Short Story: RV’n

We had a good weekend. The weather was fantastic. Sylvia and I loaded Bubbles our dog in the RV and headed for Lake Texoma. It’s only about an hour drive from our home, but it makes you feel like you’re on vacation. We had a ball despite all my screw-ups. You tend to get out of practice with the RV stuff and that’s when the screw-ups start.

Things started off peachy when we left the place where we store our RV. I pulled out onto the highway all slow, safe, and controlled. I had peed before we left the RV place and thought I could last awhile before having to go again. No such luck.

I had taken a Flomax a little earlier and like a time bomb, it went off, putting near desperate bladder pressure on that 16 ounce PowerAde Zero and the two Diet Cokes I drank earlier that morning. Fifteen minutes after hitting the road, we pulled into a Race Track gas station to put in some diesel and take advantage of the stop to pee. I peed once before getting out to drop $100 in the tank (hit the irritating credit card reset limit), and just in case, peed again before we were ready to leave.

As we were leaving the Race Track gas station, I looked left and saw traffic a ways out. I told Sylvia to “Hang on” and started the right hand turn to get ahead of the traffic. I now have a new rule.

Rule #1: Anytime I start to tell Sylvia to, ‘hang on’ while getting ready to do something in a motorhome, I will rethink whatever I was about to do, and do it slower and consider it a little more.

A one-arm guy driving a 33,000 pound RV who tells his wife to hang on, is like a teenage boy holding a mason jar full of gasoline in one hand, a lighter in the other, who tells his buddies, “Hey y’all, watch this.” Bad things are sure to follow. This time proved that a truism.

Let’s just say I ended up taking the corner a little short. The back tires on the passenger side jumped the leading edge of the curb, slammed the coach up and hard to the left. Almost immediately, the wheels came off the back side of the curb and crashed hard into the pothole that had been dug out by other fools who had done the same thing. At the bottom of the pothole, the bus lurched violently back to the right. It didn’t stay that way long.

Before the suspension could dampen the blow, the coach slammed into the curb on the far side, bounced up and over, tilting the top of the coach back hard left again. Clearing the top of the curb, it fell off on the downhill side, slammed back down on the pavement, throwing the coach once again hard right. At some point during the whiplashing back and forth, the ceramic dishes spewed out of the cabinet over the sink and crashed to the tile floor shattering into tiny shards.

Sylvia braced for the bus to flip over, and shouted, “Oh God!” Bubbles sensing the end of the world, took off for the back to bury herself under the covers. I kept checking my gauges for warning lights, and waited for something to shake or shimmy from the damage, but it didn’t happen.

After Sylvia had swept up the glass fragments, she returned to the seat and tried to reassure me, “…that it was okay, that it was an accident, and that it could happen to anyone.” Still, I could tell she was on high alert, because she kept casting furtive glances in the mirror looking for pieces hanging off the side and asking me about the various squeaks and rattles to find out if they were new.

As soon as I could, I pulled into another gas station (with a big driveway) to check for damage (and pee.) Luckily we didn’t find any visible damage. So we took off again for our campsite. There was a line at the checkpoint by the ranger’s station where Sylvia got a map and our tag that read location 4807.

We were supposed to take the second road on the right, but somehow I missed it. We turned in to a parking area where they stored boats and stopped to check the map. Well, the map turned out to be a bust. There was no site 4807. All of the sites on the map had two digit numbers. The sign markers in front of the sites had long ago lost their lettering and all looked the same, with only pieces of decaying wood with faded painted remnants of lettering here and there.

I thought I’d give the map spot labeled Q48 a try because it had the numbers 48 in it, and was at least listed on the tiny map. We took off in that direction, and of course drove past it because it wasn’t marked. The other campers were all looking amused and wondering where we were taking the 44 foot long, 12 foot 6 inch tall diesel bus. We kept driving, ever so slowly, as we veered off to the left fork in the road. The road got skinnier. The trees got lower. And the campsites got more primitive.

I stopped the bus again and was staring at the map and hoping for a miracle, when a long-haired biker dude with a ponytail rolled up in a golf cart. I slid my window open and he said he would take us to our site and for us to follow him. He also mentioned that the trail we were on was tight, but that he was ‘pretty sure’ we could make the turnaround. Sylvia turned pale, looked slightly apoplectic, and quietly said, “This has been a disaster, This has been a disaster, I don’t know why we do this.”

Somehow, we made it down the narrow little trail and managed the turnaround without ripping off the satellite or the A/C units on the trees, with only a few scratches on the side from the branches as we drove by.

Biker Dude lead us to our site and had the breaker box open as we pulled up. Sylvia guided me in as I backed the rig into the camping site. I got out to thank Biker Dude. He was kind and didn’t rub my face in it about being lost and driving all over the park. I plugged in the 50 amp cord and went back into the motorhome to set things up. The jacks went down fine. The slides went out fine. But, when I tried to raise the satellite, nothing. All I could think about was how the massive jolting from the curb-jump fiasco had probably kicked a breaker or knocked a wire loose somewhere.

I spent the next hour troubleshooting, trying to find the elusive electrical problem. No luck. Finally, I got out the owner’s manual to review the troubleshooting section. The first thing on the list was, “Check for power at the pedestal.” Sure enough, the breaker was off. I had spent all of that time jacking around with complicated things when it was really something simple.

Rule #2: Always check the simple stuff before beginning to disassemble the RV.

Of course Dish Network wouldn’t come on because the satellite hadn’t been used often enough. So Sylvia had to call customer service to get it turned back on. That part was relatively painless, and I have to admit, my Bloody Mary made it better. With everything finally working inside, we relaxed awhile and then went for a long walk to the lake. No moving parts – no problems – it was great.

That evening when we were back in the coach, Sylvia was unfolding the portable coffee table. She was having trouble with the legs, and asked for help. I had a glass of red wine in my (one and only) hand and tried to use my foot to move the leg of the folding table. I should have known better.

All it took was one little jerk and the red wine spilled on the couch and the carpet. Sylvia, still holding the partially unfolded table, watched helplessly as the dark red wine began to spread. “Oh God,” she said, and dropped the coffee table. I scrambled for the paper towels to clean up the spilled wine. Luckily it came off the couch and the carpet.

I began to repeat the, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” mantra with Sylvia.

She was kind and let me off the hook.

Rule #3: Put down your wine before you start moving furniture.

The next morning Sylvia started making breakfast tacos. Bearing in mind that there is limited counter space anyway, we had quite a few things on what little counter space we had. Sylvia had been stirring the sausage, potato, and pepper mix on the burner, but she stepped away to take care of the dog. I wanted to help so I went over to the stove and moved the eggs away from the hot skillet. (I swear it was balanced on the edge.)

Sylvia had packed six eggs (all that we needed) in a camping carrier to keep them protected. The latch had been opened on the egg carrier because Sylvia was getting ready to add them to the mixture. I was happily stirring the sizzling sausage mixture when the eggs fell off the counter in a resounding ka-plop. All six eggs broke.

Rule #4: Keep your butt on the couch when Sylvia is cooking. She does fine and you’ll only make a mess of it.

Bubbles leapt off the couch in a valiant effort to eat all six raw egg yolks. Sylvia was trying to fend off the dog and came again with the, “Oh God!”

In return, I once again launched into my mantra of “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry!”

Sylvia was scurrying to pick up bits of eggshell, pushing Bubbles away, and trying to save the remaining bits of egg that had broken into the container.

Sylvia was able to save enough of the eggs from the inside of the egg carrier so that there was at least a hint of eggs in our tacos. At this point she was watching me somewhat warily, waiting to see what I might break or spill next.

When she spoke, it was in short sentences like one would use with a special child. We double and triple checked the coach as we were preparing to leave the park. That part worked and we left without a hitch. We had barely gotten down the road, when, go figure… I had to pee again. I found another gas station and pulled up to the diesel pump.

When I got out to pump another $100 of diesel into the tank, my wallet fell into the slimy brown diesel droppings near the pump. I had the pump handle in my hand along with my credit card, and could not let go because the nozzle would have fallen out of the bus’s fuel inlet.

Sylvia picked my wallet out of the slime, shaking her head, and went to rub it in the grass. Now my wallet has this intriguing diesel smell that reminds me of the coach every time I pay for anything.

Rule #5: Leave your wallet in the bus. It won’t fall in the diesel and you will not end up being the one who pays.

We made it the rest of the way with no surprises. The funny thing is that both Sylvia and I would like to do this again as soon as possible. Despite the many screw ups, we ended up getting in the groove and really enjoying ourselves. I can’t wait to do it again.

I wrote this mostly as a diary entry after a trip in our motorhome. I tried to trim it, tune it, and make it palatable for a magazine. They didn’t like it. Oh well. Next time.

Poem: Knowing

Her mind is hard, her thoughts are thin
Each day she’s a bit more lost
Simple recall, a happy win
Tries hard, but wires are crossed

Her loving heart’s what pulled me near
So many years ago
Now her love’s given way to fear
She’s lost her happy glow

She grew up poor, hard working life
Long hours and family too
A loving mother and a wife
Her only thoughts for you

Her kids have grown and moved away
Caregivers now by her side
Nothing for granted, not one day
Her family filled with pride

Some days she fades into the night
Some times she sleeps all day
They fight to keep her body right
She’s treated in a loving way

Her mind is hard, her thoughts are thin
Each day she’s a bit more lost
Simple recall, a happy win
Tries hard, but wires are crossed

Poem: Blackbirds Awakened (a tribute to Sept. 11th)

Blackbirds awakened, emerge from the night
Blue skies, soaring, sweet morning light
Winds bearing change, rise with the sun
City unlimbered, business begun

One man early, another late
God, good karma, or perhaps just fate
One man desperate, the other blind
The first with rage filling his mind

A message sent on silver wings
“We who have nothing despise your things”
“And we will die to destroy your ways”
The message arrives in a fiery blaze

Hearts blacken from the damage done
Dark clouds rising, but they have not won
Eyes open now, looking for spite
The awakened giant, yearning to fight

Hate matches hate, on the same plain
Both seeking solace from death’s cold rain
Battles rage on, innocence lost
Revenge is taken, but freedoms lost

Short Story: Nice Kitty

Jake sat in his pajama bottoms staring into the coffee cup on the kitchen table. The steaming coffee smelled good, but he left it alone. He knew he’d puke at the first swallow. Why in the hell had he insisted on all those tequila shots? His head pounded.

Jake’s cat Motor pawed at his pajama leg. “Knock it off Motor,” Jake said and flicked his foot towards the cat. Motor dodged the brushoff with ease. Unfazed, he jumped onto the table, and claimed squatter’s rights on the newspaper in front of Jake. Motor locked eyes with Jake.

Jake didn’t even notice. He put his head in his hands. He was thinking about going back to bed when he heard a thin nasally voice say, “Snap out of it you twit!”

“What the fuck?” Jake asked, lifting his head. He looked at Motor.

“You heard me twit, Snap out of it.”

Jake stared at the cat with his mouth open. He couldn’t believe what had just happened. By all counts it seemed like Motor had spoken. His mouth moved and even matched the words. That’s nuts, cats don’t talk, Jake thought. He looked around the room to see who was punking him. The room was empty except for Motor and Jake.

“Don’t pretend you can’t hear me Jake. You know we’re alone, at least that is if you don’t count that blonde bimbo in the bedroom. And after all the booze and “gymnastics” last night, I imagine she’ll be sleeping it off for a while. That just leaves the two of us. Face it dude, I AM talking and you CAN hear me,” Motor said.

Jake struggled to think through the post-alcohol fuzz. “If you can talk, then why in the hell haven’t you done it until now? We’ve been together forever for god’s sake. Why now?” Jake asked.

“Let me break it down for you Jakey. It’s all about reincarnation my human friend… past lives and all. That shit’s real. I’m proof. I haven’t always been a cat you know. Mind you the cat thing hasn’t been so bad, I mean you can lick your balls for god’s sake. And jump? You wouldn’t believe what that feels like… but I digress. I was a human before, and I want to go back. Correct that, I AM going back,” Motor said.

“What makes you so certain?” Jake asked.

“Once you’ve been through the process, you get to know how it works. There are only two rules; first, you have to spend at least five years in your new body, that is unless you’re dying, which lets you out of that one. Check that one off Jakey, I just celebrated my fifth birthday. And second, you need to knock off two to get one fresh body to move into. The universe loses two, you get to take one, so to speak. We need to talk about that one Jakey,” Motor said. His eyes again locked on Jake, unmoving except for the pupils that were dilating in and out. Motor shifted his weight from one foot to the other and then became still.

Jake was about to speak when Motor lunged. He was no match for the cat’s reflexes. Motor was on Jake’s neck before he could even flinch, claws sunk deep, teeth searching for Jake’s jugular. Motor’s head twisted from side to side as blood spurted from Jake’s neck. Jake panicked. He grabbed at Motor’s body to pull the cat from his neck, but only managed to sink the claws deeper into his own flesh. Jake was bleeding out. He could feel it. His knees buckled and he fell to the ground.

Jake’s left leg twitched as the last of his life’s breath whispered out of his body. Blood formed a spreading pool from the puncture marks in his neck. Motor stepped back, and looked toward the bedroom. He could hear nothing from the blonde. Clearly the tough night of tequila fueled sex had left her oblivious to “the dance” that had just played out between him and Jake.

Motor walked towards the bedroom, instinctively flicking his paws with each step, trying to shake off the blood he’d picked up from the dark pool next to Jake’s body. With each step he left a tiny cat print in the tan carpet. By the time he reached Jake’s bed he looked like he was wearing red socks with white bottoms.

He paused, senses in full hunter mode, taking in the room. Nothing but the blonde, who had now begun to snore, still very much asleep. Motor leapt onto the foot of the bed. He paused again to check for movement. Nothing. All good. He crept towards the blonde’s head with all of his cat-senses on high alert.

Motor was on her with one short pounce, his mouth latched to hers, claws sunk deep into her cheeks. He was in this for keeps. The blonde jolted awake, startled and confused. Both of her hands clawed instinctively at Motor’s fur trying to free him from her face. She wanted to breathe… bad. No luck.

Motor sucked hard trying to pull in the energy that made her soul. He could feel the blonde’s life force leaving her and entering his body. Her eyes widened as she realized just how oh-shit bad this was. It dawned on her that if she didn’t double down and overpower the cat, her life would be over. She sucked harder, pulling against the cat’s force.

Just as she reached the tipping point of death, Motor relaxed, letting the energy flow reverse. As he did, he could feel it flowing out past his lips in a tangible stream back into her body. The taste of the stream began to change from citrus to a metallic taste as Motor forced his energy into the stream. Now the stream was all his as it flowed back into the blonde, filling her body and into her soul.

The blonde’s eyes bulged, her body tensing at the sudden pulse of energy. There was an electric snap as the connection broke between Motor and the blonde. The cat’s body went limp and fell lifeless to the sheets next to the blonde. The blonde gasped, her chest heaving as she coughed, struggling to breathe. The next breath was deep and welcome. She felt good.

Her body visibly relaxed with each breath. She smiled ever so slightly as she swung her legs over the side of the bed and hurried to the bathroom mirror. Once there, she cupped her breasts, admired her newfound body. “Oh my blonde friend, thank you for this wonderful body. I promise I will use it the fullest,” Motor said and laughed.

Life is good, Motor thought. Now to make the most of it. He walked over to the chair by the bed where he’d seen the blonde’s clothes. “It looks like I’m going to be doing the walk of shame this morning,” Motor said as he picked up the silky little black dress. He pulled the dress over his head and tugged it down but it still barely covered his cheeks. He slipped on the black heels and reached for the small black purse on the floor near the chair. “Now, let’s find out where I live,” he said, opening the purse for the cell phone. The screen powered up with a touch and no security code. Lucky me, he thought. Checking the phone, he found two messages, from ‘Sis’, both left last night.

He pressed to hear the first message and put it on speaker. “Hi Brenda, this is your sister. I talked to Mom just now. She said she’d promised you she wouldn’t tell me, but she just had to. She said she couldn’t keep something like this from me. Why didn’t you tell me Brenda?” She sniffed. “I want to be there for you. Call me back. Okay?”

Wonder what that’s all about, he thought and pressed to hear the second message. “Brenda, why aren’t you calling back? I didn’t want to do this on the phone, but Mom told me about the cancer.” Sis was crying in full-blown sobs now. “I know how bad it is. At a time like this, you need to be with family. Mom said Dr. Raj told her it was a matter of hours or perhaps a few days, but no more. I want to see you now! Please call me Brenda. It can’t end like this,” and the call went silent.

Motor’s stomach turned over forming a knot. His head throbbed behind his eyeballs. Had that been there before and he hadn’t noticed with all the adrenaline? “Just my luck. All I wanted was a hot chick for a shot at my next life and I end up in a walking time bomb and a short fuse,” he said. Time’s a wasting bucko, you know what you have to do, he thought, and headed for the door.

Poem: Tribute to My Father

As the oldest boy
Life started out hard
No money, no toys
Life dealt him bad cards

Big family, rented land
Too many, too poor
Grew their food by hand
Their mother the core

Meal times the toughest
Eight children, all small
Hunger the roughest
Potatoes, that’s all?

His own Dad beat him
It seems out of spite
A belt to his limbs
Best safe out of sight

They sent him away
With an uncle to work
For free meals, no pay
He learned not to shirk

Rage became power
He relished its feel
Though turning him sour
As part of the deal

Years passed and he aged
But still coped this way
Powerful, enraged
Thought he was okay

Now bent and older
His wife in the ground
Passion’s grown colder
Few friends to be found

Aware now, awakened
Just what had he lost?
Faith in rage shaken
He counted the cost

The anger he’d used
And nourished so well
Entrenched and infused
He’d made his own Hell

There isn’t a rewind
There’s no second chance
To undo the time,
Add love and romance

His future was cast
He’s lived out life’s plan
Forgive him his past
And just love the man.