I bid my thanks and as soon as I was outside I looked down to see if I had egg on my shirt or something that might have looked out of place when the woman gave me the once-over. I wonder what someone must think of me.
There was not much tourist traffic, but I found myself caught in a line of many heavy-loaded logging trucks driving way too fast. I began to be concerned about the insurance on my car that my son was supposed to get for me.
At about 8:15 I cruised by the Hacienda, but did not pull in. What in heaven’s name would I do at an RV park? I could see that they had a restaurant, store, and a pond. If I worked there where would I live? This is not a town; this is in the middle of nowhere. I had driven about 20 miles on a deathtrap highway to get here, but decided it was worth the risk to drive on and look for greener pastures. Half hour later, I approached a small town, perhaps not a town, but a motel, café, Post Office, and some scattering of homes. I went into the motel and spoke to the owner. He could see my loaded up car out in the parking lot with what looked like from this vantage point, two rat-like oversized cats sitting in the front seat. “Damn, I just hired someone, but I do believe Billy, down at Hacienda RV Park needs some help. Let me give them a call for you.” I could not hear the conversation that took place in his office, but he returned to confirm that this was so. I began to understand that everyone knew everyone within fifty miles of each other.
A little while later, I found myself back at Hacienda, dragging my feet up the stone steps to the restaurant. At the entry I noticed a large ashtray overloaded with butts and many had tumbled to the ground below. A large trashcan overflowing with foul trash complimented the scene. A fat trail of ants was thriving to and from the can. Once inside, I realized the spacious log building was actually quite impressive with a bustling crowd of hungry vacationers. I could see that they needed help.
Inside I could smell bacon and pancakes. The counter for registration was immediately to my left. I saw a person at the counter that could possibly be Billy finishing up with a traveler about his RV space. Suddenly I heard a bellowing male voice coming from somewhere in the kitchen beyond the restaurant seating area. “HEY HENRY, YOU OLD GOAT! YOU EAT ALL THEM PANCAKES AND I’LL LET YA HAVE YUR BREAKFAST FREE!”
Looking in the direction of the roaring voice, I saw the chalkboard menu with the day’s special. ‘BUBBA’S SPECIAL: BISCUITS AND ROADKILL SKUNK. MADE WITH RATTLESNAKE GRAVY.’ I was pretty sure this was just a local joke of some sort.
“Kun I help ya?” Said a warm voice from behind me.
“Yes, my name is Denise and the…..”
“Oh, you must be the lady looking fur work! I’m Billy.” Now at this point I was not sure of the sex of Billy. It appeared to be in its early seventies with very short salt and pepper hair, wearing a western shirt, and a cigarette hanging out of its mouth. Its kind eyes settled me down, but I remained puzzled. I also noticed at this point the tall gentleman dressed in pajamas who was peeking from behind a doorway. He, too, was in his seventies and looked like an old handsome rancher who had seen better days. Oxygen hoses clung to his nose as he puffed on his cigarette. I think he winked at me.
Billy saw the direction of my eyes. “That’s Ray, my husband.” Mystery solved. What an odd-looking couple.
“Yur gonna be my cook.” Billy announced with pride.
“Pardon me?” I felt my eyebrows rise in shock.
“I said yur gonna be my cook!” Billy really meant this. The cigarette bounced as she spoke.
I fumbled for a way out. “But I’m not really a cook per se. I was hoping you might need a waitress or counter help.” I added in a fragile smile for first impression’s sake.
“Nope, I need a cook.” Billy was staring into my eyes as if I had no choice.
“Well, that’s very kind of you, but I have to think about it. I guess I need to know if there are any places to rent near here.”
“No need fur that. Gotta home fur you right here.”
“Pardon?” Did I really hear that?
“Right out back. There’s a fifth wheel sittin’ empty. You can live right there.” She is now pointing towards the kitchen area and, I presume, beyond the interior walls to the outside.
“I have two little dogs.” I warned her.
“All right with me. We love animals. Have a dog myself.” Sounded too good to be true.
I got right to the point. “How much?” It better be really cheap for me not to turn around and get back on the highway.
“How much fur what?” She took a deep drag from her cigarette.
“I’m sorry. How much to rent the trailer?”
“Nuthin’! It comes with the job, which, by the way, we pay $6.75 an hour. You split the tips with the waitress.” Billy snubbed out her cigarette in the over-loaded ashtray.
I told Billy I needed to check out the fifth wheel first and then sleep on it. We walked outside and she pointed out the fifth wheel to me. It looked quite roomy and fairly new. It was parked behind the restaurant and next to the pond on the edge of the park twenty yards from the highway. I inquired about a motel for the night. She suggested a small town off another highway about thirty miles in another direction. I said I’d call her later tonight with my answer about the job, even though I had already made up my mind.
So that puts me in the current moment at Hacienda RV Park in Bud’s Creek, California. Before I head off to the motel, I need to call my sister and family to tell them about my new job and place to live. I need to put their worries to rest, but right now I’m a little fearful of my quick decision to leave my life in Ashland and settle into an RV park as a cook. When I left yesterday I was full of confidence and exploding with a sense of adventure. Now I am beginning to wonder if I am just plain nuts. If I were a normal, stable, well-grounded, middle-aged woman, a crazy scheme like this would never enter my mind. I suppose I’ve chosen the unknown obstacles that life will throw at me in exchange for the predictable, daily nuances of routine and servitude.
I can still see and hear my sister when I was preparing to leave for this road trip. My mobile home was empty except for the large pile of items in the center of the living room ready to go into the car. I drove to her mobile home, four spaces down, with some yard tools and assorted house wares that I no longer needed in the large trunk of my new Suzuki Aerio, a gift from my two well-grounded real estate broker sons. “Denise, you can’t do this! What are you thinking? Do you really think someone’s going to just hire you on the spot? Where are you going? How will we reach you? You’re fifty-one years old for God’s sake!” Lori was crying hysterically at this point and threw the rake back into the trunk scratching the paint on my new car. Perhaps I was being a bit too casual about my decision to travel the national parks of northern California with a tent, $400, and two Chihuahuas in search of a fun summer job.
“I promise I’ll call you every day.” I lied in all sincerity. My hope was to calm her down a notch. In truth I could never call every day. I have no cell phone and I might not be near a phone booth at all times. Maybe this is a major part of her concern, but Lori did not have to work for pompous pricks. Lori was a retired postal worker, who is now on disability for all the surgeries and damage done to her body from carrying around fifty pounds of junk mail for seventeen years. I guess I’m trying to avoid physical and mental damage to myself at this late stage of the game.
Lori and I have always been very close. We have so much in common, our likes and dislikes in things to do, places to be or see, same tastes in food. I will miss our friendship, but I can’t expect her to take me on as a dependent.
I want to call Lori and tell her that I have a job and a place to live. I also need to call mom and