Sandusky Burning, page 2
Chuck’s golf cart was one of those premium ones, light gray with orange flames blazing across the sides, and constantly playing music loudly. His musical tastes were consistently Hank Williams Jr., Lynyrd Skynyrd, Bad Company, and Bob Seger. Country, classic rock, and southern rock.
“Sorry to hear about your back,” I said.
He shrugged. Chuck stared down at his beer can for a moment. Patting his shirt pocket, he found his pack of cigarettes. Pulling out the pack, he jerked his wrist several times until one popped free. He found his lighter in his pocket, lit it, and took a long drag. Leaning over, he held out the pack.
“No, thanks.”
“Don’t smoke?”
“No.”
“Never have?”
“Not really. I smoked a few as a teen, that’s about it.”
“Smart. This is a waste of money,” he said bitterly, as though someone was forcing him to smoke against his will. He coughed slightly as he exhaled.
“My parents both smoked, so I grew up in a cloud of secondhand smoke. I never enjoyed that,” I said.
“I’m surprised, most kids end up smokin’ when they grow up if their parents smoked. I was stealin’ smokes from my old man all the time as a teen,” he said. Chuck regarded the camper next door to me, exhaling a long puff of smoke.
It was a large, white, fifth-wheel model, probably thirty-eight feet long. A clean-cut guy in his thirties with Kentucky plates on his truck stayed there on weekends with his two young boys. We had nodded at each other a few times but never had a conversation.
“I was around smoke constantly until I left home at eighteen and joined the army. Up until that point, we all thought I had asthma; I could never run long distances without losing my breath and wheezing. When I got away from home and quit breathing all of that secondhand smoke, my asthma went away. It turns out my lungs were fine. I haven’t had a problem catching my breath since,” I said. Particulars about my anti-smoking journey that you don’t give a shit about.
“Army, huh? Thank you for your service. I have flat feet. Otherwise, I was gonna join the marines,” he said. I nodded.
I wasn’t the type to self-aggrandize based on my modest military service, but I always disliked the “I almost joined” bullshit. It was a binary status, either you served or you didn’t. You don’t get credit for an almost. And I would have bet money there was nothing wrong with Chuck’s feet.
“Did you finish that race?” Chuck asked, motioning with his cigarette hand toward my shirt. It was from a half-marathon I had completed several years earlier.
“Yeah,” I replied, wondering what sort of follow-up was coming from a guy who didn’t look like he could run 13.1 yards, let alone miles.
“Good for you! I only run if someone is chasing me!” he said with a laugh. I gave the dad joke a halfhearted courtesy laugh.
After sneaking a quick look at his big stomach, I couldn’t help but feel that he should definitely consider running, regardless of whether or not he was being chased. Hell, at least walking part of the day instead of carting himself around on that ridiculous golf cart would be helpful. Then again, maybe his flat feet continued to plague him.
The back injury he mentioned could have been a factor. I experienced a brief moment of guilt about judging him without fully knowing his situation.
“Is the family comin’ up?” Chuck asked.
I flinched a little before I caught myself. He noticed. I forced a fake smile. “Sure, soon,” I said.
“So, why are you up by yourself?” Chuck asked bluntly.
I felt my face flush a little. I took a swig of my beer and wiped my mouth. Drop by for the free beer, stay to inflict an interrogation. “I’m working on an important project and needed a little uninterrupted time,” I finally said.
“And look at me, over here interruptin’ you! Do people interrupt you during the day when you are workin’ from home when you are in Cleveland? Your kids are home for the summer, right?” he asked coolly, taking a toke from his cigarette and then a drink of beer.
I slouched back a little, realized I was slouching, and straightened my back. “They are. I do get interrupted by the kids during the summer when I work from home. I also have to work later into the evenings on this project, so I just don’t have time to take care of the kids.”
“Right, that is all on your wife now,” he said, grinning widely.
I tried to match it but was falling short of mustering an actual grin. It felt like a grimace. I hid it with my beer as I took a drink, finishing the last swig. Chuck crushed his can lightly and placed it on the table in front of him. “Another?” I asked, wondering if my lack of sincerity was obvious.
“Sure, Brady! I’m on break,” he laughed, winking at me. Chuck’s career at the campground appeared to be one long, continuous break.
I got up and walked to the fridge, retrieving two more cans. “What do you have goin’ on the rest of the day?” I asked, hoping to permanently change the subject from my domestic situation.
“I have to take a look at all of the fire pits and shovel some out. A few trees need to be trimmed over on the south side. The usual shit.” He popped open his can and took a swig. “Here’s to drinking on the job!” he said loudly, leaning across and clicking his can against mine. He belched softly. I nodded and took a drink.
“The boss doesn’t care, I take it?” I asked, gesturing toward my beer before taking a drink. He shook his head.
“Nah, day drinkin’ is one of the fringe benefits! How are things on your lot here? Everything good?” he asked, looking around as if noticing my campsite for the first time.
“Sure, everything is fine.”
“Need some firewood?”
“I think I have enough for tonight. I may drop by the office and buy a bundle.”
“Don’t bother. I will drop some off later when I make rounds. We cut down a few trees the other day.”
“You don’t have to do that, Chuck.”
“No problem, I insist,” he said, laughing. “Are you plannin’ on being here through the weekend?”
“Yeah, I should be.”
“So, you said your family is joinin’ you?”
I paused a few seconds. Why do you care? “I’m not sure yet,” I replied. The kids were potentially coming up. But I didn’t feel the need to elaborate.
“Great! Until then, it is just us bachelors holdin’ it down!”
“I didn’t realize you were a bachelor. I thought you had some female company in your RV over there,” I said.
Chuck laughed and shook his head. “Technically I am, no ring on this finger!” he said, holding up his left hand. “Sharon and I just hang out. I don’t have time for no girlfriend.”
I wondered if Sharon knew that. I recalled seeing the heavy woman with graying black hair going in and out of his camper at site 57, which was one street over and about five sites north of mine. He owned a StarCraft model with an aluminum-paneled exterior, about thirty feet long. It had definitely seen better days. I estimated by the antiquated aerodynamics of its design that it was built in the 1980s, as the modern ones were less angular and more rounded.
“If you are around later, I will drop by. I may be pullin’ a double; the campground is short-staffed.” He chugged the rest of his beer and put it down by the other empty.
“Great. I plan on working late, but maybe I can break free for a beer,” I said. Unless I was able to avoid it.
“I may have a few friends out one night soon, probably in the next few days. We build a fire over at lot 21 after dark. I’ll let you know; you can drop by and socialize. You live like a hermit over here!” he said as he stood up.
“Great!” I said, realizing I kept saying “great” over and over and how awkward it sounded. We shook hands, and he waddled over to his golf cart, settling in behind the wheel. He smiled, nodded at me, and took off.
I took a final swig off my can and tossed it in the garbage. Glancing at my watch, I noted it was 1410 hours. I had a few hours of work I should reasonably do, but drinking had sapped me of some of my motivation. Grabbing two more beers from the fridge, I brought them inside.
Chuck 1
2:35 p.m.
It took every bit of self-control I had not to belch in his face as I left. Uptight jerkoff. I needed to play a game of cash poker with him. His face didn’t hide a damn thing.
He had been stayin’ at his camper alone for weeks. Last summer he was mostly up on weekends with his family. Family vacationers were a waste of time for Randy’s side business interests. Solo male campers had potential. Brady had gone from the family category to solo, so he was worth keepin’ an eye on.
Loopin’ around Starling Street toward the office, I knew it would be easy to avoid Travis for the rest of the day since he was back supervisin’ work at the tent sites. Asshole kept naggin’ me about the fire pits and the trees, but why am I always the one doin’ the hard labor? About time Patrick got his feet wet and did something besides ridin’ around in a work cart chattin’ up the female campers.
I drove to Cabin F at the southwest corner of the campground and let myself in. The cabins were all the same, fake wood siding painted light brown with dark-gray shingles on the roof. They were prefabbed and cheaply built but were in decent shape. Two bedrooms, furnished, and not a bad place to hide out and kill time, if I could stash my golf cart around back before anybody saw it. Definitely a lot better than the dump of an RV I lived in.
I lit a cigarette. These were nonsmokin’ cabins, but fuck ’em.
The location of the cabins made them perfect for Randy to set up the side jobs. They were away from the seasonal campers, and the sites around the cabins were transient sites, so it wasn’t unusual to see strangers comin’ and goin’. The seasonals were nosy as hell; a lot of ’em just sat in lawn chairs all day watchin’ other people.
I had been ignorin’ my text messages while drinkin’ with Brady but took a look as I sat on the couch, kickin’ my feet up on the coffee table. My burner phone had a few. Viktor. Randy. My regular cell had texts, too, a bunch from Travis, the usual shit, “where are you?”, “I need this or that done”, “blah blah blah.” A few from Sharon too. Nag alert.
I checked the time, and it was 2:40 p.m. It was unusual to get a text from Viktor before dinnertime.
Call me, ASAP.
Everything was hot with this guy; it was probably some cultural mix-up again. Dude had been in the States for months, and he still got confused by basic shit. I could hear that terrible Romanian accent in my head when I read his broken English texts.
I thought I heard Randy’s motorcycle across the grounds. He had it ratcheted up to blast everyone’s eardrums, a lot louder than mine. I wasn’t complainin’, it was a warnin’ he was around.
Another message came in, Travis again. Jesus. I flicked my ash into the sink and ran the water. I peeked out the door before leavin’, walkin’ around back to my golf cart.
Patrick 1
4:00 p.m.
Calling it a security booth was a joke. At the beginning of the season, they had someone in the booth all day, but that happened less and less as the summer wore on.
The seasonal people were allowed access to the campground in late April to start setting up for the season. During the off season, the entrance was blocked by picnic tables that Travis would stack with a forklift.
Sure, you could still get in if you wanted to badly enough, but who wanted to rob any of these RVs? There was almost nothing of value. It was just a bunch of winterized RVs sitting empty from November through April. It was Ohio, so half of that time they were buried in snow. What could you possibly steal that would make it worth unstacking heavy picnic tables? Nothing.
It was only June, and they already stopped manning the booth full time. On Fridays, there was someone there to direct incoming weekend campers to the office, but by Sunday, nobody was around.
Security was random. Service was random. People who worked there didn’t care about any of that after a week on the job. Nobody Cares should be the slogan sewn on the front pocket of our stupid yellow work shirts.
Sometimes security was needed. Campers routinely got wasted and raised hell past 11 p.m., well after the posted “quiet hours” began at 10 p.m., and nobody on staff did anything about it. People shooting off fireworks at 1 a.m., revving their motorbikes, or generally just being loud.
Travis didn’t care. A lot of his employees were also campers, so why bother complaining? Who was going to break up the disturbance? Chuck? Right, he was most likely one of the drunks causing the disturbance.
I played it a lot straighter my first year on the job. Since I was the only Latino guy, I walked a straight line. I introduced myself as Patrick, although my real name is Patricio. Patrick was better for relating to Anglos and applying for jobs than Patricio.
When I turned in applications with the name “Patrick Correa”, I actually got interviews. I sounded white on the phone. When I showed up brown, I had disappointed a few employers, but also gotten the job a few times with a good interview.
My dad barely spoke English, but my mom was lily white, so I was able to communicate good in either world. If I was at a day-labor site, I could banter with the Hispanic guys. If I was working around Anglos, I could speak without a Spanish accent. It was about picking the right culture for the right situation.
I had black friends who did that all the time. They were perfectly capable of sounding educated but chose not to if there was an advantage to speaking broken English. I have heard college-educated blacks do it. They want to be “down,” so they pretended to regress. Seemed like some phony shit, but I did it, so I couldn’t judge.
I passed by Chuck on my work cart as we drove by the basketball courts. He motioned with his cigarette hand for me to pull over, a weird waving motion he did without looking directly at me. I backed up until I was alongside him. This area of the campground was quiet; only a few lots were occupied.
“Hey, Chuck,” I said. Chuck ignored me, looking off to the side and taking a drag on his cigarette.
“Where have you been, dude?” he asked angrily.
“At security. I’m heading back to see what Travis needs in the back.”
“Tell Travis I’m checkin’ on the electrical box at site 66.”
“Who called that in? There hasn’t been no one camping there,” I said.
He glared at me. “From the last time someone was there. I’m followin’ up,” he said, blowing out a puff of smoke.
He drove off, and I kept heading toward the back. I could see Travis from a distance. He was wearing his usual black T-shirt and black shorts, black shoes, black socks, and a black hat. His long, black hair spilled everywhere over his big, round back and shoulders. He was an all-around big guy, offensive lineman big—if an offensive lineman had let himself go for a few years. But just a high-school-caliber lineman, he wasn’t that tall. I pulled up to him as he stood by a fallen tree, staring down at his cell phone.
Travis 1
4:30 p.m.
Still no response from that waste of air Chuck. I could have guessed at which of the multiple hiding spots he was at, but I didn’t have time to play hide-and-go-seek with him.
If it were up to me, I would fire his ass. I could have done it a dozen times for cause. But I was told to keep him by Randy. I didn’t want to think about what would happen if I fired him without Randy’s approval.
I walked over to Patrick as he pulled up on the work cart. I had a few trees taken down, and the wood needed to be moved over to the north end, near the trail to be stacked. It was an exercise in futility, as campers would help themselves to all of the wood within a few days. Half the shit would be behind Chuck’s camper at some point, no doubt.
“Hey, Patrick, would you mind stacking this along the trail?” I asked. He nodded and pulled up closer to the pile.
“Who is on security?” Patrick asked.
“Nobody. I will man it for a while,” I said. The security booth was generally a waste of resources. I was always juggling between having a security presence and better utilizing my people. “Have you seen Chuck?”
“Yeah, just passed him, he is on his way to 66 to take a look at the electrical box,” Patrick said as he started stacking the wood in the back of his cart.
Patrick didn’t look very strong. He was about five-foot-nine with an average build, but he never had a problem with work that involved heavy lifting. I was trying to recall how old he was from his application but couldn’t. He had a shaved head and some preteen-looking facial hair, peach fuzz above his lip and on his chin. I thought he was around thirty, but it was hard to tell with Mexicans.
“66? Something is wrong with 66?” I asked, irritated. Patrick shrugged. “I have about fifty things I need addressed out here today, and Chuck is out making shit up to avoid real work. Unbelievable.”
By unbelievable, I meant totally believable.
Mike 1
6:45 p.m.
I was standing at the sink in my RV when I saw the flamboyant golf cart pulling up. Big bad flames along the side; he must be a rebel.
I had actually heard the music first and then saw the pudgy, long-haired white guy with the cigarette in his mouth pull up to 66. Was that Grand Funk Railroad? What year was it, 1974? Better than boy-band music, for sure.
The guy began fiddling around with the electrical box. It appeared that he wasn’t really doing anything. It was like he was messing with it because he thought someone may be watching him, and he wanted to be able to claim he fixed a problem.
Odd. But not entirely surprising. If you spend enough time at these campgrounds, you began to understand the labor dynamics.
Campgrounds were only open for part of the year up north. Therefore, you got temporary seasonal help. Teens, immigrants, and general slackers who needed some sort of income but didn’t care to work too hard at earning it. The kids who were home from college would have been good hires, but they all chose to work at Gravity Junction, since the pay was better.
