A little encounter in Wilson

I was in Wilson recently helping a friend move out of that old high school on the corner of Moss and Kenan which got converted to apartments. By God did that bring back memories! Although I’m a Raleigh native, I’ve spent many summers on the family homestead in Rural NC. These apartments were reminders of childhood memories romping around in my father’s old high school. He had shown me his middle school too and the “black” school from the time of segregation. Just like the building we were moving things out of, their history could be found in the pock marks in the concrete walls and those high ceiling windows they just don’t seem to make anymore.

We needed some tools, Lord help me that three grown trans women can’t produce a screwdriver between us, so I took a walk down to that little feed and seed place on Barnes street. Wilson’s downtown was like a walk through a dream, or maybe one of those AI concoctions where everything looks familiar and strange at the same time. Phil’s Music Exchange and Morehead Seafood were particularly enticing as was the art gallery on the corner. A rather spacious side alley populated by a shipping container, many pallets, and the odd working shuffling about caught my eye. These spaces behind the store fronts and the back offices seem so enticing in their liminiality. But they could not distract me on my quest! Especially given that my shift started directly after moving, time was of the essence.

I never am quite sure how small town NC likes me. I can’t say I’ve ever gotten many glances although that could be a lack of detection on my part if anything. Ruffled hair, leather pants, knee high solovairs, piercings, and developing breasts wrapped up in a rather queer energy - is that too out of place in a feed n seed store right in the middle of this rural locality? At least the clerk, a little old gray woman who honestly could have been a uhaul lesbian, didn’t seem to think so.

“Why hello, daaaaarling,” I greeted her, “do you have any screwdrivers in this fine establishment?”

She didn’t stare but she didn’t quite look right through me either. I’ve noticed that being a bit flamboyant always gets some kind of reaction from cis people. Whether it’s good or bad… Well I don’t like to think of it in those terms. Rather, I like to think that it gives me some information about who they are. But not this short butch in front of me. She was a real stonewall!

“I think I put some new ones out here a few minutes ago” she replied, moving to a disheveled looking bin filled with all sorts of random shrink-wrapped tools. Hex tools, ratchet sets, paint brushes… Ah! A T-screwdriver! This would be perfect… Oh, and there’s a screwdriver with adapters! You know what they say, two is better than one! I’m sure one of my friends would appreciate having her own screwdriver and it would make the work go faster, to boot!

“Alright, this is what I need” I held up the screwdrivers proudly as though this mother cat had brought home that day’s kill.

“Are you sure that’s all you need?” the clerk asked. To be honest, I wasn’t sure. There’s the fact that - given our lack of planning and organization - who knows what we might discover later on in the move? Aside from this, there is the wonder of the rural county feed n seed store; a veritable treasure trove of all things agricultural and rustic.

My eye was caught by some homemade knives near the check out counter. Oh, and those fancy lighters… Wait a second, this is just the display case for lighters! Inside it there are random doo-dads and thing-a-muh-bobs.

“Yep. This will be it.”

The clerk rung me up and I paid. It was about five bucks a screwdriver.

“Thank you daaaaaaaarling!” A lesbian I met on a dive bar patio one night had taught me that the trick here is to really draw out and accentuate the middle of “darling”.

“Have a great day! And happy holidays.” I meant this genuinely.

I spun around to leave and made my way for the door. They’re those heavy dark wood doors that no one seems to make anymore. How I adore them! What I don’t adore is the loud clang noise that was produced by my clumsy boot making contact with one of the metal displays. More than 9 months on e and I’m still lumbering about. When do I become womanly and graceful?

Even worse than the self-doubt is the feeling of old lady lasers on my back. Maybe she was part-uhaul-lesbo and part-kryptonian? Better to get out quickly, I think to myself, and hurriedly through the door I go.

What is life without a bit of adventure? I had parked my car right near Phil’s. The music exchange called louder and louder as I drew closer and closer. Surely there would be no problem in stopping in for a quick look around their stock? I learned long ago that some of the best thrifts were found in rural localities. Up near Asheville I had found a delicious olive green skirt riddled with chains - no doubt something from hot topic - and it fit perfectly! A rare thing for me.

Near the Cherry Point MCAS I found an excellent nexus of second hand stores that gave me some absolutely cunty jewelry at marvelous prices. Down near Dunn I found an elderly woman doing one of those roadside garage sales. Got me some great canvas shoes, an pillow embroidered with a rather handsome feline, AND an extra (albeit “portable-sized”) sewing machine out of that one! So why shouldn’t I go and explore Phil’s music exchange?

Looking through the storefront window I can see a clerk fiddling with something behind the register counter. Near him but closer to the door is a piece of art; a windmill made out of what looks to be scrap metal. Perfect! That’s a sure sign that this place has some artistic merit to it. Combined with the almost 70’s facade of the building, I found myself back in Asheville reliving long gone punk shows and venues that no longer exist.

I pulled on the door handle.

Ka-chunk.

It didn’t open.

Well, that’s just my luck, I thought to myself and turned to walk away. A few steps in, the door swung open behind me. I turned around and found the clerk staring in my face. And he was staring.

“Sorry,” he said “we don’t open until 11”. I looked at the door. The opening and closing times had been indicated in big white lettering; WEDNESDAY 11 AM - 8 PM. How did I miss that? I turned back to the clerk hanging half-way out of the front door.

He was a young guy, maybe in his mid 20’s. I’m not great at guessing ages. I think his hair might have been short and tawny but now that I think of it, maybe he was shaggy? What I do remember is his narrow face carpeted by some slight growth. Either he wasn’t disciplined about his shaving or he was much younger than I guessed. Either way he looked connected to the local scene. I’ve met many diver bartenders and venue functionaries that looked just like him.

I found him quite appealing, handsome in a particular way, and briefly considered drilling him about what was going on locally. Where are the good shows? What is the music like out here? Please, Mr. Clerk, don’t tell me I have to go all the way to Raleigh just to romp around with punks or find their knuckles in a mosh pit!?

I’m not a kid anymore. I have responsibilities.

“Oh. Thanks for letting me know. Have a blessed one.” I meant that too. Genuinely.

And then I got on my way.