Monday, August 11

In early August I was sent on a mission by my parents. The “baby” of the family, Denise, hadn’t been heard from in over six months. The last my mother had heard anything was a postcard from Moab, Utah stating that she was “okay,” which was her usual message. At thirty, laid off from a Burlington software company the year before and now a long term guest in my parents Southern Vermont home, I was the family pick to investigate the veracity of her claim. My job was to find Denise and talk some sense into her about keeping in better touch. Not that it would help as she had a history, since dropping out of high school ten years ago, of wandering the continent with only the rarest of contact with our parents.

My plane had landed in Salt Lake on Friday, August 8. I spent the weekend in the dry heat of Moab talking to a few people but, wherever Denise was, she was too many steps ahead of me to create any sense of urgency. To top it all off, in the past few days I had become like the men from specials ops in Copola’s Apocalypse Now who are sent up river to kill Captain Kurtz but end up being converted to his vision. I had found wandering and irresponsibility as addictive as maybe Denise did. Thus, very early on Monday, I was standing on the northbound side of Highway 128 just outside of Moab, backpack at my feet deciding that, for the next few weeks, maybe even longer, I would live true to the meaning of the word “serendipity.” Hitchhiking through life, both physically and spiritually, would be my credo. I owed myself that much after years of keeping my nose to the grindstone with nothing but monthly unemployment benefits (which were due to run out) and an ever-growing bald spot to show for it.

As I was pep talking myself into a reaffirmation of this epiphany, a massive, silver-grey recreation vehicle slowed, down shifted and drifted to a stop. A middle-aged woman slid the passenger window open, flipped out her farmer’s tanned arm and beckoned. She had a round, pudgy face, short grey hair with straight edge bangs probably home cut using a Flo-Bee from years gone by. Her dark yellow tee shirt had a faded teddy bear motif going for it. She looked ten years younger than the driver and, from what I could see, at least one hundred and fifty pounds behind him on the weight chart but catching up fast. When I hesitated, I was told, with a hint of alarm, that there was severe weather headed this way according to The Weather Channel’s Doppler radar and, in less than an hour, I’d regret being in the open. Rather than play my usual stubborn fool, I climbed on board.

A full-bearded Karl Kreeger overwhelmed the captain’s chair as he piloted his Airstream Land Yacht G33 RV. The XXL badly wrinkled polo shirt and bib railroad overalls barely contained his three hundred pound bulk. His wire-rimmed glasses were too small for his face and looked as if they were screwed into his eye sockets. Even with the AC cranked up full bore, he was the type of man whose slightest exertion put an oily sheen on his face and created damp pockets of sweat which seeped from under his armpits. His Santa Claus face belied a take-charge demeanor. There was no doubt this was his show. From the flight deck he explained that the family trek had begun in Bakersfield, California, followed Route 15 north and east until it crossed Interstate 70 north of Cedar City, Utah. He then divulged the engineering secrets behind the instrument panel on the dash. Uniden Bearcat scanners, a GPS system and other electronic gadgets I never knew existed brought Karl’s RV dream home further into the ultra techno-world.

Having exhausted all the show and tell from the driver’s perspective, he barked, and Adele Kreeger (aka The Little Woman) was summarily ordered behind the wheel, something she clearly did not enjoy doing. After changing drivers, we stuttered stepped (courtesy of Adele’s inexperience) down the highway while Karl gave me the grand tour. Their daughter, Wanda Anne, was in the master bedroom, a thin, mildly pretty, sullen, fifteen-year old who was clearly embarrassed by this whole trip, my intrusion into it, and her officious father as he insisted I bounce on the queen-sized mattress she was occupying to the dismay of the Brittany Spears video she was engrossed in.

“Just like home, right?”

“Comfortable.”

As I nodded my review of each item in the bedroom, Wanda (called Wacky because her initials were WAK) got up, grabbed her Walkman, hiked up her halter top, adjusted the wedgie of what might have been part of a youth soccer uniform of a few years ago and stomped out, headphones leaking the strident cacophony of a heavy metal band.

Karl ushered me into the bathroom area where the mysteries of grey, black and clear water were explained. Back in the galley amidships, we intruded upon Wacky’s personal space once again as she was trying to toast a Pop Tart. The tour mercifully ended at the pullout couch just behind the driver’s panel. In between, tucked into every nook and cranny were secret storage compartments, a pack rat’s paradise if ever there was one.

“Any questions?”

It was cool inside and, true to the forecaster’s prediction, it had begun to pour. The velour couch was the first soft furniture I had sat on since I’d left home. Despite the acrid, over-toasted, Pop Tart smell the RV was a comfortable place to be. But I evidently had to sing for my supper.

“Mileage?”

“It’s funny; that’s the first thing everybody asks. Let’s just say that what we save on motels and restaurants more than makes up for the seven to eight miles to the gallon I get. I try to top off every two hundred miles. What’d you think this baby costs?”

“I really have no idea.” Wacky strode by us, dunking the Pop Tart into a plastic tumbler of Coke as she went up front to sulk next to her mother.

“You own a home?”

“Actually, no. I rented a condo for awhile when I was working in Burlington, but my parents have an old farmhouse in Southern Vermont.”

“What’s it worth, they tell you?”

“It’s not near anything. They have quite a bit of land. I think they could get three hundred thousand for it if they were willing to wait.”

“This rig is twice that.” He was triumphant. “You see those handles behind you. That’s the slide-out feature, extends the space two feet either side when we’re in camp. Combine that with the screened-in patio feature, and you really increase your living area.”

“Karl!” There was a note of distress in Adele’s voice. “We’re not too far from Grand Junction, the window is fogging over and traffic’s heating up.”

“Be right up, BB.” He grunted as he rose, turning to me in a stage whisper. “Hates to drive this thing. BB’s her nickname. It’s short for Butterball which is some kind of turkey brand. After Wacky was born, she began putting on the weight.” With that, he waddled his way up to command central. Talk about the pot calling the kettle black!

Monday Afternoon, August 11

I settled back on the couch to rest my eyes for a while. Wacky slouched back from the front and scooched into the large swivel recliner. She was watching me the way a dog monitors a stranger in its territory. If I made a quick movement, she would have gone for my throat. Despite her scrutiny, the gentle hum and roll of the road put me under in a matter of minutes. When I came to it was late afternoon, and Adele had replaced Wacky in the recliner. She was working on needlepoint with a cat theme. “You were really out of it. We rattled around making lunch. Wacky and I watched our soaps and Karl even blasted the horn at some bikers. You never budged. Hungry?”

“I’ll wait for supper. I’ve put you out enough.”

The weather seemed to have cleared a bit. Adele had changed into a blue and yellow floral sundress and smelled of a recent shower. Wacky leaned against the doorway still sporting her high decibel Radio Shack tiara. Karl was up front absorbed in his driving and had found a local a radio station.

“They are talking real Indian up here. Ever think you’d hear a Navajo DJ? They play some sacred chants and then do Merle Haggard. God, what a country. If they spin Dolly Parton next I’ll shit a brick, I truly will. Anybody know what ‘Grand Tetons’ means in American.”

Adele blushed. “You have to forgive him. Sometimes he gets a bit raunchy. He loves America though. Retired military. He’s always saying that he spent twenty years fighting for this land so now he’ll take twenty to appreciate it.”

“Do you do this every summer?”

“From Memorial Day to Labor Day for the last six years. We usually end up in Indiana for the big RV fest they have every year at Notre Dame University, but we have plenty of stops on the way. I hope you weren’t going to Grand Forks because he’s headed south to Cortez and the Four Corners. After that we’ll settle down in Durango for a bit. Karl’s a railroad buff, and they’ve got a train there he’s yet to ride”

“I don’t mind the detour, but I’d like to treat your family to a nice meal somewhere. I don’t carry cash so it will have to be a place that takes one of my many credit cards.” At this offer Wacky perked up and interrupted her gum snapping. Maybe she was tired of microwaved entrees or just bored at being cooped up in the half a million, vinyl and aluminum mobile hotel. She plunged devil-may-care into the conversation like one of those Mexican cliff divers.

“Are you a criminal? Some sort of weird drifter?” Her mother shot her a glance that could kill, but secretly she might have been pleased to learn something about the unwashed stranger in their midst.

“I was sent to Utah to find my sister, but I’m a bit sidetracked right now.” I gave them the short version of why I was on the open road. The mother in Adele took over as she listened sympathetically. Karl, overhearing, shouted out advice on how I might be more efficient in my search. Wacky sensed real adventure here.” What if she doesn’t want to be found or is kidnapped?” She said, her voice deepening as she tried to emulate an assistant DA on Law and Order.

“Then I’ll give up and go home.” Of course, the truth was that I had no real sense of purpose or direction now. I was also quite comfortable. When it became otherwise, I’d move on.

Karl broke the awkward silence. It was just as well as I was running a bit low on the truth. “I’m pulling off at Tomac on Route 160. There’s supposed to be a campground so we’ll spend the night and be early birds at Four Corners tomorrow.”

Tuesday Morning, August 12

When I was nine my father and mother announced that a motor trip to Maine was the family vacation. My older sister, Leslie, Denise, and myself spent days mapping out all the cool stuff we could do. Les and I, kindred spirits intellectually, wiled away hours in the library selecting just the right books and tapes. The trip was a welcome departure from the usual family vacation, which was devoted to visiting relatives within one hundred miles of our Southern Vermont home. When the great day finally arrived, we loaded up the Ford Squire station wagon and sped across New Hampshire. There was an obligatory stop in Kittery, Maine where my mother spent an afternoon at the various factory outlets, my father complaining about the expense, necessity and cargo space for anything she bought.

We left Kittery and zipped up the coast. He never slowed for York Beach, which we felt sure would be great fun, bypassed Ogunquit where Leslie had her heart set on spotting some gays and lesbians and only stopped at a South Portland Motel Six because he had a Triple AAA discount coupon. By this time I had gone through my six Hardy Boys books while Leslie, three years my senior, had completed The Scottish Chiefs by Jane Porter and was complaining mightily that the print size had given her the mother of all headaches.

Early the next morning we packed up again and sailed up the Maine Turnpike to Bangor where we took the slow road to Downeast Maine and our destination--the tourist havens of Lubec and Calais. My father’s grand plan was for us to stand in two countries and two time zones at the same time. It was, in his view, educational—something we’d never forget. There are manifold photos of us bisecting the borders of Canada and the United States as well as the Eastern and Atlantic Time zones like miniature Colossuses of Rhodes. We three kids look as if we had been forced to eat badly fried smelts from a restaurant next to a fish cannery, which we had. Since we had nothing to read on the trip back, Leslie and I picked on Denise and, when that wore thin, we bickered between ourselves about Star Wars trivia. In five days we were back in Vermont with nary an exciting tale to tell our friends.

All this to say that, when Karl pulled into the RV parking area at the Four Corners, I had that same sickening feeling I had had as a kid during the Maine ordeal. An old Navajo with yellowing hair and goal posts for his remaining lower teeth took our three bucks and nodded us into the monument entrance. It was a twenty foot concrete square with Arizona, Colorado, Utah and New Mexico emblazoned on each corner along with the state flag. Cameras clicked and whirred from all sides sounding as if they were cicadas. Karl forced me to lie down like Da Vinci’s Vitruvian Man while he snapped photos and digitized the moment using his new cell phone as a camera. Adele and Wacky felt the position unseemly for females but finally succumbed when a beach towel was provided. There were families with pets and little children who looked confused as to what historical significance this spot out in the middle of nowhere really was. There were young couples whose licentious thoughts may have been focused on joining whatever select group managed to “make it” in each state, not unlike the infamous “mile high” club in airplanes.

Karl struck up a conversation with some fellow Airstream owners. Adele and Wacky wandered over to a flea market with pickup trucks for booths to look at Navajo jewelry, native rugs and glassware. Bereft of any reading material, I followed them and found a card table with an assortment of paperbacks. Most were dated airport kiosk stuff, but I found a copy of Dostoyevsky’s The Idiot for a quarter. I overwhelmed the guy with a buck and then wandered back to the RV’s shade to read the introduction and ponder my next move. I knew I was drifting, caught for the moment in an eddy of Kreegers which, with any alteration in the current above or below me, would probably soon end. Apathy, not patience, was my greatest virtue.

Tuesday Afternoon, August 12

By midday we were headed north through a Ute Indian Reservation and into Mesa Verde National Park. Karl played the tour guide, bull-horning out what he saw from the driver’s deck. Wacky lapsed into a teen-aged funk while Adele attempted to keep awake, apologizing each time her head snapped to attention for her lack of sleep last night. Despite my usual, cynical view of the world, I put Dostoyevsky’s account of the compulsively forgiving and love-starved Prince Myshkin down and took in the truly magnificent view. I even moved up to sit beside Karl to get a better look. After a few minutes, he shifted his tour guide narration from the scenery and the wonders of nature to himself, perhaps knowing from experience that the disinterested, distaff side behind him had other fish to fry.

He had played ball in high school, had some college offers but his pecker kept getting him into trouble so he got out of town (Hagerstown, Maryland) and into the Air Force. He was in for twenty, working the supply area (there was no elaboration here) and then took his pension. He was last based at Edwards in California and, in his final year there, he met Adele. They were married the week after he got out, and the following week he went to work at Wal-Mart where he spent ten years before chucking the whole work thing and retired full time to Bakersfield.

Money wasn’t an issue for him. Sure, everyone could use more, but Adele was an only child and had inherited quite a nice sum from her folks. They had no relatives and just a few RV friends so there was nothing that tied them to California. He was fifty-two. He had enough to splurge on this (here, he made a backhand wave to indicate his half a million Land Yacht), and he had quite a bit sunk into his model trains which were his next love. He glanced over his shoulder to see what his crew was up to and saw that they both must have retreated to the bedrooms for a nap.

“Damn, that’s just like them. Some of the greatest views you’ll ever see, and they’re back there asleep or watching some soap opera tapes on the boob tube. What do you think of Adele, anyway?”

I was a bit unsure how to answer him so I gave a politic, “She’s been a great hostess. You’ve both been great.”
“She’s put on too much weight. She’s forty-two but don’t tell her I told you. I know I can stand to lose a few, but I’m six four, always been big. When we got hitched she was a hundred and ten or so; she blames it on having the kid, but I’ve known lots of women who popped kids, and they’re back to normal in six months.”

He looked at me for a response, but I could do little but give a polite “I’m still listening” nod to his monologue.

“Ever have a fat woman in bed?”

“I can’t say I have.”

“Some men like it. There are skin magazines and porn sites that are strictly for heavyweights. Turns me off. Not to get too personal here but her big blop of a stomach hangs down way over her bush. It’s like moving a room full of furniture out of the way just to look out the window if you catch my drift. Once I stuck my johnson in a big crease down there and would have shot my wad if she hadn’t said something. Kinda of funny really.”

“Have you talked about it, maybe that would help?”

He drove for a few moments. “Is that buffalo over there?

“No, the horns aren’t right. I think it’s just deer or antelope of some sort.”

“Anyway she just takes to bawling her eyes out if I bring it up so I’ve learned to keep my yap shut and do what has to be done. Any port in a storm I always say.”

He gave me a knowing wink as we pulled out of Mesa Verde Park. We merged back onto 160 headed for Mancos as he beeped the horn. “Wake up one and all. We’re stopping for food and guess who’s treating us.”

How greasy cheeseburgers and chicken fried steak were the highlight of my day, I’ll never know, but they were.

Tuesday Evening, August 12

Every person, place or thing should have a reason for its existence. It is probably to Durango, Colorado’s credit that it at least had one once upon a time. It was a town built by the railroad to haul silver out of the mountains. To make things a bit more efficient, it added smelting capabilities to the extent that it was known as the “Smelter City.” Its raison d’etre at present is to milk its past for all the tourist dollars it can, which it does in a style that would make any Branson, Missouri devotee very much at home. We pulled into the RV campground around ten at night, and Karl began an hour’s worth of maintenance on his rig while I held the flashlight. When we were done, I thanked him for his hospitality and said I wanted to leave, perhaps stay at a hotel in Durango itself for a few days and then drift on. He would have none of it. Tomorrow was the big day. I had actually read a mention of the Phoenix-Durango line in Ayn Rand’s Atlas Shrugged, but, according to Karl, no one should miss a ride on the famous Durango and Silverton Narrow Gauge Railroad.

“You ever been on an old time train?”

“When I was very young we went on the cog railway at Mount Washington.”

“That’s puppy chow compared to the Durango. The line is carved through rock way above a river. This is one of the actual trains, not just some replica. People from Europe come all the way to ride her. Adele and I wrote for tickets a year ago, and we got the family pass because of Wacky. It’s good for up to six people so it won’t cost us a red cent for you. I’m in an association so we have a whole car to ourselves and great experts who can talk your ear off when it comes to history. You like history, right?

“All folks in their right mind do.”

Given the great weight of this generous offer, I knuckled under but compromised that, when the day was done, I would be moving on. In his mind that was an eventual bridge he had already mined with explosives. If I attempted an escape, he would probably blow it up just before I set foot on it. I left him and retreated into the RV. Adele was in the galley with coffee on the table. Karl had met his next door neighbors whose RV ‘s were a step down from his so he was flying high in the pissing contests men have in these camps. I informed Adele that I didn’t drink coffee (this was the third time I’d mentioned it), and she drew me a cup of warm tap water and threw in a Lipton Flo Thru to complete the process.

“You’re leaving us?”

“I’m trying to but it’s hard to talk to him.”

“Tell me about it.”

“After the train trip to Silverton, I’d like to head off. You both have been way too kind to me.”

“I think he wants you along because he’s got something else planned.” She pursed her lips here and looked at my sad excuse for a cup of tea. “Sugar?”

I waved her off, but she set two packets of Sweet and Low in front of me anyway. “He has us booked into a nudist colony up north.”

I decided on the sweetener and busied myself stirring it into the rust colored, tepid water before me. “I don’t see how I fit in; he’s not gay or anything?”

“Sometimes I wish it were as simple as that. We went a long time ago when Wanda Anne was about three and then again six years ago when she was nine. It actually wasn’t as bad as I thought, and back then I figured I could hold my own keeping any man. There were no orgies so to speak, but I know he fooled around with some of those women. Since then he’s been using the internet. Doesn’t know I know, but he’s in those chat rooms and downloads disk after disk of porn. He thinks it will bring a spark to our marriage.”

“That’s between you and him. I’ve no desire to go. And what about Wanda?”

“He’s got her brainwashed. We have a family hot tub, and he walks around the house bare assed all the time so it’s nothing she hasn’t seen before. There’s a teen cabin for girls so she can make some friends while we hang out with the adults.”

“But why does he want me?”

“Partly, I think, because he likes you and wants to hook you up. It’s an old military thing. Let’s all go to the whorehouse tonight type of deal. Partly because you make it legitimate; it’ll be two adults against one to break the tie against me. And partly because that’s the way he gets his kicks; it might make him real happy if you and I were to go at it. Then he could freelance without any guilt.”

“This is way too much for me.”

She reached over and held my hand. “I can’t stop him anymore. I just try to control speed of what he does a bit so he doesn’t pitch over the edge. I need you to help me because I can’t do it by myself anymore and . . . “

She stopped short as we heard Karl thumping his way through the patio. She was tearing up when he came in. “What are you crying about now?”

“I was telling her about my sister and what my mother goes through.”

“Family—can’t live with’em and can’t live without’ em. Come on woman, we got some powerful sleeping to do.” And with that gentle good night he smiled conspiratorially at me and ushered his mate to the rear of the bus. “Guy next door’s got a king size bed which is great, but that’s all they can fit in the room; at least our queen gives you some side room.”

Wednesday, August 13

The Durango-Silverton tourist train always leaves at 8:15 AM on the dot. Karl and Addie (somehow during the night he shifted to calling her this) were up at six, dressed in their matching railroad outfits—bib overalls, red kerchiefs dangling from the rear pockets and denim vests that were speckled with commemorative pins from various conventions. The grey and blue, pin-striped engineers’ caps with a Western Pacific logo supplied the final touch.

It should have been Karl’s magic moment. He was expansive until it became obvious that Wacky was asserting her power of refusal. It was the most talkative I had seen her even though she was doing it from beneath a blanket. Her candid viewpoint was that the whole train event, the trip across this beautiful land of ours, to say nothing of the world in general was totally stupid. When that didn’t seem to make the point she added “sucked”. Then she upped the ante to include the adjective “fucking” and got a slap handed whap on her rear from Karl which further entrenched her “we shall overcome” cause. For a half hour it was like trying to coax a kitten down a tree. Nothing worked. As the clock edged towards 7:45, I came up with a solution.

“You two go along. I’ll stay here with her.”

“You hear that Wacky, now I’ve got to pay a babysitter for you.”

A muffled “Nobody asked you to,” filtered up from beneath the tangled covers.

But the move had Karl and Adele saving face; Wacky was getting her way, and I would be spared a lecture about the visionaries who built this rail trail high above the rushing Animas River. Twenty minutes after they had gone, I clanked a cereal bowl. As if she were one of Pavlov’s dogs, she poked her head up and, blankets acting as a bathrobe, stumbled her way into the galley.

“Whatcha got?”

“The cereal du jour is Coco Puffs.”

“Just throw them in a bowl; I eat them like popcorn.”
“Your loss, my way and there’s all that free chocolate milk when you’re done.”

Wednesday, Late Morning, August 13

There was a bit of a dilemma as to what I could do with Wacky for an entire day. With a little coaxing, I got her to shower, dress and walk the short distance into Durango. Main Street was littered with souvenir shops, brew pubs and western clothing stores for the truly impulsive shopper. Everything I suggested was met by her brick wall, “I’m not going to enjoy anything” attitude. Around eleven I was ready to pack it in and head back to the RV. Not unlike a cat that toys with a nearly dead mouse, she sensed my forthcoming departure from the game and suddenly became human, declaring herself famished. She picked Lady Falconburgh’s restaurant because it looked “cool” in her view, ordered the twelve ounce bacon and cheeseburger special and was especially delighted with the free refill policy on drinks.

“I wonder if it works for a shake or root beer float?”

“Read the fine print.”

“Oh yeah, just soft drinks, tea or coffee. You’re smart, huh?”

“Because I can read a menu?”

“No, my mom thinks so. You read foreigners, and she says smart people are always laid back and not very talkative because they’re afraid regular people will make fun of them and their interests. I read this book in school, Flowers for Algernon, where a guy got smart and people treated him differently because he read a lot and listened to Beethoven and stuff. He died alone. Do you like Beethoven?”

“I admit to being stuck in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries musically, although I do enjoy a good Mahler symphony which is in the early 1900s.

“What about Elvis and the Beatles? My parents like them.”

“It’s just not my cup of tea, sorry to say.”

“I saw you buy a book at that stupid Four Corners flea market. It looked thick.”

“Dostoyevsky; he specialized in thick.”

“The biggest book I ever read was Harry Potter, over eight hundred pages.”

“Are you into that genre?”

“No, a girl I wanted to be friends with was reading it so I read it too, thinking it would help.”

“And?’

“I don’t have any friends. I can’t be myself around other people. When I get married my husband will be my best friend.”

“I think you’ve been watching a few too many daytime TV talk shows.”

She smiled at the observation that may have hit home. “How about you? Friends? Secret lovers?”

“I was thinking of marriage, but the girl hated baseball. Then I lost a good job, got depressed and poor all at once. So for the past few days or so I’ve been wandering the wild west like a pulp western ranch hand.”

“Has anything changed?”

“I’m not depressed any more.”

“My mom says you’re leaving tonight.”

“I’ve been asked to stay on for the next phase.”

“Oh, god they didn’t talk you into the nudist camp?” She inhaled another mouthful of cheeseburger and attempted to dilute it with a slug of Coke.

“I’d be uncomfortable.”

“It’s nothing really. I went once when I was a toddler but don’t remember a thing. The last time was when I was almost ten. We have this hot tub at home we all soak in which is no biggie, and my dad walks around jay bird all the time which is why I don’t have friends because if they ever found out . . . “

“So it doesn’t bother you?”

“It’s just like whatever. I have my period and breasts now so it’ll be different, but I’ve already been on line with some girls my age, and I’ll stay with them in some dorm type place. My mom and dad will be off doing their own thing.” She arched her eyebrows in an attempt to act the vamp. “Maybe you’ll find some rich widow and who knows?”

When we were growing up my mother’s chief task at the dinner table was to monitor our faces as we ate. After every mouthful of incredibly sloppy spaghetti, for example, would come the phrase, “You have a little something on your cheek, dear. No, the other side. That’s better.” Twenty-two napkins later the meal would be over. Therefore, as a reaction to that, my major rule in life is never to intervene in anyone’s meal until it is totally over. I was tempted to violate this tenet as Wacky not only needed a napkin but quite possibly a high powered garden hose to clear away ketchup, mayonnaise, mustard and the bits of burger and lettuce debris stuck to the sides of her mouth and teeth.

“What do you think your parents ‘thing’ is?”

“My mom will probably gab with the women about knitting and recipes and how cute their kids are. Dad and the guys will go kick tires. At night they play cards, drink beer and stuff themselves silly.”

“So it’s PG rated?”

“Some people in my chat room think it is, but there are stories that things get pretty swinging. One girl said a guy came up to them by the pool and jacked off right in front of them. They called security, and they busted his ass right out of there. I’m not planning on losing my virginity, but if it happens, it happens; you know what I’m saying.”

“Thanks for sharing.’

“I know my dad’s horny as hell. He and my mom don’t do it that much anymore. I even found his stash of pictures and fuck books.”

When she used the “F” word she glanced at me to see my reaction. Would I backhand her, wash her mouth out with Dial soap or simply move on? I evidently passed the test.

“In back of one of the closets there’s a false wall for valuables and stuff. He has a box in there. I discovered it last year. There are photos of him and mom when they were lighter. Other women too but I don’t know them. And stuff on computer disks which I didn’t dare steal because he probably would know what was up. Then there’re all those porn magazines guys like. Another girl I know says it’s for when the wife has her period and the guy needs them to jerk off. How come you’re not eating that Buffalo chicken salad; it’s too hot for you I bet.”

“How do you know about your mom and dad in the bedroom department?’

“When I was younger I could hear them. They’re so fat; at first it sounded like they were slapping each other when their stomachs hit, like waves slurping in a swimming pool.”

“You’re being quite literary using similes and such.”

“I love to make comparisons. I do it all the time. What about the sound when the guy in the butcher shop bangs the cheap steak to make it tender and thinner, or did you ever have one of those paddle things that has a ball attached to it by a elastic—thowk, thowk, thowk—God, that’s what it’s like when they screw.”

“Or those Germans with the leather pants they slap when they do that dance.”

“Oh that’s great, that’s the best one; that’s exactly what it sounds like. You know, you’re a really cool person. I feel I can tell you anything. Where are we going to next; it’s not even noon yet?”

Why did I have the feeling that winning over this young lady was a pyrrhic victory?

Wednesday Afternoon, August 13

The Diamond Circle Theater promised to relive entertainment of the Golden Age. This was defined as singing along to a ragtime player piano, viewing a melodrama that included a school marm, a good guy in a white hat and a black caped villain one was encouraged to hiss and throw popcorn at. There was also a reading of a saccharine Louis L’Amour story, and the grand finale was a vaudeville review. We had gone because there was truly nothing else to do. The straw that tipped the balance was my promise that, at the very least, we could cast sarcastic barbs during the whole thing. Surprisingly, she enjoyed every bit of it, even tearing up at the ending of the L’Amour story about a cowpoke giving up his life during a freak snowstorm so a mother and the babe at her breast would live.

The vaudeville revue included a floppy pants comedian who used the audience as the focus of his humor. The saloon Can Can dancers were as modest as could be, and I surveyed the crowd wondering how many of them might be headed for the nudist camp north of Ridgeway.

By five we were back on the streets, and I suggested some gift shopping for mom and dad, perhaps as a peace offering for that morning’s escapades. She agreed and pondered endlessly before selecting two tee shirts that fit her rigid requirements.

We were back at the RV by seven. Wacky went in to take a nap while I barely greeted The Idiot before Karl and Addie trooped in ecstatic from their railroad adventure. Wacky came out and was truly excited as her parents mouthed wonderment at the terrific Durango souvenir shirts, although Adele seemed a bit put off by the XXL size on the label. They countered with their own tale of the day’s adventure which took nearly two hours to relate as Karl got caught up in some technical railroading details and was mildly put off when Adele reminded him every now and then to get to the point. By ten the happy family was fast asleep in the rear compartments, Wacky’s snores the loudest of all.

Thursday Morning, August 14

I awoke the next morning to Karl’s kitchen clattering.

“You know what a full English breakfast means?”

“You die before age thirty from the cholesterol.”

“Right and that what’s I’m having. A farmer buddy of mine gave me these sausages and Irish bacon, all home made. Addie tells me you know where we’re headed for the next few days.” He forked the meat into a frying pan and turned the burner up full bore.

“If it’s all the same to you, I’d rather not go. There’s a hotel in Durango, the Strater, which has some history to it. Can you turn on an exhaust fan somewhere?”

“Sorry. I don’t cook much so I always forget.” He flipped a switch and a fan the size of an Everglades swamp boat took over. “I can’t force you to go, but we’d be powerful disappointed if you don’t.”

He was beginning to talk like a westerner. If he used the words “I got a hankering,” I was truly gone.

“I would be very uncomfortable at a nudist place, to tell the truth.”

“You don’t have to stay with us, if that’s what you’re thinking. They have a lodge, first class place—Hollywood stars even bunk there.”

He kicked the fan off as we were reduced to shouting at each other. The sausages were sufficiently black, and now it was the bacon’s turn to suffer. “How about if I think about it for a few hours and then decide.”

“See, now you’re being open-minded. Damn that smoke. Maybe there’s something crawled into the vent. Where the hell’s the eggs; they got this new microwave stuff, an omelet that cooks in thirty seconds.”

We ate in silence. Karl held his spoon like a child shoveling as much as his mouth would hold, then chewing it before a coffee wash and rinse was in order. I didn’t like the way my serendipitous life was going. My gut instinct was that, whatever Karl had up his sleeve, it wasn’t something I wanted any part of.

I played with my food until Karl was finished and announced that he was going to take a shower. I told him I’d clean up the galley and then take a brief walk around the premises. When he was out of sight and I heard the water running, I grabbed by backpack, scribbled a brief thank you note to Addie and quietly slipped out the door. I walked leisurely until almost out of sight and then sprinted towards the highway heading south. The traffic was light and I didn’t want to risk Karl going out of his way to find me so I climbed the embankment, found a pinyon pine grove and settled in for a time. When it was safe, I would hitch to where the nearest airport was and catch the first flight back east. Denise would always land on her feet. She had a history of that. I, on the other hand, was like those old time sailors who needed the sight of land to help me navigate. I was out of my element here. I hadn’t the reckless abandon it took. Safety and the Green Mountain state beckoned.