Charlotte, SOUTH Carolina?

By Beth Holt – 2005

Gate B6 at the Charlotte airport swarmed with passengers anxious to board the next plane to Palm Beach.  I grabbed the last empty seat in the waiting area, and wedged myself between a snoozing blond and a well-dressed older man who chatted with his wife.   Well, I think he was older.  With botox and facelifts everywhere these days, I never know how old anybody is.

His beige cashmere sweater, expensive trousers and leather shoes had “Italy” written all over them — he looked the “Palm Beach” type.   His wife dripped diamonds from her ears, neck, and both hands, and they treated each other with surprising tenderness.

I’m not sure what drew my attention to him; maybe it was the way he brandished a stout, green cigar.  Unlit, just like the ones my daddy didn’t smoke — half-chewed stogies were Daddy’s trademark.   Unlike Daddy, however, this fellow would never have spit tobacco juice out the car window, splattering a sputtering daughter in the back seat.  Also unlike Daddy, he peppered his conversation with references to large amounts of money and somebody named Guido.

“Well, Mothah!”   He spoke to his wife (and most of Charlotte) in a booming brogue thick enough to stir.  “Are we in NORUTH Carolina? He turned to me.   “I thorrt Chahlotte was in SOUTH Carolina.”

“No,sir.”  I fluttered my southern eyelashes, trying to hide my astonishment at his geographical ignorance.  Hey, I’d be in the same boat if we were talking Dakotas, but let’s face it.  Hordes of Guido’s relatives don’t vacation in the Dakotas, and neither do mine.  “We’re just a few miles from the state line, but Charlotte is the largest city in NORTH Carolina.”

“Oh.  Well, it’s in the south paht of Noruth  Carolina, then.”

This line of thinking confused me.  “I guess so, but down here, we  think of all parts of both states as ‘south’.”

Just then, the gate attendant began the pre-flight announcements.  Guido’s buddy was mystified.  “WHAT did he just say?  Could you unduhstind enny of that?”

“Yessuh.” I spoke syrup, right out of Charleston and Richmond.  Laid it on thick. Used more syllables than Reba MacIntyre in “Whoever’s in New England,” and took out every ‘r’.

“He called fo’ anyone needin’ special assistance to board the plane now.”

“You undahstood oil that?”

I stifled the urge to tell him I was bilingual.

“Has he coiled for first class yet?”

“No suh, not yet.”

The gate agent started his next speech.

“What did he say this time?”

“He said first-class passengers may now board the plane.”

“Oh.  That’s us.  Come on, Mothuh.”  He took his wife by the hand, then turned back and looked at me. “You’re not  goin’ to Palm Beach, are you?”

I guess I don’t look the Palm Beach type.  “Yessuh,  I sho’  am. To the horse shows.”  He probably thought I was a groom.

“Great!  Maybe we’ll see ya there.”

He turned on his expensive heels and headed down the jetway, and in a few minutes, the gate agent called for the unwashed hordes to  board the plane.

I wrestled my carry-on through the first-class cabin, back toward the cheap seats, trying not to glare at the smug uppercrust passengers in the cushy lounge chairs.   Halfway down the cabin, Guido’s buddy caught my eye, and jumped from his seat.

“Look, Mothah, there’s our friend!”  They waved like I was one of The Family. “Say, thanks for your help back there.  We nevah wouldda gotten owan da plane.”

“Mah pleasuh!” I called, unable to wave back with my hands full of 2^nd class luggage.  ”And if y’all need anything when we get to Fla’da,  Ah’ll be happy to translate!”

I walked on to join my people in coach class, but the now-familiar voice boomed after me.

“See, Muthah?  Now THAT’S what they coil SOUTHUN HORSPITALITY!”

I had to grin.   I squeezed into my substantially low-class seat in the cattle car, and I swear I heard my Grandmamma whisper.

“That’s the way to do, honey.  Aftah all, Guido’s jist another name for Bubba.”