GRILL!: The Misadventures of an RV Park Fast-Fry Cook. Diane Stegman

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СКАЧАТЬ rattles on dramatically about something, pointing in my direction. He turns around, looks toward my trailer, and pulls on some thick work gloves with a scowl on his face. Wow! Those two make me very nervous!

      Smoke is pouring out of a vent that is next to the back door of the kitchen. I smell the grilling hamburgers and steaks, my stomach growls. I open a can of organic vegetarian chili, not because I am a vegetarian, but because even though I enjoy meat, I try to not eat it from a processed source, such as a can. I heat it in my microwave and pour myself another glass of wine. I eat in the silence and watch the shadows fade while night approaches on my first night at Hacienda.

      “Darn it! I forgot about the front door!” There is still enough twilight outside to duct tape the hanging pieces of aluminum back on. As I begin, I hear the hum of a machine over by where Bubba is loading trash. He is placing the full bags of trash in some sort of large trash compactor. You can hear the snap from the contents of the bags as they slowly get crushed. He then tosses the flattened oozing bags into the dump truck. Glass explodes within the one he is currently crushing. I think it is one of the bags that I put over there because I had filled a few with old dishes and pans. The trash compactor makes a high-pitched screeching sound, and is then silent.

      “GOD DAMN IT TO HELL! WHO THE HELL PUT THAT SHIT IN THE TRASH? DAMN SON OF A BITCH, STUPID ASSHOLE! TERRY GET ME THE BIG WRENCH NOW! AND THE FLATHEAD SCREWDRIVER! HURRY UP DAMN IT I HAVEN’T GOT ALL NIGHT!”

      If Bubba is aware that the bag was from me, I cannot tell because he does not look in my direction. It was his yelling that seemed directed at me. Geez! Couldn’t he tell that the bag had heavy glass and steel in it when he picked it up? If it were going to break the machine, wouldn’t he have known not to put it in there?

      Terry hands Bubba a tool. “I SAID THE FLATHEAD SCREWDRIVER DAMN IT!” Terry’s panicky reaction, and Bubba’s loud demand reminds me of my childhood when I tried to help my father with his tools while he worked on his car. I could never pick out the right screwdriver. It’s interesting what makes the doors of memories open unannounced.

      I hurry and finish duct-taping the door as best as possible without looking in Bubba’s direction. I’m aware that the sound of the tape ripping off the roll is echoing across the entire park because all the noisy machines are silent at the moment. Duct tape is loud that way. The door looks horrible, like a badly wrapped, silver-gray, square mummy, but the small Plexiglas window is now covered up and held in with the tape and most of the hanging parts are covered with tape. I have to lift the door that is only connected by the bent bottom hinge and set it gently on the threshold. As it balances there I take the bungee cord and loop it through the broken door handle. I pull the hooked ends of the stretchy cord and hook them on the handle of the stove that is right next to the door. I’m proud of my ingenuity! It also serves as a door lock, which at this point, I think I need.

      I sit in the dark trailer with another glass of wine on the seating area by the table that faces out to the dump truck and Bubba. I have the curtain open just enough to watch what is going on out there. Who needs a TV when you have this!? The dogs are curled up on each side of me. “Darn it! I need a shower! I have to get up tomorrow and go to work!” The dogs jump to attention.

      It is more comfortable at this point to drive my car around the front of the main building and go to the showers. I don’t want to walk by Bubba and Terry.

      The showers are roomy and the water is hot. The warm water running down my legs makes my new mosquito bite burn. I lift my leg to see not one, but five new bites beginning to swell. There is a big bruise on the top of my foot from when the door fell on it and another tender purple area on my hip. I feel the bite on my neck and can’t believe that it’s more swollen than earlier today. Day one and I already have battle scars. I dry off and change into some sweats. As I walk out of the building I can hear the dogs barking through the screen door of the trailer, which I can see across the lake. A family is walking their dog by my trailer. I drive back to my trailer. I made the shower quick because I am exhausted and need to just sit down for a while.

      The pile of trash is loaded by the time I get back. Bubba is trying to start the engine of the dump truck again. The air stinks like rotten food and I need to swat several flies out from my face as I enter the trailer.

      I return to my spying spot at my dining table with my wine and tea tree oil, dabbing the oil on each bite. I wonder if Bubba ever got the trash compactor fixed.

      The dump truck suddenly fires up and Bubba roars the engine alive several times, as if he were taking out some aggressive behavior in the form of noise.

      As Bubba drives away, I am left in a space of time where I can feel my feelings again. My heart begins to beat a little faster as I become aware of the craziness of the stupid choice I made to take a working vacation. “Be accountable for your choices!” That’s one of Dr. Phil’s famous and favorite statements. I just love Dr. Phil! I’ll try, Dr. Phil. I’ll try.

      A bright outdoor light pops on from the edge of the roof behind the kitchen. A female comes out to smoke a cigarette. I can’t really see what she looks like. She looks nervously around and pauses as she looks in my direction. I don’t hear the dump truck running anymore, but I hear the golf cart on the other side of the lake coming back around the other way. It stops when I presume they are back at their trailer. Someone else comes out the back door and throws several cardboard boxes into the cardboard box pile, which at this point, looks to be about ten feet high and fifteen feet wide. It’s Betty! I can tell by the way she is moving! Roller-skating with boxes. Roller-skating back into the kitchen.

      Car lights shine through my front curtain window and the sound of gravel crunching fills the quiet night as a vehicle slowly passes by on its way to the rear door of the kitchen. As soon as this occurs, I hear the golf cart fire up again and charge in my direction. Three people exit the back door of the kitchen. Bubba and Terry buzz by and halt at the van that is now parked. Everyone seems to be talking at once to the two passengers who are exiting the van. I hear Bubba belt out a loud laugh. It must be Billy and Ray returning from shopping in Redding. Bubba opens the rear door of the van and everyone starts hauling the tons of heavy boxes into the kitchen. I worry again about my new job. I have a feeling that working here and living here at the same time is going to require spontaneous involvement at odd hours. Am I expected to run out there and help right now?

      Ray is rolling his oxygen tank behind him as he wanders over towards the big oil-drum-barbeque by the lake. He lights a cigarette. The van gets emptied and Billy drives it back around to the front. Terry walks by the fifth wheel on her way home, leaving the golf cart for Bubba. She is not very steady on her feet, and is mumbling as she passes my open window.

      Bubba joins Ray over by the oil drum and starts wading up newspaper, and then stuffs it into the barbeque. They are talking, but I can’t quite hear the words. Bubba lights the newspaper and flames light up the whole area. Ray says something and Bubba rolls Ray’s oxygen tank over to the back door of the kitchen away from the flames. He goes inside the kitchen door and returns a few minutes later with a drink for Ray and a beer for himself. He gives Ray his drink and sets his beer on the redwood picnic table where Ray is sitting, then goes back over to the pile of cardboard boxes and grabs several. He brings them back to the fire and drops them on the ground. He starts ripping them apart and tossing them into the flaming barbeque barrel. Both men stare, as if in a trance, into the fire, their faces glowing orange. Bubba goes back for more boxes.

      This talking, ripping, burning, and drinking goes on until I feel myself falling asleep at the dining table. I get up and set my alarm for 5:30, crawl up into my bed, and close my eyes to the flickering glow outside. I drift off to sleep with the sound of coyotes yipping somewhere close by.

       Chapter Three

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