in the mist. "Merry Christmas, everybody!" Donna said tentatively. In one voice they answered, "Merry Christmas," sounding remarkably like the lighthouse foghorn. "Hah," said the bartender. "Ah´m Buddy. What can ah get you ladies this evenin´?" "Scotch," I said. I always drink Scotch at wakes. "Where y´all from?" Buddy asked as he poured our drinks. "Canada," we replied in unison. "Ah thought so. When ah saw those antlers yure wearin´ ah thought, those girls must be from Canada." We laughed. It was probably the first sound of joy that bar had heard in a long time. "So, where are you all from?" Donna asked the barflies. Linda and Don were from New Jersey. They were here because their kids had taken off to Florida for Christmas and they had no one else to share the holidays with. Anne and Bill were from Philadelphia. Their kids hadn´t invited them for the holidays, so they left town to assuage the hurt. Rachelle and Bernie were here to play golf. They were in the bar because "every other goddam place in this godforsaken town was closed tonight." These folks could suck the Christmas spirit out of a room faster than a Dyson vacuum cleaner. Undaunted, Donna pressed on. "Know what? I´ve got my camera here, and I´d like to take your pictures. We´re keeping a scrapbook of our trip, and you´re all certainly part of the experience!" "Wait!" said I. "They need antlers!" They were too shocked to run screaming from the room. I popped the antlers onto their heads in turn. "Now smile!" They stared into the flashing camera, their hangdog expressions caught on film for posterity. But they smiled. Laughed, even. Long after our dinner had come and gone, we all sang Christmas songs at the top of our lungs. Donna, who couldn´t keep the words straight, mimicked us half a beat behind, and that made everyone laugh louder. "Whah, you antler girls are lahk a breath of fresh air." Buddy flashed a brilliant grin. "Ah was about ta slit ma wrists if you hadn´a come along." When we finally staggered off our barstools, to a person they hugged us and offered a sincere "Merry Christmas!" They told us it had been some time since they´d laughed that much—and we believed them.                            *                              *                              * It was Christmas night in Myrtle Beach, and the hotel was putting on a show. Donna and I were particularly high–spirited; Buddy had sent a complimentary bottle of wine to our table because we dared to show up wearing our headbands. You don´t need diamonds when you´ve got antlers. The opening act was karaoke, which should, in my opinion, go back to Japan where it came from and leave us alone. Who really wants to find themselves at center stage, flipping back imaginary long hair and licking their upper teeth just like Cher does, because they´re cool and a really good singer? Or is that just me? The headliner, God bless him, tried his best. He crooned like Tom Jones as he wound his way through the half–empty cocktail lounge, caressing ladies under the chin, stroking their cheeks with his thumb, and making all our stomachs turn. No one would be tossing their panties at him that night. Suddenly struck with empathy, Donna leapt to his rescue. She performed brilliantly, trading suggestive quips with the performer while she continued to sip from her champagne glass. The two of them finished off the set with a most provocative, outrageously funny entre–deux that culminated in a sexy tango. The audience roared with laughter and demanded an encore. The entertainer was left speechless. The following night, the lounge was packed and there was a buzz of excitement in the air. Suddenly, a woman from Buffalo clutched Donna. "What time do you go on, hon?" she asked. "Go on what?" Donna frowned. Why was this stranger pushing an autograph book in her face? "Why, on stage! What time is your performance? We met all these nice people at the golf course today and told them they had to come over and see the show!" She pointed to a group seated at a nearby table. "There they are! Couldja be a doll and just wave at them for me?" she gushed. It´s not often that Donna is at a loss for words. "I ... I´m not part of the show." "But hon, we just saw you last night!" "Last night was, you know ... impromptu." "Oh, but hon! You were so funny! I was sure you were part of the show!" The woman harrumphed. "Well, what am I going to tell my friends? They all came to see you!" Apparently, Donna has missed her calling. With an ice storm threatening the eastern seaboard, Donna and I decided to head for home a day early. Besides, we had pretty much used up our repertoire of Christmas songs, and we had all those bridges to deal with. Our American friends, including Buddy the bartender, showed up in the lobby to wish us farewell and a safe trip. Linda, who we had met on our first night in the bar, hugged both of us and whispered tearfully, "Thank you, Antler Girls." Four simple words. And they meant the world to us. Every Christmas Eve, I don those silly antlers and remember how I felt that night at that bar in Myrtle Beach. It´s different now, of course. I could never recapture the same joie de vivre, but I smile when I think of that special Christmas spent in the company of strangers. As I grow older, I hope I never lose the irrepressible spirit of an Antler Girl.
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