wilmington, nc: a diy busker’s tangled tale of cigarettes, fishing nets, and overheard tips
i just checked the weather app and it’s hauntingly calm here now, the air thick with humidity that clings like old smoke. 85% feels like a sauna, but the breeze from the cape fear river swipes through town like it’s trying to steal your breath. my makeshift bongo drums, held together by duct tape and a prayer, rattle louder than the ashtray full of cigarette butts gathering outside my spot. the unmowed yard down the block smells like dog poop and regret, but i’m too busy trying to carve a functional harmonica case out of a moth-eaten t-shirt to care.
*"don’t build anything with neckties," warned the guy who sells radar detectors at the corner gas station. "they sound like a cat fight inside a washing machine." i tried anyway. now i have 23 cables, zero success, and a reputation as the busker who screams at squirrels.
the riverwalk park near my setup is under renovations. concrete slurry stains the pavement purple, making it look like spilled raspberry jam. a fisherman in the distance reeled in a trout, but kept tossing it back because “its scales are illegible.” locals swear they saw a cousin of the park benches arguing with a vending machine about parking fees.
"stay off oak island unless you trust strangers with your child’s goldfish," whispered the waitress at the pier. she slid me a battered map stained with ketchup. the waterfront bars here have compilations of seagull selfies and a jukebox that only plays christmas carols in july.
saw a guy trying to sell ‘vintage’ cobblestone coasters at the farmers market. one of them had a crack so big you could fit a baby’s hand through. seems like a breach of trust. i’m sticking to the $2 paper clips i welded into a tambourine. they jingle like a thief in a bakery.
nearby towns: wrightsville beach if you want voyeurs baking sourdough in convertibles, or charlotte if you can swallow your pride and ask for directions. neither will help you find your keys, though. the wind here hums in morse code, and i’m pretty sure it’s telling me to stop playing the guitar and just scream into the ficus.
i heard a woman at the bookshop call her cat the “mayor of hampton roads.” either this place has loose lions, or she’s been binge-watching netflix’s “true crime with train sharks”. maybe both.
links for the weirdly devout:
- tripadvisor: wilmington riverwalk ratchet
- yelp: streetly’s market, for when you miss your life choices
- redfin: houses here are so haunted they include ghost inspection fees
found a dog tag today in the river mud. the inscription says: “not abandoned, just waiting for a better owner”. probably from a 1940s sailor who posthumously divorced his wife. makes me wanna make a mixtape. title: “what i take from strangers who won’t take anything else,” track one: the sound of a zipper getting stuck in a train.
/why shops in white springs shouldn’t use glue:
`
`/, these are the ruins of a local bakery that tried to redecorate with plaster of paris. now the windows look like they’ve been glazed over by a giant’s zits.
/the seagull mafia in action:
`
`/, turns out seagulls here have passports. saw one pecking at my spit cup mid-solo. think it wanted ’hoverboard city’*.(.")
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