My Halloween Costume (or How ECH Got His Groove Back)

[East Coast Hustle]

My life hasn't left much time for fuckery lately.

And by "lately", I mean since sometime in 2007.

This has been weighing on me recently, as it occurs to me more and more often that all the career success and financial stability in the world doesn't mean fuck-all if I can't parlay it into the time and resources to go inflict my kind of FUN on my surroundings.

Norfolk and the surrounding area (colloquially known as Hampton Roads) is, culturally speaking, part of The South. Not the south of backwater Mississippi or tar-paper shacks in the Appalachians of Tennessee; this is the genteel South of refined accents, sweet tea, and the kind of christianity that is so self-assured that it doesn't feel the need for evangelical fervor. This is the mannered and cultured South, where good looks go far and good manners even farther.

This place has been growing on me as I've spent more time here. I sense that there are opportunities here for someone who is willing to use the superficial framework of this culture to their advantage. I could think of no more appropriate time to put this to the test than a holiday dedicated to appearing as something you're not.

Also, the rest of the crew was going to Joe's Crab Shack and then Hooters. This did not appeal to me in the slightest.

Now, I may be a jeans and black t-shirt scumbag at heart, but I know how to dress well when I have to, and I keep a few outfits handy because you never know when you might get invited to a horse race or a high-class backroom poker game. Since your hair is an important part of your overall look, I stopped on my shopping trip to stock the ship and got my hair cut at an old-school barber shop. Nice short conservative cut with a straight-razor trim around the ears and on the back of the neck.

On one of my excursions to explore Norfolk, I had come across a very posh-looking residential high-rise on the edge of downtown, over towards Ghent, which is the artsy "uptown" part of the city. The kind of place with a doorman in a tuxedo and water views in every direction. The cheapest car I saw in the parking lot was an Audi; Benzes and Porsches were more common. When I brought it up to a casual acquaintance, I was told that the bottom-floor condos started at around 350K, the penthouses on the upper floors were all well over a million. He also told me that he had been in there on occasion when his manager had invited people over for drinks, and that there was a complex on the rooftop with a gym, sauna, hot tub, huge balconies with sweeping views, and best of all...a literal pool on the roof.

A plan began to take shape in my mind.

I cashed in some of the brownie points I earned by helping the Captain impress all the rich yachties on the saturday night dock crawl and took the company car for the evening so I wouldn't have to worry about catching the last ferry back to Portsmouth at 9:45. Showered, shaved, used some of the expensive aftershave I keep for just such occasions, made my hair perfect, threw on the pink Izod shirt and black corduroys, grabbed the best bottle of wine I could find in the ship's wine cupboard, and headed toward the midtown tunnel over to Norfolk. I took advantage of the free parking for shoppers at the MacArthur Center (figuring a Chevy Cobalt would never pass muster at the tower), ran in to buy an energy drink at Mr. Convenience and get my merchant ticket for the parking garage, then walked about a half-mile down West Brambleton Avenue to my target. I was afraid I'd have to come back early and move the car when the center closed, but luck was with me and they were having a halloween festival that would keep them open until midnight.

Having had to learn to talk like a white American when I moved to the states at the age of 5 has allowed me to develop an knack for mimicry. I was always the best student in any foreign-language class I ever took because in addition to the vocabulary, I could always nail the accent. I got good enough in Russian to switch between Muscovite and St. Petersburg accents. A couple of months in the area was more than enough time to learn the idiosyncracies of the unique Tidewater accent found in Southeastern Virginia. As I approached the entrance to the tower, I flipped an internal switch and became Carter Jackson, junior railroad executive and new inhabitant of 904 (a unit that, with a little internet research, I had learned was being sublet). I wasn't technically moving in until tomorrow, of course, but the lease was already signed and I had been informed that the unit was empty and ready for me to move into and who wouldn't want to come check out their posh new condo a night early if given the chance?

In the end, as I had been hoping, the look and the manners got me in the door without ever having to resort to the story.

The last potential obstacle to my mission never materialized. Once in the elevator, all floors were accessible without a key or card being needed for the upper floors. I pushed the button for the 21st floor and headed up to the pool on the roof.

To say that the rooftop complex was "nice" or "posh" wouldn't do it justice. It was fucking stellar. Wearing swim trunks under my pants wasn't terribly comfortable, but it was immediately worth the temporary testicular restriction I had endured as I slipped into the heated olympic-sized pool. After a few laps, the sauna beckoned, followed by another dip in the pool. by this time, some of the resident yuppies had joined me, so I "introduced" myself, opened the wine, and we sat in the hot tub drinking and talking about how nice it was to be rich, white, and good-looking in a modern Southern metropolis. I even got a phone number from the lone single lady among the 6 of us, a number which (though I can never use it) lent a final judgment of legitimacy to my act. I hung out, soaking and mingling until around 11:30, then dried off, dressed, and walked back to the car feeling more satisfied than I have in a very long time.

This, for all of it's success, was a practice round. Society around here operates within a very specific framework. Nice clothes, good manners, a charming smile, a good fake accent, and the occasional "god willing" thrown into your dialogue can open all kinds of doors here. I have no real social or emotional investment in this area, so I have nothing to lose if things go horribly wrong at some point. I intend to see how far I can push this. I want to see if Carter Jackson can get invited to a swank downtown athletic club, or a luxury suite at a horse race, or even one of those society balls. I want to see exactly how deep I can get just by being superficially correct.

I have a mission. The fuckery is back.

[Doktor Howl]

Nicely done, ECH.  Very nicely done.   

[Freeky]

GO HUSTLE GO!

[Cramulus]

yeah man, this is a great example of social engineering for lulz! props to thee

[Triple Zero]

bigass

[ñͤͣ̄ͦ̌̑͗͊͛͂͗ ̸̨̨̣̺̼̣̜͙͈͕̮̊̈́̈͂͛̽͊ͭ̓͆ͅé ̰̓̓́ͯ́́͞]

You should start leaving a calling card.

[Rumckle]

Hell yeah!
I tip my hat to you.

[Dysnomia]

I TIP MY HAT TO YOU GOOD SIR

[Iason Ouabache]

I hope you follow through on this and see how far the rabbit hole goes.

[Triple Zero]

Omar Khayyam Ravenhurst?

[P3nT4gR4m]

The talented Mr Hustle! 

[Pope Pixie Pickle]

You, sir, have turned blagging into an art.

[Elder Iptuous]

Beautiful.
truly fantastic.

[Golden Applesauce]

Keep it up!  See if you can get pictures of things.  I want to see what "posh" actually looks like, having only see it from movie sets.

[East Coast Hustle]

I'm limited by discretion and a crappy cellphone camera, but I'll try to sneak some pics on the next escapade, whatever that is. I'm leaning towards the horsetrack, though that will require a full day off.