Portrait of a Dockside Doll

The Naval medical supply ship, USS Derbley, is pulling into port and Marga D. hopes to be pulling everything off soon sfterwards. She's been at every Navy ship's return to the Port of Hampton Roads since 1986 providing much needed relief for our servicemen (and, so far, 3 women) moments after they return from the sea - the nagging, familiar sea. 

Continued deployments to the Middle East mean steady business for Marga. On average, 7 ships return to port from distant waters every week and local television news cameras only show up at about 1 a month. "They want the hugging and the kissing and tears," says Marga, "all for some short, 20 second clip to show in between car crash footage and gang shooting stuff to make people feel good. Cameras don't show up for the supply ships or the maintenience cruisers. Nobody cares about them. But I do." She winks. A slow wink.

A cackly laugh turns into a minute of violent, thick phlegm gurgling. She spits outta gray, clam-sized chunk into the water and lights another cigarette. "Sure, they feign and faw for the cameras, but a few hours later, they're at home changing a squishy diaper, looking at a stack of credit card bills, and miserable. We'll go to my van, take care of business, and they'll really open up to me - tell me all their fears and hopes. At some point I gotta hurry 'em up 'cause there's a fella or two waiting for me." A seagull lands nearby. Marga yells at it and laughs.

Wait a minute - something slipped by real quick. She doesn't mean the MARRIED ones? Does she?

"Oh, I've had guys wear disguises off the ship - fake beards, glasses, and a cane or something - to sneak past their wife and kids to be with me," boasts Marga.

Wow.

During the days of the first Gulf War in '91, Marga rented the top floor of a nearby hotel and employed several female associates (and one guy) to accomodate over 100 sailors a week. "You also gotta remember all the shipbuilders, plumbers, electricians, and so forth in the area during that time. Those were the glory days - the glory HOLE days," she adds as she flicks her cigarette straight up in the air and dodges it as it falls back down. The USS Derbley is approaching. "Showtime."

She's used to long, complicated docking process that a ship goes through. Ropes are thrown. Big bubbles explode underwater. There's lots of yelling and whistles. It's like some kind of nautical foreplay and Marga loves every minute of it. "You know, they call ships 'she' and 'her'.  I like that."  The gangplank is lowered and a few wives start quivering with excitement. They hold bags of fast food up in the air and wave them. The little kids yawn and stare at Marga as she applies a fresh coat of "Cherry Lick" lipstick and smacks her lips together loudly. "Schmmmmmmmop." She checks her teeth in the reflection of her Zippo, finally spotting that chunk of Dorito I noticed earlier, fluffs her crunchy bangs, and does a few slow motion squat thrusts for preparation. 

The men disembark the ship with big, bulbous bags over their shoulders. One at a time, they all acknowledge Marga with a grin or a nod, but none stop. Cars leave the parking lot with contented shipmen and their families inside. Just when it seems like today is a bust, a sailor yells her name from the poopdeck. He looks like a young, bald Mexican Rick Moranis. 

They embrace as he steps onto dry land for the first time since March. They kiss. He lifts her off her feet and spins her around. When their lips part, Marga lets out a long, wet burp and doesn't even say goodbye to me as he carries her, honeymoon style, to her van. A muffled "Anchors Away" blasts from the speakers as sporadic laughter slowly turns into angry groaning and slapping sounds. I back away slowly at first, then start sprinting.

Buy...or Beware

In a fragrant, well-lit restaurant in Virginia Beach's Town Center, Tidewater Log met with former "Best Of Hampton Roads" public relations coordinator and co-editor, "Mr. X", to discuss the dark side of the Virginia-Pilot's seemingly innocent and genuine annual contest. (No, "Mr. X" is not the real name of our informant...in fact there isn't an "x" anywhere in his name. Actually, it's a woman, but she made us guarantee that we'd conceal her identity as much as we could. Why she agreed to pose for a photograph, we'll never know. She may have been a little confused by the camera - thought it was a tape recorder or a phone or something.)

TL:  Thank you for agreeing to speak with us.

Mr. X:  My pleasure. I'm tired of keeping these secrets. I'm old and can do what I want. (laughs)

TL:  Okay - plain and simple...how does one get the "Best of Hampton Roads" distinction?

Mr. X:  Money.

TL:  The public has nothing to do with the outcome? 

Mr. X:  Nothing at all. The winner paid for everything - the banner, the little plaques, the mention in the paper. You know, it even costs to get on the ballott in the first place! That alone should tell you it's crooked. The public just doesn't...they don't see how things really are.

TL:  What happens to the ballots? The online ones?

Mr. X:  They're absolutely meaningless. It's just something to drive web traffic up for the newspaper's website. You know, on average just about 40 people go there a day...and most of them are members of the newspaper staff leaving angry, rambling comments their own and each other's stories.

TL:  How about the old mail-in ballots? What happened to those?

Mr. X:  Dumped 'em in the Bay myself. Unread. Hell - unopened!

TL:  So, are we talking about the winners paying for their awards with money...or products and services?

Mr. X:  Back when it started, 15 years ago, we'd do it for free oil changes, pizza, patio chairs, and such...but nowadays it's plain ol' money, honey (laughs).

TL:  How much?

Mr. X:  Depends. A frozen yogurt place or shoe repair place doesn't have to pay as much as a law firm, a private school - or one of them big ol' seafood buffets.

TL:  On average?

Mr. X:  Oooooooooh....I'd say...'bout twenty thousand for a high roller...three thou for a small fry.  And that was back in 2004, before I quit.

TL:  What happened? Why did you leave?

Mr. X:  I can honestly say that the people I worked with in the "Best of" division were the greediest, most mean-spirited, downright cruel people I'd ever worked with...and I used to work in a slaughter room up in Smithfield in my younger days.

TL:  Wow. Gross.

Mr.  X:  Yep. Pig brains being squeezed outta their lil' ears!  Squeeeeeeeeaaaawwww!!! (bugs out her eyes and sticks out her tongue)

TL:  Eeeeeeeew! SERIOUSLY - that's GROSS. No more.

Mr. X:  Aw, I'm sorry. (laughs) I'd see business owners really do a great job of campaigning - getting their customers to vote and spread the word and such. Some had just opened their restaurants or whatever and really thought that one of those banners hanging out front would bring in more customers. 

TL:  Well, they do...don't they?

Mr. X:  Not at all. Tell me, do you know anyone with any sense that frequents a business because of some cheap banner flapping in the wind out front? 

TL:  (thinking) Hmmmmmmmmmm.

Mr. X:  NO! Only an idiot would. Towards the end, I told some real nice folks to just print up their own if they feel the need to. Print one up and hang it yourself. (laughs)

TL:  So, the cruelty you saw? What happened?

Mr. X:  The public doesn't know about the team of about sixty "Best of" employees going all over Hampton Roads all year long intimidating and threatening business owners. I've seen 'em trash places because they thought the owners were hiding money. They'd smash windows after hours. They'd release bags of roaches or termites WHILE health inspectors watched. They're in on the whole thing, too, you know. 

TL:  That's horrible.

Mr.X:  Yep. And remember, these were families - with babies or kids in colleges. Their lives were ruined. In some cases of immigrant owned restaurants - the authorities were called, a raid took place, and they were forced to leave the country. Immediately.

TL:  All because of some dumb banner? or a sign?

Mr. X:  Yeah. People think it's really important...mostly the "Best of" staff. They don't mess around.

TL:  I guess it's their livelihood. They have to pretend it's important.

Mr. X:  Bingo. It's everyone at the newspaper's livelihood. We're talking about ALL the major regions of Hampton Roads - Portsmouth, Chesapeake, Norfolk, Suffolk, Virginia Beach, Hampton, Newport News, and Williamsburg. You do the math.

TL:  Dear God, we're talking about...

Mr. X:  It's a multi-million dollar operation. 

TL:  For....what?

Mr. X:  For nothing at all. Sounds like a good deal, doesn't it?  (laughs)

TL:  (laughs)

Mr. X:  (bugs out her eyes and sticks out her tongue again)

TL:  AAAAAAGH!  That's it - this interview's OVER!

Thrill is Long Gone for Waterside Streaker

At some point before midnight, January 1, 2010, Rodney Furkin will jog nude through Waterside one more time. What began as a dare during Harborfest 1989 has stretched into a two decade long streak of streaking the downtown Norfolk marketplace at least once a month. For the last few years, Rodney, a 43-year-old ice delivery truck driver from Portsmouth, has been able to stroll Waterside at a leisurely pace totally unclothed - sometimes completely alone. "It's weird," he says, "nobody's there at all in the daytime anymore. I can get food at Mongolian Express, read a book on a bench in the food court completely nude and not be bothered. That would have been impossible back in '93 or '94!"

Prior to its current flaccid state, Waterside was a bustling social center. "I used to time my streaks for maximum crowd levels.  Friday nights were the best, right after the Fudgery would sing a song and people would be lined up for free samples. I'd sprint by and surprise everybody. Security would chase me, but I was super fast in those days. Never got caught.  Ever."

Steve Conkle, owner of the "Maximum Keychain Extravaganza" kiosk, says the public nudity is good for Waterside's rapidly shrinking business. "People get a real kick out of it. Rod will stop and let people take their picture with him...well, when there are people. He's like a celebrity around here.  Plus, he's a real nice guy. Last Christmas he wore a Santa hat and helped me unpack and set up a new shipment of keychains. I'm gonna miss him." Waterside's Assistant Manager of Public Relations, Bonnie Thurmell, did not return Tidewater Log's phone calls to comment on this story. When we knocked on her slightly open office door it opened - revealing a skeleton wearing a wig and glasses, sitting behind a desk covered in cobwebs. She still refused to comment.

Why is Rodney stopping now - right when Waterside needs him the most? "I'm getting old," he explains, "This summer I slipped on a slippery spot near the elevator and laid there on the ground, moaning in pain for about 6 hours before somebody noticed me...and streaking on crutches for a while after that just wasn't as exhilarating. I'm okay now, but it's time to pass the baton to someone else. I'd like to hope Waterside stays open for at least a few more years so somebody can have as much fun streaking it as I did. It used to be a real blast. I met my wife while I was doing it in August of 2000!"

Rodney won't give any details on when his final nude running will take place, but offers some advice for the new guy...or gal that wants to keep the streak streak going beyond 2009 - "Watch out for glass, hide your getaway clothes somewhere good, and smile."

Rodney streaked Waterside one last time between 12:41 and 12:48 P.M. on December 31, 2009 - and received a standing ovation from the janitor

Mission: Eerie Position

 

Luther Wooten's headlamp died. He was in the basement of the Union Mission building in total darkness. The occasional blip of his Handheld Paranormal Activity Sensor (H.P.A.S.) became a solid, uninterrupted beep. It became so hot that it melted like a marshmallow. The hallway seemed to expand and tilt as he searched for a way out. Door knobs dissolved to his touch. Claws grabbed at his ankles. He began to suffocate.  Someone whispered in his ear to run, but he couldn't. It was like he was underwater. Then, suddenly, he was on the roof - surrounded by a crowd of screaming, faceless figures. The entire city of Norfolk was in flames below. A winged demon whisked him away as the roof disintgrated and - "that's when I blacked out. The next thing I remember is being in my bed - in my home."

In 2004, Luther disguised himself as a homeless person to gain entry into the shelter and conduct a Paranormal Activities Investigation (P.A.I.).  "Before it became a shelter in 1972 it was the Naval YMCA. I wanted to spend a week there, but after the first night, I couldn't go back. I could feel the lingering presence of thousands of demented, battle-scarred souls once I set foot inside. It was, by far, the most frightening experience... and experiment of my life."

He expected to detect a few magnetic disturbances in the 100-year-old building after a former volunteer informed him about some strange occurrences. "She described doors slamming, lights turning on and off, and a file cabinet hovering upside down - pretty normal supernatural stuff for me.  The afternoon I arrived, I interviewed some residents. Real nice folks, just down on their luck.  They all said it was definitely haunted, but they had nowhere else to go. As everyone prepared for bed, I snuck off to begin the investigation."

Since 1979, Wooten has explored all of Hampton Roads' rumoured haunty holes including the ruins of Grace Sherwood's house in Pungo, the Peyton Randolph house in Williamsburg, the Bayne Theater in Virginia Beach (currently Captain Cline's Pirate Adventure Ride), Janaf Shopping Center, and the Fuddruckers on Virginia Beach Boulevard. None of them matched the Union Mission's spookiness.  "It makes the hotel from 'The Shining' look like the inn on 'Newhart' - and I sure as hell wouldn't want to live there."

Last week, Mayor Fraim announced that US Development Co., from Columbia, S.C., has bought the building and plans to turn it into apartments. City leaders hope it will lure hip, young iPod owners to downtown Norfolk. Gentrification opponents fear it will lure rich, boring iPod owners to downtown Norfolk.  "Ipod or not - whoever moves in there better be ready for some downright terrifying supernatural occurrences," states Wooten.

Union Mission administrators, US Development Co., and the City of Norfolk declined to comment on this story because they think the Tidewater Log is fake. Yep. Fake. Tell me, how can it be fake if you're reading it on your computer monitor at this very moment? It's right in front of you right now and it's still here when you're not online for everyone in the entire world to read. That, my friends, makes Tidewater Log as real as ravioli.