I am fighting off a nagging desire to open with an apology for any indiscretions I may be, have been, or ever be guilty of, in my whole life. That is because my Seroquel turned on me and gave me bad, bad extrapyramidal symptoms (twitches and a feeling like whole-body restless legs that makes me writhe incessantly, plus intolerable heat intolerance) that might not go away even though I have stopped taking it, and now I have nothing with which to quash the hypomania that dogs my heels like a nine-month-old Labrador Retriever, always pushing, pushing.
Nevertheless, I am having the best time I can have on two hours of sleep a night.
Now, disclaimers over with, I can begin today’s edition of Tales From The Roadtrek!
I fetched up last week at East Peoria, Illinois, along a sort of bayou that was once a marina, until the Illinois River left its banks and plowed it quite flat.
Everywhere you looked, there was some kind of interesting (or alarming) relic of this epic flood…..
The campground was highly rated in both Good Sam, the premiere RVer’s resource organization, and Escapees (SKPs), the network for mavericks like myself who want to live life like they mean it and have a damn good time doing it. Both outfits gave the place high marks for ambience, good facilities and clean showers/restrooms.
I called for a reservation and was told I didn’t need one, and to just give a call when I arrived. I did so, and was met at the entrance of a ramshackle trailer park by an enormously jiggly friendly fellow on a four-wheeler, who ferried me to a shady rise along a stinking sump that looked like this:
“How many nights?” He smiled, looking up from his receipt booklet.
“Um, two, I guess.” I kind of wanted to bail out, but hey, it WAS only $13 a night, and there were two other fairly spiffy looking rigs right next to where he put me. For $13, if it got too weird I wouldn’t feel bad flying the coop. So I gave him $26 in cash, which made him grin wider, and he took off, leaving me choking on his dust.
“Howdy, neighbor,” drawled my next-door neighbor. He looked like he’d seen a bit of the world, and then some. “Welcome to the neighborhood.” He lit his next cigarette off the last one, being careful to toss the butt into a Coke can, which I appreciated. I liked him already.
“Well, what do you think of our little piece of Paradise?”
“Er, well,” I stalled, trying to think of something, “well, to tell you the truth, it looks a little seedy.”
“SEEDY?” Uh-oh. “What makes you say that?” Open mouth, insert ass, disappear.
“Um, things like, you know, THIS.”
“Yeah, so? Here, come on over here and set down. My name’s Tuck.”
Thank the Lord. Breathe.
Tuck fetched a well-loved lawn chair out of a cubby hole in his rig, blew the dust off it, and offered it to me as if I had never insulted his neighborhood.
I settled in, and for the next two hours did not get a word in edgewise while Tuck regaled me with his adventures in the Army, Navy, prison, long-haul truck driving, Military prison, County lockups, fights, liquor, AA, and two honorable discharges despite all the prison time. He showed them to me, just so I wouldn’t think he was lying. I would have, actually, because the usual thing when one gets in prison while in the service is a court martial leading to a dishonorable discharge, but whatever.
Next thing on the agenda was our other neighbor, Nancy, who was a well-worn lady of 45 who looked 60 and acted 30. Three raucous boys surrounded her. One of them was her five-year-old grandson, whose name I never did get the hang of. She didn’t know what it meant, and neither did he, so he made up endless nicknames for himself instead of trying to remember his given name. He fondly reminded me of Israeli kids, who have no concept of mortality. He was forever and constantly finding new and more exciting ways of leaping off of high objects onto things like gigantic concrete slabs, etc, that gave me nearly uncontrollable urges to get my first-aid kit out where I could see it.
Finally he did get whacked in the eye when the rotted rope of a tire swing gave out and he crashed into some other flying object. After he got done crying he was pretty proud of his shiner, once we had explained to him what the word “shiner” meant.
The “we” in “we” was his grandmother, her boyfriend who looked about 20 and had twin freaky looking heads tattoo’d on his pectoral muscles, which gave me the creeps every time he moved, and Nancy’s daughter–the boy’s mother–who kind of slouched around looking perpetually uncomfortable, and the two other boys who turned out to be Nancy’s great-nephews, and Nancy’s mother who stayed inside Nancy’s travel trailer because she couldn’t be out in the heat. And Tuck, of course, still chain-smoking, and me.
We hung out around Nancy’s totally amazing fire ring, created out of fragments of stone that the flood had busted up and thrown around. As the sun settled down over the river, it started to look like this:
And I started feeling pretty mellow as the many kinds of night-critters began tuning up their orchestra: peeper frogs, tree frogs, leopard frogs, the Purple Martins twittering, coming home to their house upon its pole that leaned crazily over the bayou.
It was time for me to leave all my bourgeois preconceptions of “quality of life” behind. All these folks were here because here life was almost free and certainly unfettered, and a simple need for an affordable place to dwell had brought us all together.
And I? I was the guest, as it turned out, who stayed for another two nights, drawn by the unquestioning offer of friendship and camaraderie, undeserving, from a warm and open-hearted group of fellow travelers, flotsam and jetsam all of us, who happened to wash up on the same shore.
And the clean washrooms and showers? Burned down last year.