Out of the Van
Sammy has a beautiful lot, about 15 miles down a dirt road off the highway. Trees, wild forest, and a tastefully overgrown garden with exotic plants and rock-work berms and walls.
The house itself is a tacked-together oddity. The right side of the house has a tin roof and old flaky siding, covered porch and front door. The central section, to the left of the door, is an old seafoam-green camper. The left side of the house is a new addition, fresh log cabin walls with a shingled roof that extends to cover the camper like an awning.
From inside, it seems to be all one house like any house. The front door opens into an entry way with closet, and beyond that the living room with a bar open to the kitchen. The central section is the kitchen and bathroom, with a big cast iron woodstove and a gas range. This is the camper. A door from the kitchen leads into a spacious master bedroom, with log-cabin walls and large clean beams overhead. It’s a really cool house.
When we arrive, Sammy hauls the beer and the boys into the house. I stay in the van, sit in the front seat with the door open and my feet on the dash, and write. Sammy occasionally opens the front door to toss a crushed beer can into the driveway. He stomps around, apparently angry. He feels like someone who took a lot of speed yesterday: irritable, angry, energetic, exhausted. I don’t trust him.
He stomps out onto the porch, tosses a beer can, and shouts at me, “What are you doing?”
“Just sitting,” I say. He goes back inside. Slams the door.
A moment later he stomps out again. Another beer can.
“Aren’t you coming in?” he yells.
“In a minute,” I shout back. Now I’m scared.
I calm myself and go to the front door. Knock. Sammy opens and stomps back into the kitchen. I stand in the entryway. Fabio and Wagner are sitting on the couch drinking beers. They stare at me.
“Is this a no-shoes house?” I ask timidly. Nobody answers me. The guys stare like I’m from another planet.
Sammy says, “Just come in, don’t worry about it.”
Without moving, I ask, “Where’s the restroom?”
After peeing, I sit on the couch with the boys. I refuse a beer. Sammy starts ranting about something, in a very vulgar way. He’s the kind of man who calls things like the table “that bitch there.” I jump up without a word and return to the van. This time, nobody asks.
Sammy leaves on a motorcycle. He locks the beer and boys out of the house.
“Just stay there, I’ll be back. Relax, I’ll take you crystal mining later.”
He feels hostile and put-upon. He’s trying to get something from us.
As soon as he’s gone, I sit on the porch with the guys. Refuse another beer.
I say, “Listen, guys, I don’t think we should be here. I don’t like the feel of this.”
Moth says, “He’s cool, he’s a Rainbow. If he didn’t want us here, he’d say so.”
“People are people everywhere you go. Just because he’s a Rainbow doesn’t mean anything. I’ve traveled alone for a month now. I have to trust my instincts. There’s something seriously wrong here. We should leave.”
“Look at this place, Hunter, it’s beautiful,” protests Fabio. “Nothing’s going to happen to us here.”
“The place is fine, Fabio, it’s the man I don’t like.”
“Well, if anything happens, we’ll protect you,” Fabio smirks.
Moth chimes in, “Yeah, we’ll protect you.”
They don’t take me seriously. Their words sound fine, but they’re derisive and dismissive. I get up, frustrated, and make a circle of the yard, quelling tears.
“Okay, look,” I say, back at the porch. “If Stephen were here, he would say, ‘Okay baby, we’ll leave.’ Or, if he felt that we should stay, he’d say, ‘Whatever goes down, baby, we can handle it together. I’ll protect you.’”
Fabio gets angry. “That’s what we just said!”
“Yeah, but he would mean it. You don’t understand.”
“We’re fine here!”
“I’m going to walk down the road to find a phone. Will you be here when I return?”
Moth looks at me seriously. “We can’t promise that.”
So I pack my bags and haul my stuff down the road.
I walk a quarter mile before I reach a driveway. A large black dog barks and approaches me menacingly. I stand very still and reach out one hand. He sniffs me, wags his tail, and immediately returns to his shady bed by the porch.
Relieved, hot, and exhausted, I climb the steps to ring the bell. Nobody answers. A small floppy puppy with loose skin growls as she slinks from behind the armchair on the porch. I laugh, crouch down, and tell the puppy I’m okay. She rolls over and piddles.
I play with the puppy for a good half hour, sitting on the porch couch. After a while, I relax, and start to feel capable of handling Sammy. I can feel Moth and Fabio worry about me. Finally I sigh, stand up, and haul my heavy bags back to my shoulders.
Just after I walk up the driveway, Sammy returns with a woman on his bike. I relax and join them inside. Now, the presence of a woman does not always mean I’m safer, but I feel her presence definitely means that. She doesn’t have the guts to help me if anything happens, but Sammy wouldn’t do anything in front of her. He doesn’t respect her, but in his own vulgar way, he does want to impress her.
Soon after that, a lot of people show up. We have a party, smoke pot, drink beers, eat dinner. Grilled chicken, potato salad, and cooked frozen broccoli with cheesy sauce.
One of the men is named Bob. He looks in his seventies, wiry and thin, dark suntanned skin, full grey beard. His eyes are weepy and honest. He jokes about being good when drunk. I say, “A Good Man is a Good Man, drunk or sober.” We share a moment of respect.
When Bob drives to the store to buy the chicken, I tag along. I tell him I love Arkansas. “I don’t have any money, but if you know someone who would let me work in exchange for room and board, I’d love to stay for a while.”
He gives me a long look with his sad eyes. “You can stay with me,” he says. “Chris could use some help in the garden.”
After dinner, Moth and Fabio go for a beer run. I’m washing dishes when I hear them leave. I run down the driveway to catch them before they go.
“Do you want to grab your stuff, in case we don’t come back?” asks Moth as I reach the van.
“Yes, please! Anything can happen. You might get lost.”
We share a moment that feels like goodbye. “Well, see you later!”
They never return.
I dump my bags in a corner of the entryway and go back to the dishes.
Sammy has designs on getting me to stay with him. He starts a movie, (“O Brother, Where Art Thou”) and when it’s over, starts another. Bob stands up and says he’s leaving.
“Ready to go?”
“You can stay here, if you want,” protests Sammy.
I’m indecisive for a moment. Don’t want to be trouble.
Bob touches my hand firmly, protective. “Let’s go to my house. No trouble at all,” he insists.
Thank God for honest men.
We drive to Bob’s house, a single-wide mobile home on the other side of Mt. Ida. I stand in his living room, uncomfortable.
“Where will I sleep?” I ask.
“You can sleep with me,” he says hopefully, wistfully. He’s so sad!
I shake my head in what I hope conveys modesty and not disgust.
“Then you sleep in my bed. I’ll sleep on the couch.”
I protest. It doesn’t seem right that a guest should take over his room. He insists, and I sleep in his bed. With the door closed. And clothes on.
I’m out of the van! Yeah, Arkansas!
The house itself is a tacked-together oddity. The right side of the house has a tin roof and old flaky siding, covered porch and front door. The central section, to the left of the door, is an old seafoam-green camper. The left side of the house is a new addition, fresh log cabin walls with a shingled roof that extends to cover the camper like an awning.
From inside, it seems to be all one house like any house. The front door opens into an entry way with closet, and beyond that the living room with a bar open to the kitchen. The central section is the kitchen and bathroom, with a big cast iron woodstove and a gas range. This is the camper. A door from the kitchen leads into a spacious master bedroom, with log-cabin walls and large clean beams overhead. It’s a really cool house.
When we arrive, Sammy hauls the beer and the boys into the house. I stay in the van, sit in the front seat with the door open and my feet on the dash, and write. Sammy occasionally opens the front door to toss a crushed beer can into the driveway. He stomps around, apparently angry. He feels like someone who took a lot of speed yesterday: irritable, angry, energetic, exhausted. I don’t trust him.
He stomps out onto the porch, tosses a beer can, and shouts at me, “What are you doing?”
“Just sitting,” I say. He goes back inside. Slams the door.
A moment later he stomps out again. Another beer can.
“Aren’t you coming in?” he yells.
“In a minute,” I shout back. Now I’m scared.
I calm myself and go to the front door. Knock. Sammy opens and stomps back into the kitchen. I stand in the entryway. Fabio and Wagner are sitting on the couch drinking beers. They stare at me.
“Is this a no-shoes house?” I ask timidly. Nobody answers me. The guys stare like I’m from another planet.
Sammy says, “Just come in, don’t worry about it.”
Without moving, I ask, “Where’s the restroom?”
After peeing, I sit on the couch with the boys. I refuse a beer. Sammy starts ranting about something, in a very vulgar way. He’s the kind of man who calls things like the table “that bitch there.” I jump up without a word and return to the van. This time, nobody asks.
Sammy leaves on a motorcycle. He locks the beer and boys out of the house.
“Just stay there, I’ll be back. Relax, I’ll take you crystal mining later.”
He feels hostile and put-upon. He’s trying to get something from us.
As soon as he’s gone, I sit on the porch with the guys. Refuse another beer.
I say, “Listen, guys, I don’t think we should be here. I don’t like the feel of this.”
Moth says, “He’s cool, he’s a Rainbow. If he didn’t want us here, he’d say so.”
“People are people everywhere you go. Just because he’s a Rainbow doesn’t mean anything. I’ve traveled alone for a month now. I have to trust my instincts. There’s something seriously wrong here. We should leave.”
“Look at this place, Hunter, it’s beautiful,” protests Fabio. “Nothing’s going to happen to us here.”
“The place is fine, Fabio, it’s the man I don’t like.”
“Well, if anything happens, we’ll protect you,” Fabio smirks.
Moth chimes in, “Yeah, we’ll protect you.”
They don’t take me seriously. Their words sound fine, but they’re derisive and dismissive. I get up, frustrated, and make a circle of the yard, quelling tears.
“Okay, look,” I say, back at the porch. “If Stephen were here, he would say, ‘Okay baby, we’ll leave.’ Or, if he felt that we should stay, he’d say, ‘Whatever goes down, baby, we can handle it together. I’ll protect you.’”
Fabio gets angry. “That’s what we just said!”
“Yeah, but he would mean it. You don’t understand.”
“We’re fine here!”
“I’m going to walk down the road to find a phone. Will you be here when I return?”
Moth looks at me seriously. “We can’t promise that.”
So I pack my bags and haul my stuff down the road.
I walk a quarter mile before I reach a driveway. A large black dog barks and approaches me menacingly. I stand very still and reach out one hand. He sniffs me, wags his tail, and immediately returns to his shady bed by the porch.
Relieved, hot, and exhausted, I climb the steps to ring the bell. Nobody answers. A small floppy puppy with loose skin growls as she slinks from behind the armchair on the porch. I laugh, crouch down, and tell the puppy I’m okay. She rolls over and piddles.
I play with the puppy for a good half hour, sitting on the porch couch. After a while, I relax, and start to feel capable of handling Sammy. I can feel Moth and Fabio worry about me. Finally I sigh, stand up, and haul my heavy bags back to my shoulders.
Just after I walk up the driveway, Sammy returns with a woman on his bike. I relax and join them inside. Now, the presence of a woman does not always mean I’m safer, but I feel her presence definitely means that. She doesn’t have the guts to help me if anything happens, but Sammy wouldn’t do anything in front of her. He doesn’t respect her, but in his own vulgar way, he does want to impress her.
Soon after that, a lot of people show up. We have a party, smoke pot, drink beers, eat dinner. Grilled chicken, potato salad, and cooked frozen broccoli with cheesy sauce.
One of the men is named Bob. He looks in his seventies, wiry and thin, dark suntanned skin, full grey beard. His eyes are weepy and honest. He jokes about being good when drunk. I say, “A Good Man is a Good Man, drunk or sober.” We share a moment of respect.
When Bob drives to the store to buy the chicken, I tag along. I tell him I love Arkansas. “I don’t have any money, but if you know someone who would let me work in exchange for room and board, I’d love to stay for a while.”
He gives me a long look with his sad eyes. “You can stay with me,” he says. “Chris could use some help in the garden.”
After dinner, Moth and Fabio go for a beer run. I’m washing dishes when I hear them leave. I run down the driveway to catch them before they go.
“Do you want to grab your stuff, in case we don’t come back?” asks Moth as I reach the van.
“Yes, please! Anything can happen. You might get lost.”
We share a moment that feels like goodbye. “Well, see you later!”
They never return.
I dump my bags in a corner of the entryway and go back to the dishes.
Sammy has designs on getting me to stay with him. He starts a movie, (“O Brother, Where Art Thou”) and when it’s over, starts another. Bob stands up and says he’s leaving.
“Ready to go?”
“You can stay here, if you want,” protests Sammy.
I’m indecisive for a moment. Don’t want to be trouble.
Bob touches my hand firmly, protective. “Let’s go to my house. No trouble at all,” he insists.
Thank God for honest men.
We drive to Bob’s house, a single-wide mobile home on the other side of Mt. Ida. I stand in his living room, uncomfortable.
“Where will I sleep?” I ask.
“You can sleep with me,” he says hopefully, wistfully. He’s so sad!
I shake my head in what I hope conveys modesty and not disgust.
“Then you sleep in my bed. I’ll sleep on the couch.”
I protest. It doesn’t seem right that a guest should take over his room. He insists, and I sleep in his bed. With the door closed. And clothes on.
I’m out of the van! Yeah, Arkansas!