Unhappy Campers

“Yo, Ivy! Sumac! Leave those raspberries alone!”

Is he talking to my kids? He’d better not be. Ivy and Sumac? What’s his problem? I put the spatula down and walk away from the grill. I round the corner and there he is, beer in hand, bellowing at my kids. “Jessie, Jake, c’mon. Lunchtime.” To him I say only, “The berry bushes are for everyone.”

He raises his beer in response, his middle finger stretched away from the bottle, aimed at me. What a piece of work.

I poke my head inside the camper to rouse Lydia. Mr. Middle Finger had music blasting all night, so she crawled into a bunk an hour ago to make up some of that lost sleep. Between songs and sometimes over them, he’d shouted random nonsense. I hope to God he pulls up stakes and heads home today.

I booked this week a little over two months ago, after my grandfather died. When I was a kid, my family made two trips here every summer, renting this exact lot. Grandpa took me fishing, let me stay up late, and poured us mugs of hot milk with a few ounces of what he called Cowboy Coffee, which he’d brewed over the campfire. Those two weeks each year held more happy moments for me than the other 50 combined.

After Grandma died, Grandpa stopped camping. A year later he moved to Florida. It was a decade before I saw him again because his son had trouble holding a job. “Money don’t grow on trees, Billy-boy,” was the answer whenever I asked to go see Grandpa, and he didn’t invite his father to come up and see us because, as he put it, “I don’t need that old fart looking at me like I’m a loser.” The obnoxious jackass currently not more than 15 yards from me reminds me a whole lot of my old man.

After lunch, Lydia walks the kids to the clubhouse for ice cream. She glances back and nods in the direction of our neighbor. I’m supposed to go talk to him. “Maybe you can appeal to his sense of decency,” she’d said over cheeseburgers. “Or at least find out how much longer he’ll be here because if he’s staying, we’re not.”

I grab two beers and head next door. I offer him one. “I’m Bill,” I say. He nods, twists the cap off his bottle, and answers. “Randy.”

“It sure is pretty up here,” I say. We stand, wordless, for a few awkward moments. He’s pretty quiet for a guy who had plenty to say all night and to a couple of berry-picking kids. “You here for the week?” I ask, and he shakes his head. “Just ’til Wednesday.”

Three more days and long, noisy nights. “Hey Randy, you think maybe you could keep the volume down at night? These lots are really close together and it’s hard to sleep with the music going,” I say.

Randy doesn’t even blink. “Well Bill, how ’bout you go fuck yourself?”

So, I guess my family will be the ones heading home. “Have fun,” I say, and I walk away.

I start picking up our stuff and putting things into the camper and the back of the truck. I pour my beer out onto the grass, and I hear him behind me. “Puss,” he says, and I turn.

“What did you say?” I ask, and he repeats it. Then, “Not even half a beer, dude?”

“We’re heading home,” I tell him. “No drinking and driving.”

He walks back to his chair and sinks into it. Turns on his music. Cranks the volume.

Lydia is walking up the path, holding a hand of each of our kids, their other hands gripping towering cones, ice cream dripping down their forearms. I shrug and she shrugs back. I’d hoped that after a week of relaxing and seeing more stars than cars, I’d be able to talk Lydia into making camping a regular thing. There’s no way I’m convincing her to do this again any time soon. Or ever.  

Once we’re ready to go, Lydia hands the kids packs filled with games and road snacks, then hops into the passenger seat. I open my door and Randy yells from next door. “Hey, puss!”

“Ignore him,” my wife says, which is exactly what I’d intended to do. I get in the truck. I see Randy approaching in my mirror.

“Puss, I’m talkin’ to you!” he hollers. Then, “Billy-boy!” Space is tight, so I can’t back out without hitting him. Now he’s at my window, which is open. “Bill, gimme a minute,” he says. Still loud, still with an ever-present beer in his hand. I put the truck in reverse and he puts his hand on my shoulder. “Tadpole, stop. Please.”

The only person who ever called me Tadpole was my grandfather. I look at Randy, who smiles. “I’m here on behalf of your grandfather,” he says. Not loud. Not drunk. I shift the truck into park.

Randy pulls an envelope from his pocket and says, “My job was to push your buttons. See what you’re made of. To make sure you didn’t turn out like your father.” He hands me the envelope and says, “The rest is explained in here.”

~*~*~*~*~*~

(GBE #56, Fiction, Prompt: “Camping”)