Turtle Shell Game

Even though I have never met Calhoun, the now deceased turtle of the South Carolina Aquarium, I was quite saddened by his untimely death, and if you will excuse the brief digression, is a time death, whatever that means, something preferable? But, returning to the late Calhoun, it just seems to be me that the aquarium staff should feel at least a little guilty for dragging the poor creature from San Diego, where he had, no doubt, been enjoying a leisurely California lifestyle, to a range new environment here in Charleston, where he could star in the reptilian version of “The Truman Show,” and where he would, for still unknown reasons, meet his demise.

So it was with these swirling feelings of melancholy, guilt-by-association, and burgeoning suspicion that I recently visited the South Carolina Aquarium, having clandestinely obtained an invitation to last month’s gala pre-opening celebration and claiming a fictitious identity, renowned socialite, eleven-time “High Style” honoree, noted tourist-basher, and mover-and-shaker (which, in my age group, means having chronic diarrhea as well as the D.T.s) Ravenel Prioleau Coming Gibbs Huger Rutledge Lucas Ashley-Phosphate Pringle III. After dancing to the Lester Lanin Orchestra with various simultaneously cellulite-challenged and collagen-saturated old bags, I used the diversionary tactic of initiating a roaring argument by starting a rumor that, behind the scenes, Mayor Riley and Senator Arthur Ravenel were campaigning for the names of Puff Daddy and Jubilation T. Corpone, respectively, for the belated Calhoun’s replacement, I snuck off to do some on-site investigating.

And it is with a revulsion that I haven’t experienced since viewing the Janet Reno, Oprah Winfrey, Rosie O’Donnell Thong-a-rama video that I relate to you my grisly and outrageous findings. Having already seen the most accessible parts of the facility, I was looking for that certain closted something that might make Mike Wallace salivate, Tom Green regurgitate, or, perhaps even make Pee Wee Herman….well, never mind.

And just like in the movies, I found what I was looking for behind a door marked: “Danger. Keep Out.” First, the aroma hit me, and then it was like I had accidentally walked into the kitchen of a large hotel. Something smelled really great, but I couldn’t identify it, then my eyes fell on what appeared to be another enormous tank, but the water in it, instead of being clear, was a dark brown, and I also saw long rows of shelving laden with boxes stacked almost to the ceiling. Approaching the shelves, I had mixed feelings of excitement and anxiety, not unlike Geraldo’s, as he sized up Al Capone’s safe, and as I got closer, the writing on the boxes started to become legible. I stopped in horror, as the words suddenly burst into focus:

Charleston Turtle Soup.
Guaranteed to make you come out of your shell.

I reached into one of the boxes, pulled out a can of the soup, and read the label:
Try one of man other Charleston Turtle Soup Co. delicacies:

-Turtle nuggets
-Turtle-on-a-stick
-Flipper Flambe
-Turtle-in-a-basket
-Turtle Tapas
-Turtle Dove Bars
-Turtle Crepes de Highway
-Soft-shell turtle

As well as some of our other fine turtle products:

-Turtle wax
-Original turtle neck sweaters
-They’re simply turtleriffic!
-Made by the Charleston Turtle Soup Co.

My God, I thought to myself, this is much worse thatn I ever could have imagined. Suddenly, I felt ill, clammy (no pun intended), sick to my stomach, sort of like seeing the Kathy Lee/Frank Gifford interview again. I started running back towards the ball room, half staggering, and wild-eyed. Bursting into the room, I skidded, Kramer-like, all the way up to the bandstand, realizing, at once, that the band had suddenly stopped playing and everyone, including the band, was starting at me, in a manner akin to the gathering in “Rosemary’s Baby,” only instead of Satan presiding, there was Mayor Riley sitting—or rather engulfed in—a large throne, wearing a chef’s hat that read, “Grand Soup Master.”

Mayor Riley: “Welcome back, Bob, we’ve been waiting for you. If you’re wondering how I knew who you were, well let’s just say that after all the cute little jokes you’ve written about my somewhat vertically challenged stature over the years in that decadent publication you work for. I’ve made it a point to know a lot about you Bobby old boy.”

Me (mustering up the nerve): “That will be the least of your troubles, my friend, after I divulge your dastardly secret.”

Mayor Riley: “Ooooh, you’re really scaring me, Bob. You go ahead and write whatever you want. Do you really think anybody takes anything you write seriously? In fact, here, I’ll even give you the scoop: I started the Charleston Turtle Soup Company to defray the cost overrun of the aquarium, not to mention coming up with the much needed extra bucks for the new Cooper River Bridge, or perhaps now, the Joseph P. Riley, Jr. Memorial Bridge, a big old bridge named for a tiny little man. Kind of ironic, huh, Bob? Why don’t you write something really amusing about that?

“And as for Calhoun, it was a terrible accident. He just got put in the wrong (“the ingredients”) tank, that’s all. None of us liked it, but we must move on.

“Now, get out of here and go write your goofy little article, you jerk of a joke of a journalist.”

And so, dear readers, that is my story. Whom will you believe? People who would yank a poor, contented old turtle out of his home, stick in an alien (not Elian, though there may be some similarities) environment, and slap a new name on him; and not a name that any rational thinking turtle would even wan, for that matter—Calhoun. Was he named for the street with the chronic drainage problems? John C., the fiery, craggy-faced, deceased native son who became vice president? The deceased native son, C movie actor, Rory? Or Algonquin J., the deceased and now politically incorrect actor on the old “Amos and Andy” TV show?

Or will you believe me, an assiduous scribe of unimpeachable integrity, who would rather chug-a-lug a hemlock boilermaker than stoop to journalistic hyperbole?

The choice is yours.