Meeting the Devil in Myrtle Beach outside Woody’s, Hwy 17

Meeting the Devil in Myrtle Beach outside Woody’s, Hwy 17

by Alice Osborn


Aren’t I the one you’re looking for? he greeted me
at the restaurant door. I should have done laundry
or zoned out to VH1 instead of meeting friends for beers.
Who was this man with a bald head shaped like a squash,
a nimble slug in a Dick’s T-shirt and jean shorts.

Who could be this fugly with such confidence?
I didn’t mean to nod at, Do you like dancing?
He poked me with questions about lasagna. White or red?
He told me I preferred a bloody cardinal vintage.
Karaoke? He knew I sang every Wednesday night. Then
he asked me about any hoop piercings in my lady parts.
A smirk from his thick, swine lips. You look like you have
a thick clit. How could he know or not know?
He smelled of Brut and Bensons & Hedges, not brimstone,
but, oh, yes, it was time to leave and take a different way home.

Damn my good manners.
Damn the concrete attached to my black mules.
Damn my shitty dating pool at this tourist trap.
Damn my heart’s echoes.

I didn’t mean to vaporize seven minutes from my life.
I didn’t mean to never forget his face.

-refers from the phrase “boozy conviction” in the poem Playing Blues Harp Alone in an Unfinished Basement by Justin Hamm