Gravel crunched methodically underfoot as we followed worn steel rails, leaving a slow, drifting cloud of dry dust behind.  Tall grass, punching chest high up through the endless rows of railroad ties, swayed softly in the breeze. I knew we had to be close, but there was still no sign of Dale and Cleo’s place.

There was no mailbox with numbers to guide us. No driveway, telltale chimney smoke or power lines, even. We had no hints such as “white painted brick,” or “split level.” In fact, there was no roof or walls or any of that, as we were looking for a dwelling that, by design, is hard to find: a home with a million-dollar view of uptown Charlotte that hides in plain sight.
I was 20 feet from the campsite, and still completely puzzled as to where it might be, when Dale stepped out of the shadows and onto the track. The place was so well hidden that you could blink and easily stroll right past. Like a privacy screen for a computer monitor, looking at it from any angle except straight-on is fruitless. A thick tree canopy shielded the site from the air and was nearly as effective in concealing it on the ground as well.

“All guests must bring a 12-pack,” I learned only later, is Dale and Cleo’s No. 1 rule. Looking back, I’m thankful the case of bottled water and bus pass we brought didn’t get us off on the wrong foot.

Dale was good-natured and friendly, and he welcomed us over, smiling from behind his black leather hat. Between sips from a can of Milwaukee’s Best Light, the elfish little fellow with sparking blue eyes began to share a bit of his story.

“I was born in Kannapolis, but I’ve lived down here in Charlotte most all my life,” he offered, glancing past my shoulder, down the track. “I operated a printing press for over 20 years. Technology changed that business a lot.” Looking down, he said, “I was in the security business for over 10 years. That industry changed a lot, too, though.” His voice trailed off here, and we quickly shifted gears and looked around his campsite for a bit.

Dale and Cleo’s camp has been three years in the making, and it is impressive. A small series of landscaped gardens and raised beds built with railroad ties flank his sleeping quarters – a 6-by-6 cave he carved out by hand from beneath a 2-ton concrete slab. It’s a sort of deluxe spider hole of the type favored by wanted Middle Eastern dictators. A removable foam block serves as a trap door and hides him from the elements, among other things. A fireplace complete with chimney, cleverly crafted from bricks and scrap 2-by-4s, provides warmth on frigid nights. Incense smoke curled lazily through patches of sunlight as Dale described how items he’s collected over the years have been recycled into useful components of the campsite – a cooking area, utensils, a bench. Dale had even built a platform for Cleo’s tent, which would meet any building code.

A German shepherd puppy fought ferociously with my shoelace as I remembered to ask Dale why he was living here. For a guy with a degree in education from Mars Hill College, his answer was surprisingly concise:
“I love the freedom,” he stated without hesitation.

Cleo quickly echoed the sentiment.

In a previous life, Dale had worked as a security guard, and had run a printing press. For years, he had wives, kids…a mortgage. Now he braves wickedly cold nights, regular harassment from railroad detectives, and violence for the freedom his lifestyle offers.

“I consider myself a modern day pioneer,” he beams, “and she’s my Calamity Jane,” he continues, nodding toward his friend and neighbor, Cleo, who lived under a nearby bridge for over a decade until just recently setting up camp next to Dale.

“We’d be happy just to be left alone out here,” Cleo adds. “That’s all we really want.”

Dale and Cleo had repeatedly referred to Western themes and characters when describing their life by the train tracks, but as Dale spoke, it wasn’t Billy the Kid or Jesse James whom I envisioned.

It was Don Quixote.

National statistics indicate a noticeable increase in the percentage of college-educated homeless men in the past year.

The National Coalition for the Homeless contends that poverty, lack of affordable housing, domestic violence, decline in public assistance and increasingly, foreclosure are all culprits that push people toward life on the street.  The poor are essentially an illness, an accident or a paycheck away from living on the streets, and homelessness often results from a complex set of circumstances that requires people to choose between food, shelter and other basic needs. The group insists that only a concerted effort to ensure jobs that pay a living wage, adequate support for those who cannot work, affordable housing, and access to health care will bring an end to homelessness.

According to Carson Dean, executive director of the Men’s Shelter of Charlotte, as many as 40 percent of the homeless in Charlotte suffer from addiction disorders. Others have mental health issues or a combination of the two. Many are veterans of foreign wars who suffer from post-traumatic stress disorder or other psychological conditions that go untreated. Homelessness often stems from a losing struggle with drugs or a mental breakdown, but just as often, plain bad luck or economic factors truly beyond their control are the reasons folks are driven into homelessness, Dean says.
“Even though less than half of the homeless in Charlotte are so because of drug addiction, it is still a very serious issue for us,” continued Dean.

Indeed, on a subsequent tour of other area campsites, all of which were just a short walk from Dale and Cleo’s place, the specter of crack cocaine could be felt looming in the leafy shadows. All of the places that our guide, Sylvester, had agreed to take us were practically at the foot of uptown’s skyline. They are passed by commuters every single day, but are so well hidden they would have been almost impossible to find without his help. Sylvester, who completed the program offered by the Men’s Shelter of Charlotte and is now employed there, had been homeless and entangled in a web of hopeless drug use in this same area for many years. By his own admission, he had smoked crack for nearly 30 years – hooked immediately upon taking his first hit at the age of 13.

“I was a welder for 11 years,” he offered. Explaining how he first ended up on the street, Sylvester said, “Then I lost my job, and it was just a downward spiral from there. I started running drugs for the dealers. Did a couple years in prison on a cocaine charge not long after that.”

We had walked along a trail for only a few minutes when we met Toronto.  He had lived at his campsite, which surprisingly was just a few feet from the outer fence of the Men’s Shelter, for several months, and was understandably guarded. After a few minutes, though, he warmed up and invited us into his dwelling. “Mr. Alfred’s not here, and he’ll be pissed off if he walks up and finds you guys here,” Toronto cautioned. Mr. Alfred was apparently head of the household, but wasn’t home at the time. The structure was little more than a tent constructed of black plastic sheeting lashed to tree branches above. A floor made of carpet scraps and mattresses had been soaked by days of relentless rain.  An old handicapped toilet device with a bucket of ammonia below served as the home’s bathroom.

“I had a pressure-washing business for a long time, and I worked all over North Carolina.” He briefly opened up, glancing around. “Then my old lady kicked me out.”

Toronto was fidgety and still visibly suspicious of us, but he was familiar with the location of many of the other campsite communities in the area and offered to help Sylvester show us around for the rest of the afternoon.

A narrow trail, cut through a densely wooded lot, led us to the next tent village, which was less than 100 feet away. It had some netting set up as a perimeter fence that closely resembled some that had recently gone missing from Toronto’s campsite. Sylvester was able to calm the brief spat that ensued but was unable to convince the camp’s residents that we and our camera meant no harm. We quickly walked along the path toward the next site.

The next small village of weathered tents and improvised fencing and chairs was tucked back in another wooded glen, again screened from view by dense tree cover. Clothing and empty bottles were randomly cast about, and the mosquitoes had no mercy. “You ever seen a chimney?” smiled Toronto, turning around with a burst of energy.
“Like a chimney chimney?” I asked, sure this was some sort of  trick question.

“Yeah – you know with bricks and smoke coming out and shit. A chimney. Come back down here tonight, and this whole place will be smoking like crazy.”
“You mean they’ll be smoking crack?” I asked, pretty sure the answer was yes.
“Hell yeah.”

Just then a horn beeped several times, and we all turned back to see a taxi pulled up to the trail’s entrance up at the street – the checkerboard pattern on the door unmistakable even through the trees.  Sylvester and Toronto quickly nodded that it was most likely someone looking to buy sex – evidently a cab driver in this case. It happens every day out here, they said dismissively, already heading toward the next campsite. It’s no big deal. The women live in the camp and they get high in the camp. They sell sex every day for as little as $5 to pay for their drug habits.

The horn beeped a few more times, but the only movement from any of the tents was a man who already had been suspiciously peering out at us the whole time. Toronto was certain the handful of women who live in the camp were already preoccupied with customers.  The horn beeped in vain twice more, and the driver finally gave up and drove away.
As the sun slipped off to the west, on we went all afternoon, from one site to another, none more than 100 feet apart from the next. It soon became evident that in a half-mile radius of the Urban Ministry Center and the Men’s Shelter, there were dozens of these sites – each a little different, but all serving the same purpose of basic shelter. We had inadvertently almost circled back to Dale and Cleo’s place, and I now realized that their camp was less like a wayward outpost on the Oregon Trail and more like just one of scores of houses clustered into a suburban neighborhood.

One camp had an entire village of buildings, complete with a walled entrance ramp, constructed entirely of shipping pallets. Others were more modest and weren’t much more than stumps surrounded by a sea of frosted beer bottles.

The Urban Ministry Center provides, among other services, a free meal every day to anyone who’s hungry. The Men’s Shelter provides men with a daily meal as well as shelter for nearly 300 homeless men every night.  Dale, Cleo, Sylvester and Toronto all quickly acknowledged that it’s no coincidence that there are so many campsites within a short walk of these uninterrupted daily sources of food.

Exposure to the elements can kill you, but starvation will kill you.
During our walk, I couldn’t help but think of Maslow’s human needs pyramid – the one we all learn about in high school. It’s that sort of prioritized list of human wants and needs. According to the pyramid, human beings’ most basic needs are food, water, clothing and sleep.  Once those are met, the next step up the pyramid, on the way toward self-actualization is a sense of security – the feeling of safety.

“Yeah, I’m scared all the time,” Toronto laughed nervously when I brought it up. “When you smoke, you’ll be thinking everyone wants to get you though.”

As if right on cue, a burly man emerged from the brush on the left side of the tracks, eyed the four of us for an uncomfortably long several minutes as we walked past, and disappeared to the other side of the tracks. Unfazed, Sylvester ambled along the track and continued talking.  I wasn’t able to comfortably turn my back and rejoin the conversation until the guy was out of sight.

“He’s right,” added Sylvester, “but most of the time, when you smoke crack, you’ll be afraid of everybody else. If you’re violent to begin with, you’ll be violent when you smoke. It ain’t the crack. A lot of people say that crack makes you violent, but that’s bullshit.”

That may be, but I had already heard a handful of heartbreaking tales of physical assault that day – more than enough to form my own opinion on the matter. A desperate addict recently approached Dale’s camp and gained his trust by feigning an injury. He attacked Dale, who is in his 50s and can’t weigh much more than 100 pounds. The second Dale turned his back to try to help the guy, he was pummeled on the head repeatedly with a scrap piece of molding. The guy badly wanted Dale’s bicycle and insisted he unlock it from a nearby tree.
Despite more relentless thrashing, Dale would not give up his bike.

Cleo served 81 days in jail recently for an altercation involving a knife and an undercover policeman.

Sylvester conceded that although his formidable size had discouraged many would-be attackers and thieves over the years, even he was no match for a group of robbers who took a baseball bat to his head in a struggle over his stash of crack cocaine. It wasn’t until some four days later, in a hospital bed, that he was finally able to even remember his name.

“A lot of these guys are Vietnam vets,” Sylvester continued, “and they’ll put traps all around their camps for protection.”

“You mean like booby traps?”

“Yep. They’ll dig out…

“Mr. Alfred has one of those things that’ll swing down out of the trees like Rambo has!” Toronto blurted out excitedly, cutting off Sylvester mid-sentence.

“The one in the movie ‘Rambo,’ with the sharpened stakes that swung down and stabbed the guy’s legs?” I asked in disbelief.

“Hell yeah.”  Toronto grinned. “Man that thing would fuck somebody up.”

“I’ve seen pits with sharpened sticks stuck in the bottom – you know, with the top covered with leaves and branches, so people fall in and get messed up,” Sylvester continued patiently, as he guided us along the railroad bridge over North Tryon Street. “When I was living out here, we’d always string up empty cans around our camp – you know, so they make noise when somebody walks up on you.”

Ultimately, all of these methods are just part of a quest for the feeling of security, and although some are a bit harsh, I can’t say I’m surprised. Security is next on the list after food and water, after all.

What is surprising is the number of people sleeping outside within sight of the two nonprofits’ facilities. Based on what I saw, I’d put their number well into the hundreds. The Men’s Shelter of Charlotte is full nearly every night, as is every other shelter in town, and yet that is still not enough housing for everyone sleeping outside. Not even close.
Sylvester seemed certain that campsite communities like this surround every facility like these that offer free food and services for the homeless across Charlotte. I’m sure this is also the case in towns and cities coast to coast.

The unseasonably warm afternoon was yielding to a seasonably cool fall evening, and our tour had come to a close. As the four of us emerged from the last stop on our trek – a giant wooded field of malt liquor bottles, so thick they covered the ground like snow – and back onto the Tryon Street sidewalk, a line of some 40 men had already formed. It was only 4 p.m., but they were already waiting for a bed at the shelter, the line growing by the minute.

They and a couple hundred more would be lucky enough to sleep indoors that night.

But an entire colony of troubled souls would instead be sleeping in the shadows.

~ Matt Kokenes

This holiday season, it’s all about being a conscious consumer. Shop at Ten Thousand Villages and you are gifting not only to your recipient, but to the global community as well. All items sold here are unique, handmade and fair trade, and the shop’s mission is to create a better livelihood for tens of thousands of artisans in 38 countries. If you purchase a gift here, you can rest assured that part of the money you spend will go toward food, education, housing and health care for these artisans who would otherwise be deprived. An added bonus: Ten Thousand Villages urges all artisans to use environmentally friendly processes and sustainable resources wherever possible.
Ten Thousand Villages, Cotswold Village Shops. 300 S. Sharon Amity Road, (704) 365-0010

For the Boys:
The Sony Bravia 3.1 Home Theater Soundbar Speaker System with Subwoofer provides an excellent solution for the uptown apartment dweller who likes it loud. You can give the gift of surround sound, without having your giftee lose his or her rental deposit to the landlord for butchering the apartment walls while hanging speakers. This sleek little Soundbar gives the same effect, minus the damage and excess equipment.
www.bestbuy.com. Best Buy, Midtown. 1055 Metropolitan Ave., (704) 333-1032. $299.99

Auto Wall Art – Turn Your Favorite Automotive Photo into a Work of Canvas Art. Snap a photo of your man’s other baby and turn it into a work of art custom-made for him to admire. Take it one step further: Get your booty in the pic and strike a sexy pose. Cars + chicks = happy hubby. No one ever said men were complicated.
www.autowallart.com/, $89-$470

Instant. Foosball. Tabletop Game. If you need more incentive than this, the hours of joy that this simple little wonder will provide are sure to last far beyond the holiday season. Wrap up a six pack of your man’s favorite beer as an added bonus.
Paper Skyscraper, Dilworth. 330 East Blvd., (704) 333-7130. $29.95

Perfect for Mom or the Woman in Your Life:
Heather Moore Framed Charm Necklaces
Custom design a necklace for your honey, with charms bearing your anniversary date or children’s names and birthdays etched in them. Stick to classic silver, make it a silver/gold two-tone, or bling it out with diamonds and sapphires – the possibilities are infinite. Order a charm for each child and craft a gorgeous necklace for Wifey, an elegant gift that won’t break the bank – unless of course you’ve got eight kids, and your baby mama is a diva. But, then again, you’d probably have your own reality show, and could use the money you withdrew from your joint account to foot the bill.
www.heathermoorejewelry.com. $35-$675 and up

Ballet Flats or SwitchFlops by Lindsay Phillips. This is one of those products that will have you repeatedly smacking yourself on the forehead for not inventing it yourself. One shoe, endless possibilities. Now you can give your spouse more prime closet real estate, or simply free up some room for even more shoes.
The Beehive, uptown. Ballet flats: $64, individual snaps: $12; SwitchFlops: $35, individual straps: $12

Spoil your sweetie with a piece of jewelry from Butterfly Jewelry & Treasures, like this bracelet – a stunning faux druze quartz in jewel and earth tones, with dark metal. All of the pieces in this boutique are hand selected and one-of-a-kind. It’s the perfect spot to find accessories that are bold, dramatic and sparkly, just like your lady love.
Butterfly Jewelry & Treasures, uptown. 2 Bank of America Plaza, 101 S. Tryon St., (704) 375-0000. $44.50

For the Kiddies:
Stumped on what to get the little one in your life? Try the “Tickle Me” plant, the potted wonder that moves when you tickle it. Guaranteed to fascinate the kiddies and, by default, is sure to provide hours of entertainment and awe for your stoner cousin. Just be sure to confiscate any matches so no one attempts to smoke this thing.
www.ticklemeplant.com/, Growing Kit, $10.99

Keep your favorite little monkey’s head warm with this adorable Crocheted Mouse Hat, found at Shanalogic.com. The super soft, thick yarn guarantees itch-free wear, and each hat has been crocheted and designed with love by indie artists.
www.shanalogic.com, $35

Experience Gifts:
Stumped on what to get the foodies in your life? Squash the boring idea of yet another cookbook, and sign them up for one of the Chef’s Choice Recreational Cooking Classes at Johnson & Wales University for a hands-on experience with the pros. Select a one-time class you know they’d enjoy, such as “Making the Perfect Pizza” or “Cajun Classics,” or simply purchase a gift certificate so they can choose a class that best suits them. You can even please the wino on your list this year: sign them up for the “Wine & Dine Cocktail Party,” where they can enjoy a multi-station sampling buffet, with gourmet treats paired with specially selected wine. They can get right down to business – no cooking required!
www.jwu.edu/chefschoice/clt “Making the Perfect Pizza,” $125; “Cajun Classics,” $140; “Wine & Dine Cocktail Party,” $135

You were so happy for your BFF when she got engaged. But when you went out that night to Suite to celebrate, you realized that she and her soon-to-be together create a monster with four left feet. It’s your duty as a friend to not let them stumble on their big day: Sign them up for dance classes at Fred Astaire Dance Studio. A “Newcomer’s Package” will get them started with three 25-minute private lessons, one 45-minute group lesson, and one one-hour practice session, all for $50. You’ll be able to breathe a sigh of relief and guiltlessly enjoy your cocktail when they share their first dance.
www.fredastairecharlotte.com; Dance Studio: 2520 N. Sharon Amity Road, (704) 536-6070. Newcomer’s Package, $50

Help your honey relax with a massage at the Wellness Center in the new Ritz-Carlton. Choose from treatments such as Reflexology, Southern Hot Stone, and the Ritz-Carlton Signature to loosen her up after the holidays. Be sure to get her there 30 minutes prior, so she can unwind in the lounge before the appointment.
The Spa at the Ritz-Carlton, uptown. 201 E. Trade St., (704) 547-2244. Massages, $35-$350

Listen up, Sugar Daddies: Want to impress your sweetie and her girls? Treat them to a night at Polished Nail Bar & Spa. They can have their nails done and sip on cocktails while they unwind from holiday shopping and gush about how cute and thoughtful you are. The geniuses at Polished offer a spa atmosphere and feature different drinks every night, which guarantees a chic and fun experience no matter what day you set the appointment. I’d personally opt for a Wednesday – because nothing goes better with a mani/pedi than some seriously good sangria. www.ipolished.com, two locations. South End: 2041-F South Blvd., (704) 954-0004. Meyers Park: 605 Providence Road, (704) 375-3488. Mani/pedi $35.

Your sister loves knitting funky scarves and handcrafting her own jewelry, and everyone she comes across is lining up for orders. But too bad her silly day job keeps her from having the time and money to start her own business. Give the creative one in your family a little push by setting her up with her own personal e-store on Etsy.com, the place to “buy and sell all things handmade.” Here she can easily create her own “storefront,” manage her shop, and network with other artists, all without the painful business startup fees. The folks at Etsy also provide you with your very own URL, eliminating the cost of building a Web site.
www.etsy.com

For the Decoratively Challenged:
What’s better than takeout sushi? Eating your takeout sushi while relaxing on sushi pillows, of course. These cozy cushions, available at Shanalogic.com, are a great gift for the sushi lover with eccentric style and a sense of humor. Choose from “Salmon Nagiri,” “Shrimp Ebi” or “California Roll” – but get them while they’re hot (or cold)! These are made by indie artists, and supplies are limited.
shanalogic.com, “Salmon Nagiri” and “California Roll” pillow, $52 each; “Shrimp Ebi” pillow, $56

Black Forest Cuckoo Clock. You may be all mod in your swanky uptown apartment, but you’re never too cool for a cuckoo clock. This sleek and classy take on an old staple will bring some charm and character to your pad.
www.momastore.org, $450

Know someone who’s stumped when it comes to decorating his space? Gift them the “Designer For a Day” two-day package from Sensibly Chic Interior Designs. A designer will spend the first day helping him assess his space and figure out what his needs are, and the second day taking him out shopping, introducing him to the best places for bargains on home décor.
www.sensiblychic.biz/OurServices.asp

For the Hostess:
The folks over at Thymes have managed to capture everything magical about the holiday season and turned it into a line of scented products called “Frasier Fir.” Between candles, diffusers, room sprays, hand soaps and even cleaning spritzes, your friend and her guests will fall in love with this aromatic and addictive scent – so convincing, no one will ever know her tree is fake.
Paper Skyscraper, Dilworth.  Prices vary based on product.

Help the hostess keep the conversation flowing at her shindigs with these “Chat Plates” from MoMA. Quirky and cute, these could also make for a fun game of “guess what I’m thinking,” especially after guests have greased themselves up on too much eggnog.
www.momastore.org, $48 for set of three

Entertaining is a dirty job, but someone’s got to do it. Introduce your host to Poo-pourri, a new spray from an Austin, Texas-based company that you leave in your bathroom for guests to spritz into the bowl before they do their…business. As the shelf-talker boasts: “You make it a rule not to invite party poopers to your shindigs. But everyone has a crappy day from time to time.”
The Beehive, uptown. 2 oz. $11.98, 4 oz. $16.98

The hilarious book “I Like You,” by Amy Sedaris, is the bible for the person who loves entertaining, sans the “uptight” feel. Take a cue from Amy on how to throw a great dinner party while keeping the mood light and messing with your guests at the same time, a la sticking marbles in your medicine cabinet to embarrass the snoop.
Park Road Books, Park Road Shopping Center. 4139 Park Road, (704) 525-9239. $15.99

Stocking Stuffers & Gag Gifts:
Wanna freak out your loved ones? Tuck one of these Plush Microbes in their stockings; the stuffed “animals” look like tiny microbes, only a million times their actual size. Choose from cutesy characters such as The Common Cold, Mad Cow Disease, and Herpes – because nothing says Happy Holidays like the gift that keeps on giving.
Paper Skyscraper, Dilworth. $7.95

Shake things up a bit this year: Stuff these Peppermint Pecker Mints in your friends’ stockings in place of a boring old candy cane. Why, you ask? Well, why not?
Paper Skyscraper, Dilworth. $6.95

For the Drinker:
Uncle Freddie hates anything that comes close to diluting his drink. Even though he likes it cold, he doesn’t need pesky things like ice cubes sucking up his precious whiskey. Offer him a solution with Whiskey Stones, soapstone cubes that stay cold for hours without diluting. Just pop them into the freezer for a few hours before use, in between the hard liquor and TV dinners.
Paper Skyscraper, Dilworth. $19.95

~ Ali Salvatore

I’ve been given a backstage pass so I can view the debut of the Knight Theater close up. Visions from old movies and plays flash by in my mind’s eye – of hysterical actors, hyperactive stagehands, demanding divas, drunken roadies, sandbags falling from the ceiling, collapsing pieces of equipment – in other words, total chaos.

Nothing could be further from reality. The best word to describe the scene backstage is professional.  Yes, it’s the first show at the Knight, and everyone expects there will be glitches to be worked out. In fact, Tom Gabbard, head of the North Carolina Blumenthal Performing Arts Center that operates the Knight, tells the crowd in his opening remarks that the event is “a shakedown cruise.”

Yet the atmosphere backstage is quiet and relaxed, and everyone moves with a calm purposefulness.  There is only one unexpected event – Martin shows up with his blond Labrador, even though pets are not allowed at the Knight.  But he is the star, after all, and the animal is allowed in – but must stay in Martin’s private room. (His wife takes the dog for a walk at The Green across the street.)

An hour or so before the show, Martin and the band are ensconced in their rooms. You can hear him plucking his banjo, and the band members laughing and warming up in their adjacent room.

Martin comes out into the hallway once – in a tie, but jacketless — to talk to humorist Dave Barry, who will interview him on-stage as a warm-up act. If you didn’t recognize them, they look like any well-dressed Charlotte executives discussing business or the Panthers.

A roadie comes in with a delivery for the band. He turns to us and says, “How can it be this humid in October?”  Being well-behaved Charlotteans, no one overtly rolls his eyes as a New Yorker might do when approached by some rube visiting the city. Instead, someone shrugs and says, “It’s Charlotte.”

One reason for the peacefulness is that event production has gone digital and wireless. LED lighting is used almost exclusively, so there aren’t many light bulbs to change, and they produce very little heat. So there’s far less danger of a bulb touching a curtain or a cable and starting a fire.

The technical aspects of lighting and sound are too complicated to be understood by mere mortals. It’s impressive enough to know that every last detail and aspect is controlled by guys – and they are mostly men — sitting at control boards.  So instead of hordes of people running around backstage to check things out, you’ve got a couple. Everyone communicates via walkie-talkies and other hand-held devices.

Not that the staff members didn’t work their butts off preparing for the concert. The theater was turned over to them October 1, just nine days before the show, and they went through the entire facility with a fine-tooth comb, creating a punch list much the way a new homeowner does.

The software that runs the sound system was in a default mode so the user would only have had a few standard buttons to push. The Knight’s needs are far more sophisticated and complex, so computer geeks spent days rewriting the programs. The backstage area was so poorly lit no one could see anything. So a row of florescent lights was quickly installed.

Being that North Carolina is one of the least unionized states in the country, I am surprised to learn that the Knight – like the Belk – is a union shop. Backstage staffing is provided through the International Alliance of Theatrical Stage Employees.  North Carolina is a right-to-work state, so workers don’t have to be union members, but they must go through it to get hired. There is a core of about 100 union members and 100 non-union members.

The Martin banjo concert is a good show to get the kinks out.  It’s just six guys with microphones, no sets or scene changes. Much of the back-of-the-house features aren’t utilized: Big loading docks. A rehearsal room where dancers and singers warm up or go over a number one last time.  A break room where performers grab a bite to eat. A full laundry, complete with ironing boards and irons.  Lots of dressing rooms.

Although the Belk is almost 20 years old and lacks the technological wizardry of the Knight, its backstage capacity is larger, meaning it will continue to get the big Broadway spectacles while the Knight will host dance and musical concerts and simple plays. The Belk has a larger audience capacity, too – 2,097 seats compared with the Knight’s 1,200.

When the concert begins, I’m given a seat on stage right. The band members enter and exit on the other side, so I don’t get to see or hear them offstage. I can’t see the audience either, so I feel like I’m watching something I’m not supposed to see, like catching Santa on Christmas Eve.

Halfway through the show, I’m escorted to my seat about 10 rows up, just left of center. Even at this distance – and with my lousy vision – I enjoy a real sense of intimacy with the band. Yet for all the technical prowess and design excellence, I wonder whether the experience wouldn’t be even better if they were playing in a gymnasium or outdoors so instead of just tapping their feet, people could spontaneously leap up and dance. Actually, I bet that in halls in other cities, people do get up and start gyrating and prancing around. But this is Charlotte. Everyone stays in their seats until the inevitable – but in this case, heartfelt – standing O.  In fact, there are two of them.

From this initial experience, I can say I love the Knight and look forward to returning. But the way it is situated within the Wells Fargo Cultural Campus gives me pause and concerns me. Granted, construction is still going on at the new Mint Museum beside it (and will continue for about another year). First Street has yet to be opened to traffic. But the hall is tucked away from South Tryon Street and is nestled between the larger and much more imposing Mint and Bechtler museums.

I fear that the Knight, lacking a strong street presence and being overshadowed by the museums, will get lost. For me, the hall itself is an integral part of the performance experience. For the hall to be truly effective, you need a sense of drama, a bit of awe, which tells you that you have arrived at someplace special and that something remarkable is going to happen there.

Steve Martin and the Steep Canyon Rangers provided an awesome christening for the Knight, baptizing the building with the beauty, joy and delight their high-energy, foot-stomping music created. The people inside felt it and will tell others.  I just wish the exterior of the building was as exciting and as beckoning.

~Bea Quirk

Through several types of “readings,” Rick Kim says he can help you find your soul mate, or help you improve your current relationship. I set up my appointment for a Sunday, which turns out to be a perfect day for a reading in the park – gorgeous, crisp, not a cloud in the sky. He typically meets with clients at a quiet place of their choosing. I don a pair of ripped jeans, a tank top, and my best poker face, and I am out the door. On the walk over, my mind chases the leaves on the sidewalk, swirling with thoughts of what to expect. Should I hide my ring and lie? Tell him I keep dating the wrong men, and can’t seem to find Mr. Right – see what he suggests? What if he is a total kook? What if he thinks I’m a total kook for wanting four different readings?

Born and raised in South Korea, Rick’s fascination with and keen observation of people and nature as a child led him to study Eastern and Western philosophy and divination. He is educated in palm reading, tarot card reading, astrology reading and face reading, to name a few. Yes, face reading. He uses any or all of these practices, combined with his intuition, to “read people’s energies” and offer guidance and advice, and his main focus is love and relationships. He charges $50 to do all four of the readings I’m requesting, but he also does single readings at a lower rate. I find some comfort in the fact that he also possesses a Ph.D. in biotechnology, and he currently researches at UNCC. But I’ve also made sure we’re meeting during the day in a public place, and that I’ve notified my husband, mother, sister and every online network I’m a part of where I’ll be for the afternoon.

My eyes scan every character in the park until I finally zero in on him – sitting on a bench, wearing a matching linen outfit and a big, harmless smile. I release my key from where it was sticking out between my two knuckles and relax my fist from striking position. I give a wave, and two deep breaths later I join him on the park bench, right next to the foldout table draped in cloth with his stack of tarot cards on it.

Before we begin with any readings I bombard him with questions, which he patiently answers. For starters, will he be able to offer me a good analysis, considering I’ve already found my Mr. Wonderful? Absolutely, he says. How does he offer guidance through the readings? He explains that his readings are not solely based on telling your future. Instead, his readings help you discover and understand your personality more, and also help you to home in on what characteristics you should look for in a potential partner. If you are already matched up, he will help you better your relationship by analyzing the hell out of it through his extensive astrological knowledge, making you understand why it is not your hubby’s fault that he will never pick up his dirty socks off the floor – it is because of the astrological elements he is born under, of course – so you can accept it, figure out an effective way to deal with it, and move on. My last question before we begin: What’s up with the face reading? I had palm readings on the boardwalk when I was 14. I’m guilty of checking my horoscope here and there, and my sister reads tarot cards, which, when paired with five bottles of wine and some friends, makes for a fun night in. But I’ve never heard of face reading before, and suddenly I am very aware that he’s probably started reading mine already. You can hide your hands for a palm reading, pull the religion card to duck out of a tarot card reading, and lie about your birthday for astrology. But unless it’s a Halloween date and you’re wearing a mask, there is no escaping someone scrutinizing your mug. Since I’m so intrigued, he gives me a preview: He points to the area on my forehead between my two eyebrows. “This area, in Eastern philosophy, is called the Palace of Destiny. The general rule is that, if this area is bright, and has a glow…it means that person is very good, and something very good is coming to them. If this area is very dark and dull, that means that something bad is happening or is coming to them.”

Hmm. Since we’re spending so much time staring at my forehead, did I wax my unibrow? Check. Also, how could this information be gathered from a small patch of skin on my face? I press Rick for more. He explains, “In Far Eastern medicine, a part of your body can represent the whole body. This is the principle behind holistic medicinal practices, such as hand acupuncture.” This vaguely makes sense. I could understand how maybe it can be helpful in terms of health. But to reveal someone’s character and, essentially, her future?

He explains how face reading was used by kings and generals several centuries ago. They believed that this would be a quick and effective way to assess the people they were hiring. I can’t help but think about another long-ago theory that once came about in order to explain a situation. But alas, we discovered that the Earth was in fact round. I am still skeptical, but I am curious. More on this later.

Rick begins to read my palm. A few bums pass us, offering up a curious look, and for a second I am conscious of being judged, but it passes. The palm reading is more of a “past, present, future” type reading. The lines in the palm, like the lines in the face, constantly change, so it’s important to pay attention to them. By following the lines in my hand, he begins to fill me in on things such as significant relationships in my life, my emotional makeup, and at which point in my life I will be most successful in my career. It’s all reassuring, and it’s all peachy. But I feel like something is lacking, and I am wishing it would be more specific. I am glad we have three more readings.

We dive into astrology. Rick draws six vertical lines, in tally form, on a piece of paper. The lines represent your compatibility with your partner, based on your birthdays and astrological influences. Only one line means that your compatibility, well, sucks. Two lines, meh. It continues in this fashion all the way up to six lines, which means you have the ideal relationship with the highest level of compatibility – you and your partner are two perfectly balanced beings based on the stars.

Rick glances over his charts and begins to determine where on this scale my relationship with my husband falls. The notion of the alignment of the stars on the exact day of your birth may be somewhat influential to your character – at least I believe, to an extent. But I don’t find it easy to toss other factors out the window. What about genetics? Life experience? Nature and nurture? You can’t possibly convince me that a line on a piece of paper could throw all of this away, ignoring all other influences. I just can’t buy it, and I decide it doesn’t matter what my and my husband’s score is. “You and your husband’s compatibility sits right here.” He circles the fourth line. FOUR? Why did we only get a friggin four?

He lays out the tarot cards, and I quickly become intrigued with Rick’s reading, which is a thorough analysis of my life in general, followed by answers to specific questions I have. Suddenly a woman in her 50s or 60s struts by. She gives me a condescending glance, and slightly shakes her head. Does she think I’m “that person”? You know who I mean. That friend you have, the normally sane one, who went through that period when she was relying on psychics and tarot readers to navigate through life, and suddenly couldn’t form full sentences or decide what to eat for dinner without consulting one first? She couldn’t go out anymore because she had regular phone dates with Ms. Cleo, all the while wondering why she wasn’t meeting that “someone special.”

Finally, we come back to the face reading. According to Rick, there are a few tell-tale characteristics that we can look at when analyzing a potential mate. For example: A high forehead almost always implies social and career success (Rick challenges me to notice the foreheads of ministers, generals, professors, etc.); a mole on or around a man’s nose usually means he is very good with his money; and “players” (men and women) tend to have a mole under the eye or in the “crow’s feet” region. Speaking of crow’s feet, an interesting tidbit from Rick: “Many of us have crow’s feet and that is fine. But if you notice in your partner that one of the lines is starting to extend outward, into the temple area, this is usually a sign that this person is being unfaithful.” Gasp! You could take it or leave it, but I’m sure you will be asking your partner to “smile” more often while analyzing the hell out of his face. And don’t blame me when you start inspecting your friends and co-workers, because whether you believe it or not, it can be very addicting, and could make for a fun game at the office.

When the readings were over, I realized that Rick and I had spent 2 1/2 hours in the park on a reading that should’ve only lasted an hour. He thoughtfully answered all of my questions and took as much time as needed to go through the readings. Even though I may not necessarily believe everything the readings reveal, he is a great listener and is very insightful. It suddenly hits me that this may be why it is so easy for some people to seek out readings: maybe it is because the person performing them has these traits? I think of all the times I have found it easy, as many of us have, to spill my guts to a complete stranger with an open ear, while when a close friend politely asks me how things are going, I reply with a muted, “Great!” Suddenly readings strike me as a form of therapy, without the condescending couch and cozy office, and without the fear of being judged by a shrink or a friend or a colleague. In fact, readers want to take the time to help you, and steer you in the right direction – which, sadly, between work, love lives and social lives, can sometimes be more than what our friends or family members can offer.

Having your cards read offers something else we may be craving, and that is the element of mystery. We live in a culture where we’re taught to search for the facts. Answers to any question can be found instantly by anyone with a finger and a phone. We tend to focus so much on what can be proved that we become oblivious to what we cannot prove, relying less and less on gut and intuition. We are stretched, and our time is spent, on all levels emotionally and financially. Some people spend their entire lives stuck in dysfunctional friendships and romantic relationships, repeating the same story over and over and not knowing what to change. A reading may offer you some much needed clarity, or just provide pure entertainment on a Sunday afternoon. However…the next time you are out on a date, instead of checking out boobs, butts and biceps, pay more attention to foreheads, noses and moles. You may thank Rick later on.

To contact Rick for an appointment: www.spiritualloveadvice.com

~ Ali Salvatore

When I arrive I find her standing in the same shape that I left her, only empty now. She’s all cleared out and quietly waiting. First things first: I start the coffee before walking back to light the kitchen. The hood sings a squeal like an old man when I hit the switch as if he were ill and that I woke him. I say, “I’m sorry,” because I know just how he feels.  The pilot lights are lit and the hiss of gas becomes a flame. Down the line I turn the knobs and bring the kitchen to life again. I shuffle back out to the coffee pot with a cup and with sugar from the bin; I fill it up, then pour cream in and watch the spirals until they blend. Outside the city is showing signs of life; the headlights and traffic lights bicker back and forth like fireflies while commuters sigh behind the wheel. I step outside to steal one more smoke and, with a note, join the chorus. A verse from a hip-hop song pours into my head and I grin, reciting the lyrics as the beat drops in: “I spark up the caffeine and nicotine binge and that’s pretty much the pattern of how the day begins.”
Each day begins this way, this tempo – tranquillo. Like a track though, it’s coming – the transition to rapidity. This is my rendition. This is my symphony.

Back inside. My hands are washed, my apron tied and my knife is upon the board. I walk into the cooler and check the rack; I’m two soups short. I finger the produce, wondering what will induce my fancy. What meats talk to me about the soups they could be? To cream or not to cream. Butter – yes, almost always start with butter – nothing smells better melting. I help the onions in and listen as they begin to sweat, then celery and leeks, then garlic. This is my minuet.

Before the morning crew arrives, as the sun begins to break the sky, with the radio tuned to classical, most days there stand I, over a stockpot or two, and a saucepot or a few, wooden spoon in hand, a happy man, conducting soup as usual. There I find my peace, my minuet, in this, my symphony.

The bedraggled boys of the morning crew have found their way to work. Their stations are set for the lunchtime fight, their knees now deep in the prep for tonight. It’ll be noon soon and the crowd will come all at once. The lawyers and the businessmen, the women and their lunch break friends, the out-of-towners and the regulars – their hunger upon our hands. I stand ready for testing – the first round of service, the sudden pop, the rush, then emptiness – the quickness of a summer storm. Torn between calm and calamity, lunch dies as quick as it’s born. Andante now for the finishing, the diminishing list of prep. The cleanup and the curtain call, the clocking out, “until tomorrow y’all,” and like that – Act One is done. I’m the only one left, remembering that Act Two is still to come.  I look to my shadow for sympathy. This is my symphony.

Intermezzo: the slow midday hours, somewhere between 2 and 4; placing orders, checking reservations, having meetings, making sure we’re set for the week. To be honest, I’d rather be in the back, on the floor, by the ice machine, taking a much-needed nap. I settle instead for a cigarette, out back where the alley cats meet, the galley for the industry, the stoops on the back streets where cooks meet and discuss the meaning of life. Who did what to whose wife? By balls do you mean these? And what in the fuck happened to what’s his face? He never showed up last week. I would say that I don’t mean to be so crude, but I do, I do indeed. That doesn’t mean that I mean what I say; I just say what I say when I feel the need. My mother would be ashamed of me but this is my symphony.

The night crew enters a well-tuned kitchen, discussing the night before. They are the owls of the industry, the ones who work till 2, stay up until 4, and sleep away the morning. They are war-torn combatants, proud of their scars, ready for the revelry, with hardened hands and sturdy hearts. My line cooks play their part – a full-speed start, the race for mise en place, the prepping of their line, the back and forth banter of the frantic order, all the while preparing themselves for dinner time. We all know what’s coming because we’ve already been here, but, underneath the confidence lies the undertone of fear: fear of the unknown. No matter how many times we’ve played this song, we play it differently every time. The rhythm of the rush will change the lyrics with which we rhyme. It goes:

One for the customer and two for the food they fancy; three for the way the server rings it, and four when the cooks start dancing; five for the freedom, six for the stress, and seven for the madness when we all fall into step.

Allegro: As the expeditor I’m yelling, “Fire!” Plates come flying from all directions; section five has food that’s sitting. Where’s my runner? What cover’s missing? Six soups all day, I need a Caesar, I’m down two Ahi – on the fly! Why in the hell is this sauce separating? Take it back and do it right. Bump table 12 – their steaks are resting. I need those sides to make it sell. Hey, tell the bar I need well whisky and change the Blue Points to Chesapeakes.
This cacophony carries on for several hours with tiny lulls. In the midst of the poetic madness I’m aware that I love it all – the successes and the failures, the good, the bad, the ugly, the smooth and the oh-so rough. I may earn pennies for my passion but the pennies are enough. This is my finale, my rush, my symphony.
The rush dwindles and the tickets trickle; the sigh of relief is mutual. As usual, the banter thickens now that it’s been given time to breathe. The camaraderie of accomplishment echoes down hallways and soaks the walls. The chaos is on our aprons but off our hands as the rush withdraws. There will be no encore until tomorrow. The time to clean is coming on soon – we erase the evidence of our battle and tomorrow start anew. The curtain call is never all that it’s cracked up to be. I’ll get some sleep and a bite to eat before I repeat this memory. From the top, I’ll play it again.
This is my symphony.

~ John Zoet

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