What is the deal with those crappy beach stores in Myrtle Beach? They all shout their names in bright neon, EAGLES or WINGS or WAVES. At least WAVES has something to do with the beach. They are huge square boxes, brightly lit, and filled with more crap than they have crappy looking people to buy it. Sometimes, when my family gets bored on a trip to the beach, we like to stop in one of those beach stores and look around. We never buy anything. We just stroll, making fun of everything, before we leave empty-handed. Last time we went to the beach, however, we found something that we never expected at a beach store in South Carolina.
We went out to eat dinner after a long day on the beach, and we had some time to kill before bedtime. We were too stuffed to go get ice cream or to go back to the condo and sit in front of the television, so I suggested we stop by one of our favorite crap beach stores. We like this particular one because the building has a gigantic cement shark in front of it, and by gigantic, I mean the entire length of the store. You have to walk through its jaws to enter the building, and the inside of its mouth is covered in graffiti. Even its beady shark eye is all lit up. Is there any wonder why it's one of our favorites?
We went inside and headed straight for the shark tank. Yes, you read that correctly. There was a concrete tank in the middle of the store that houses not one but two live sharks. Being nurse sharks, they are not the most active fish. They spent most of their time lounging on the bottom of the tank while the lonely remora swam in circles near the surface, hoping some idiot child would ignore the “caution, sharks will bite!” sign and plunge in a hand.
After five minutes of watching the sharks do nothing, we wandered up and down the cluttered rows of cotton-poly blend t-shirts and unflattering two piece bathing suits. I could see buying a t-shirt at a beach store, but really, don’t most people pack their swimsuits for a beach trip? They also had some vaguely Christian and beachy knick knacks, as if Jesus were on vacation and looking for a little something to take home to the dog sitter.
Near the front of the store was a baby turtle tank which was also fun to watch if you could get past the smell. The turtles were only cute because they are small, and they liked to climb atop one another, making a turtle tower straight out of Yertle the Turtle. One turtle got too cocky and tried to climb up using another turtle’s head as a step stool, and the whole lot fell into the water.
We watched them reconstruct their Jenga turtle tower before moving on to the hermit crabs.
They too reeked like dead fish trapped in a fat man’s armpits, but they were creepily fascinating to watch. They lived in shells that have been vandalized with paintings of soccer balls and SpongeBob Squarepants and fairies, which would be very humiliating if they ever caught sight of themselves in a mirror. The ones that disturbed me the most are those that have clawed their way up the wire mesh to the top of the tank. You know if you took that crab home, it would get loose inside your house like a giant beach bug, never to be seen alive again, until your grown children packed your things for your move to the assisted living home and found the empty shell, painted like a monkey, under your bookcase.
Right by the register was the display of cheap glass weed pipes and bongs that are a delight to explain to inquisitive children (vases and candle holders) who don’t understand why these glass items are more fragile than the ones out on the shelves for anyone to knock over. The next display case contained the “legal” pocket and button knives, my personal favorite of which featured on its handle a skeleton riding a motorcycle. Based on what these beach stores sell, it looked like some Jesus-loving couple in tiny Confederate flag bikinis and matching t-shirts were going to get high and chow down on some live seafood before capping off the evening with a good old-fashioned knife fight.
Even with all that splendor under one roof, we still found something shocking on the way out. On the side of the door frame, near the top, was a mezuzah, a good six inched announcement to all who entered that here was a Jewish place of business. My older daughter E noticed it first, and then we all had to block the entrance while we stood gawking at it. But seriously, this was South Carolina, not Miami Beach or Coney Island. American flag, yes. Jesus on the cross, you bet. Publicly and proudly admitting to be Jewish, at work? Not so much.
We were fascinated. I theorized that it was probably owned by an Israeli, although the woman behind the counter looked more like the pure blooded American shoppers rather than a foreign born owner. My husband added, “I bet all of these stores are owned by Israelis.” To test our theory, we had to look at another crap beach store.
We drove straight from the shark store to the killer whale store, which unfortunately does not have a whale tank in it. It did, however, have the same turtle and hermit crab tanks, but none of the bongs or knives, which made it seem more wholesome. We tried to act nonchalant because the swarthy man near the register was watching us, fully aware we had no intention of buying any of his schlock. And then bingo! Right in front of the cash register was a collection canister, a tzedakah box, if you will, sponsored by the Chabad of Myrtle Beach. We rushed back to the bay of doors and searched until we found the mezuzah. We laughed delightedly when we saw it, which confused poor Schlomo behind the counter.
You’re right, Mom,” E said when we left the store. “He definitely looked like an Israeli.”
“How can you tell?” S, my younger daughter, asked.
“You can tell,” E and I said knowingly, at the same time.
“Let’s check out another one!” I said as I drove out of the parking lot.
We went past one more crap beach store on the way home. Now that we knew what to look for, we didn’t have to get out of the car. We just slowly drove by the front door, and again spotted a mezuzah. We all screamed and careened out of the parking lot.
While the crap beach stores sell ashtrays and sun catchers and sea shells and snow globes, none of them sell mezuzahs. I guess they know their customers. It’s too bad, though, because I am pretty sure we would have bought one, if only to say we got it at a crap store in Myrtle Beach. Especially if it was camouflage and sporting a rebel flag.
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