Evans’ Rag

Vol 2 Issue 11

Getting the Hell Out of Town

Timing is everything. We escaped Northern Virginia for the Outer Banks just barely before they shut down the island for the VIRUS.

Coming in last Friday, we had dinner at the Roadside, a famous hippie place in Duck; this is an arrival day ritual. Yesterday, the NC governor announced no one’s getting on the island except folks who live here. If that sounds Draconian, it’s actually easily enforced–an NC trooper or two at the Route 158 bridge, who very politely asks you “do you have your residence permit, ma’am?” Same for the bridge getting onto Roanoke Island from Route 64—back door if you ever need one.

There you have it, buttoned up all nice and tidy.

Boorish Boris says the Brits can travel anywhere in Lesser Britain (used to be known as Great).

But the Outer Banks aren’t equipped for an epidemic other than the expected beer hangovers and pot headaches. One hospital in Nags Head and a handful of urgent care places is all there are. This part of North Carolina isn’t heavily populated – the nearest is Elizabeth City, with a population of 18,683 in 2010.

Here it is the middle of March, and the entire area is working hard getting ready for the summer season. Everybody’s busy this time of year—absent only the tourists. What work can a body find if you’re wait staff when no one’s getting on the island?

So now that we’re here, at least we’re not being ordered to evacuate like in front of a big storm’s arrival. Done that gig a few times over the years. Nobody’s hanging out at Starbucks, though they’re still selling my morning caffeine fix, thank you very much. The young woman working the bar wears her tats like they’re meant to be worn. Folks living on the Banks aren’t into fancy. All they want is a nice sunset, and a good couple rides in on the waves. Maybe a beer or two playing beach volleyball.

Yesterday was the first day it wasn’t raining and blowing gale force gusts to make a husky want to dig holes, so we took a walk on the beach and were surprised to find people on the beach. College girls in bikinis, god bless, and the studs who were hoping.

Nicely curling surf and the surfers all in wet suits ‘cause the water’s still cold.

Layla introduced herself to a handful of hounds she wanted to set straight, but mostly chose to dig her holes in the sand ten feet or so apart. She’s quite the sight, head and chest deep in the hole with the sand being spit out between her back legs. If there were a productive use she could be put to–though she cracks me up to watch.

One young thing in a thong made it hard to pay attention to avoiding Layla’s holes where I was walking. Should thongs be illegal on folks past a certain age? Certainly not her, but some… I know bikini briefs on men should require proof of age for most past twenty.

Life is a beach again, momentarily. The hurricanes won’t be hitting before September. Who knows where the virus ends up?