T O U R I S T T R A P
by Mark R. Jones
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Thomas Rhett Jackson, a ninth generation Charleston S-O-B, finally snapped on the second day of
March. So much for his New Year’s resolution. Jackson had resolved to be more tolerant of tourists this
year and, in particular, tour guides who think they knew more about Charleston history then he did.
Jackson was one of Charleston’s most revered authors and historians. Nine books published in fifteen
years. Sure, Pat Conroy and Dorothea Benton Frank hit the bestseller lists with their books and were
invited on network TV shows, but when someone from a local news talk program, or a cable access show
wanted an expert on some aspect of Charleston history - they called Jackson. When local talk radio hosts
needed a Charleston expert - they called Jackson. When local newspapers and magazines needed a
Charleston historian - they called Jackson. True, Jackson was related to the most popular local radio
host, and was a member of a Confederate re-enacting group with the second most popular radio host. It
also didn’t hurt that the owner of the local paper was Jackson’s roommate at The Citadel, and the editor
was his god son. But even if none of that were true, Jackson was sure he would still be a popular, revered
and sought-after figure.
Jackson had never had a job. His business card called him “Author & Historian.” After graduating next-
to-last in his class from The Citadel in 1963, he joined the Army, but so severely broke his leg and hip
during basic training that he was given a medical discharge. During his convalescence he wrote his first
book, Rebel Rousers: Charleston and the Heart of the Confederacy. After being rejected by fourteen
regional publishers, Jackson tapped into his family trust fund and opened his own publishing firm – The
Doric Press. He never again had a problem getting his books published.
It galled him that carriage drivers/tour guides would take offense whenever he chastised them for
imparting bad history. They should take it as constructive criticism. Hell, half the tour guides in town were
from O-fucking-hio. What did they know about Charleston? Just because you could learn the facts didn’t
mean you knew history.
However, clueless tour guides was not the worse offense. Jackson was always astounded when the
carriage driver/tour guide would challenge him and say: “If you know so much about Charleston, why don’
t YOU give tours?”
How do you answer someone that dense? Like a REAL Charlestonian want to give tours to tourists?
When he snapped Jackson was walking home after lunch at the Broad Street Café. He was wearing his
Monday seersucker suit (yes, he had one for each day of the week) and white boater set jauntily on top of
his head. Truth be told, it may have been a bit early in the season to wear the seersucker and boater, but
it was a warm sunny day, and Jackson had always enjoyed being a little bit of a rebel. After all, one of his
ancestors had signed the Declaration of Independence and three had signed the Ordinance of Secession,
removing South Carolina from the United States. Rebellion ran in his blood. He enjoyed cultivating a
reputation of being unpredictable.
Most of the tourists wandering around were wearing gaudy attire - raggy shorts, slovenly T-shirts and flip-
flops. People had simply lost the skill of dressing properly and it annoyed him immensely. But he let it go.
He was in a good mood. He tapped his walking cane jubilantly on the slate sidewalk. His new book was
going to be released next week - Uniforms of the Confederacy. He had a round of book signings
scheduled over the next few weeks. He was profoundly looking forward to it.
Strolling down Church Street Jackson noticed the horse-drawn carriage parked on the street, crammed
with overfed tourists and vacant-looking kids. He noticed a few of them staring as he approached.
Probably the first time they had seen someone properly dressed for an afternoon outing. As he passed he
glanced at the driver - she was a bland, rail-thin woman with multi-colored hair. Where did these odd
people come from? Jackson wondered.
“Mommy,” one of the kids on the carriage pointed at Jackson. “Can I have some ice cream?”
The guide laughed. “He’s not the ice cream man. He’s wearing a seer sucker suit. It’s part of the old
school Charleston uniform.”
Jackson forced himself to continue walking, keeping eyes straight forward, just like he had learned years
ago as a cadet during drill. Eyes front! Chin up!
“And this is Catfish Row,” Jackson heard the tour guide say.
Jackson snapped.
It was a small inaccuracy. The building had been originally called Cabbage Row due to the blacks who
sold produce from the windows of the building in the early 1900s. It was never called “Catfish Row” until
after Heyward’s novel, Porgy became popular.
Jackson whirled on his heel, a perfect military turn, and approached the carriage. “It’s not Catfish Row, it’
s Cabbage Row, you stupid freak.” And before he realized what he was doing, he swung his cane at the
tour guide standing up on the carriage. The cane smacked the woman on her leg. In one smoothly adept
motion she yanked a buggy whip from the roof of the carriage and before Jackson could react, she was
whipping him around his face and neck. Jackson waved his arms in futile protection.
“You stupid bitch! Who do you think you are?” he screamed. Arms raised, he backed away, tripped over
a granite carriage stone on the sidewalk and as he fell, he felt something crack in his back. Pain slammed
through his body.
A woman on the carriage hopped off. “Are you hurt?” she asked, kneeling over him. Even through the
pain and agony, Jackson recognized the nasal tones of New York – Brooklyn. “I’m a doctor,” she said.
Jackson passed out.
Tourists are being murdered in America's Most Historic City. The first victim is a controversial playwrite and actress named Madam
Gag-ahh. An organization called the Southern Coalition of the United Minority (SCUM) claims credit. A second victim is discovered
lying on the grave of John C. Calhoun, wearing a Civil War Union uniform with the name "Sherman." SCUM claims credit.
Two more victims are killed and their bodies are discovered tacked up to a horse-drawn carriage. A national animal rights
organization claims credit for these murders, as a protest for the treatment of the "horses in bondage!" The next day, a fringe civil
rights organization claims credit for all of the murders - to protest "Charleston's role as the largest slave port in American history."