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Apparently the gentle mountainfolk of Murphy have been hiding their wild side from newcomers.
I recently planned an evening out with one of my Rotary Club of Murphy girlfriends, Patricia McGraw. She’s much better at socializing than I am.
For one thing, and I’m embarrassed to say it because it’s a superficial observation, but she is stunning. If you ever need a boost in confidence, walk through the door of any Murphy establishment with Patricia by your side. The chatter stops, forks suspend mid-air and jaws drop down to laps. All that’s missing is the wind machine and the paparazzi.
But for another, she is sophisticated in all matters social. Why she chose me to join her is a real mystery. She must know that I’m a social dud. In the martini of life, I’m the toothpick holding the olives. Sure, I make it past the bouncer, but I don’t really add anything to the party. Truthfully, the olives don’t even need me; they would be just fine on their own.
We planned our get together during the weekly Rotary meeting, and I was excited at the time. However, like all events that require me to open my front door and actually walk outside, the closer the night approached, the more trepidation I felt.
Patricia chose St. Patrick’s Day, and she had big, green plans. We had some serious discussions concerning green nail polish and sparkly hats. I laughed lightly on the phone but, deep down, I was panicking.
My wardrobe mainly boasts three colors – black, white and red. I essentially dress like the national flag of Yemen. I don’t own anything green and was afraid I’d disappoint my new friend. I’ve called Murphy home for a full year now; Patricia’s only been in town for three months and is already the most popular kid in school.
My old high school anxieties began flaring up. Not in the “I’ll drink too much and throw up on her expensive green shoes” kind of way. But more in the “she’ll find out that I’m in pajamas by 6 and in my bed by 9” kind of way. And 9 is code for 7 p.m.
In the end, I found a greenish skirt my sister gave me and an old moth-eaten sweater I hoped would stop strangers from pinching me. But when she picked me up, she laughed, “That skirt’s not green; it’s yellow.”
Patricia and I had pub-crawled across Murphy a time or two, so we had some experience with downtown establishments. But where were all the people? The vacant bar stools only served to feed my conspiratorial brain that local residents met in an exclusive secret bunker.
(The passcode to get in was to give directions from the Murphy epicenter, McDonald’s, to any neighboring community using only landmarks. And if you used a residential home, you had to know the name of their cousin. If you could name the cousin’s dog, you’d get a free bar token.)
When Patricia and I arrived in town, we had to vulture park, meaning we circled until a spot opened up. Downtown was chockablock full of energy. People were everywhere, walking on sidewalks and spilling out of doorways. They were happy, hugging and chugging with gusto. Skirts swirled and men flirted.
We were stunned. I nearly pinched myself! We started in Bistro 29 because I love sushi, even though they always forget to put the avocado in my spicy tuna roll. The bar was heavily populated while April Rose, the famed barkeep, held court.
Patricia had booked bar stools down at The Parson’s Pub, so when we finished our fun with April, we sauntered down to the Irish establishment. It was mayhem, standing room only. The collective murmur of the patrons was turned up to full volume, causing the Mountain Gypsies’ band to sing and strum at a fever pitch.
We waited on the sidewalk for our allotted time, where we greeted strangers like long-lost family members. I mean, everybody else was doing it. Although, looking back with sobriety, maybe they actually were greeting long-lost family members.
A couple of nights later, Patricia convinced me to meet her over at Murphy’s Chophouse, one of our regular haunts. The bar was empty, and the tender was so certain no one would come in that we had to wait for her to appear from her hideaway in the back.
She happily poured our drinks, and Patricia and I toasted to Murphy. Sure,
the town was quiet, almost somber. But we knew her secret now. Like fairies gathering under a full moon in the forest, on special occasions guided only by the historic rhythm of the mountains, the locals gather in town and – oh my! – Murphy fills with magical merriment.
Abigail Hickman is a staff correspondent for the Cherokee Scout. Her column is published every other week. Email her at abigailhickman44@gmail.com.