Chapter Fourteen
It’s funny how the human spirit can adapt to extraneous circumstances. I am no longer compelled to look out the window when the trailer shakes from the passing logging trucks, loaded with the carcasses of downed trees. Nor am I curious to watch Bubba walk by, drinking his coffee, spitting his chew. Perhaps the ducks and mud hens have eaten all the lawn seed in the night.
I did not sleep last night. This happens every now and then. I don’t let it stress me out. I simply accept it, get up, and do other things. It was probably due to my heavy heart last night. I needed a good cry. Sure, it’s obvious that things have changed dramatically in my life, that I am getting older, that I am no longer in paradise, and that this place is just a temporary detour in my internal roadmap. Ever since I left my Carmel Valley paradise, I have been a lost wandering gypsy. I can be so silly. To think that I envisioned a wonderful working vacation, seeing the forests of California, and meeting interesting people. Hey God! Laugh all you want. I plan on enjoying my golden years being creative, caring, curious, and I plan on all of this in a peaceful, visually beautiful, environment. I plan on being surrounded by positive, conscientious people of reason. I did not plan on being a fast-fry cook at an RV park, so I must be on some sort of learning curve. Maybe it’s okay to make God laugh. Maybe He likes to laugh. I like to laugh. I could use a good laugh. I take full responsibility for my current state of affairs. I will remain positive and optimistic, even in the landmine of human dysfunction I currently find myself caught in. I walked in here, and I will crawl my way out, unblemished, except for the several scars from mosquitoes and the one on my finger from a chopping knife.
Finishing up my third cup of coffee, I finally open the door in the hopes that I will wake Bonita and Bandito who have been taking advantage of having the bed to themselves. Outside I see Jim’s car behind the shabby motor home with the engine running. Jim sits at the wheel of his car waiting for Ray who is climbing into the driver’s side of the motor home. Billy stands next to him holding his oxygen tank. Once Ray is inside she hands it up to him. Bubba is stooped down talking to Jim through his open window. Bubba and Billy back away and wave as Ray and Jim slowly drive onto the highway. Billy watches until they are out of sight, and then she and Bubba go back into the kitchen. Blue smoke fumes from the motor home mixes with the gray pancake smelling smoke from the kitchen vent and fills the forest air.
I finish my morning routine and keep myself busy and preoccupied until it is time to go to work, at which time, I am feeling the effects from lack of sleep. Once dressed and double checking the nuances of the fifth wheel, I leave Bonita and Bandito to their world within. In my pocket I have my rubber finger protector, and in my hand I have my new coffee cup.
Bubba has left the kitchen in its normal chaotic mess. Karen, who has obviously changed her mind about leaving, is counting her morning tips. Helen is at the register where she belongs, and Jamie is clocking in.
My spirits lift when I see Betty walking in. The left side of her face is bruised and she is wearing a heavily padded sling on her left arm. She walks with a slight limp. Betty’s zoom has been knocked out of her. Her movements are slow and calculated. We take turns lightly hugging her. It’s nice to see united compassion as we share our love and concern.
After Betty leaves, we all go about our duties. I set my new coffee cup on the shelf next to Bubba’s, and put my rubber finger protector over my bandaged wound. Jamie and I make a giant tub of potato salad to hopefully last the rest of the week. I make bean and ham soup, twice-baked potatoes, and meatloaf for today’s special. Jamie cheerfully erases Bubba’s road kill meals and writes our menu on the special board in her colorful, youthful way.
A little after lunch there is a commotion at the front register. Helen is hugging Billy who seems very upset and is crying. Billy has her purse in one hand and her keys in the other, ready to leave. Jamie and I walk over to see what is wrong. Helen explains as Billy runs out the front door heading for her car.
“God, this is horrible! Ray’s in the hospital! The motor home burnt to the ground! The police said it had a gas leak that ignited while he was driving. Ray had just filled up both tanks at a gas station, Jim was following him when somehow the trail of gas caught on fire. Jim tried to signal to Ray about the fire by honking his horn and flashing his lights, but Ray did not respond. Then it exploded! Ray pulled over, barely in time. His oxygen tank exploded just as he climbed out and threw him to the asphalt! He’s not burnt, but his lungs are in trouble from all the heat and smoke and he has some cuts and bruises from when he landed so hard. The motor home burnt to the ground and caught the mountain on fire. They are still trying to put the fire out.”
My first thought was of Little John. Had he sabotaged the motor home out of anger or revenge of some sort? Motor homes do not explode! If it had a gas leak, wouldn’t he have told Billy and Ray? I feel so bad for Ray. I can only hope that he will recover without further injury to his weak lungs.
During a pause in cooking, I take a break to take Bonita and Bandito outside, and feed them an early dinner. There are three large trucks parked in the three empty spaces next door to my trailer. The trucks have large white plastic tanks full of a clear fluid hitched onto the back. I cringe thinking of what it could be. Several young Mexican men are sitting on a picnic bench drinking beer. Mexican music is playing from an old radio on the table. I see the silhouettes of more men inside the trailer that has sat empty since I’ve been here, four spaces down, cooking what smells like tortillas and beans.
I move the sprinkler and turn it on to keep the new lawn seed wet. My thoughts are on Ray and his horrible accident. The men are watching me and one of them walks in my direction to talk. “This good! You make lawn?”
“No, no, Ray makes lawn.”
“Good. Will be very nice.”
“Could you move this sprinkler for me in an hour or so? If it’s not too much trouble?” The young man does not understand what I am trying to say. I point to the sprinkler, and wave my hand around the lawn area like some ancient sign language.
“Si! I move for you,” he says with a big smile brought on by my theatrical gesture.
“Thank you very much. Gracias,” I smile back embarrassed for being presumptuous in asking for his assistance. I’ll have to ask Helen if she knows who these guys are, how long they will be staying, and what kind of fluid is in those large tanks.
When I return to the kitchen, Bubba follows soon thereafter to get himself a twelve pack. He looks very upset. I’m sure he’s heard about Ray.
“Bubba, you’ve heard about Ray’s accident, haven’t you?”
Bubba’s lips are clinched, and his chest rises, as if he’s holding his breath, fighting off tears. His sadness immediately turns to anger. “I BETTER NOT EVER FIND THAT PUNY SON OF A BITCH! IF I DO, I’LL KILL HIM FOR SURE!” I’m sure Bubba is referring to Little John. He obviously suspects Little John had something to do with this, as do I.
“Maybe we should just keep good thoughts for Ray’s recovery right now.”
“HE’S DEAD MEAT!” Bubba is obviously still referring to Little John.
A tear slips out from Bubba’s red eyes. He turns around and leaves the kitchen.
I am grilling five hamburgers when Helen walks up to place an order for herself on the crown of thorns that is already full of orders. I guess when Helen is hungry, she has no consideration about my stress level. She answers my question about the Mexicans without me asking. “I see that the tree planters have arrived.”
“Tree planters?” Of course! Who else would it be but tree planters? It’s the Mexicans who have always been responsible for seeding and harvesting America. We’d be lost without them.
“Yeah, they stay here when they’re plantin’ the trees for the forest service. The contracted company owns that trailer. They keep it here for the workers to stay at during the plantin’ season.” I am slightly relieved that some trees are being replaced for all of the full grown, mature, trees
that are being chopped down. I am more than relieved to presume that the clear fluid in those tanks is just water.
“Helen, is there any word about Ray yet?”
“I guess he’ll be comin’ home tonight. Billy said he was in shock, and seems despondent, more from mental pain than physical. Probably has something to do with Ray’s post war trauma, being a flame thrower operator and all.”
“A flame thrower operator? What’s a flame thrower operator?” I ask in total disbelief.
“Oh, I guess you didn’t know about that. Billy and Ray keep that kind of quiet, so don’t say nothing. Ray was one of those guys in the Korean War that came into the villages with blowtorches strapped to their backs and burnt down the villages. He’s never been able to get over that.”
I now understand more than I want to. The grill is flaming up. Helen backs up from the grill area. I have lost my much-needed concentration on the cooking. I see villages, families, children, the motor home, the mountain, and a good portion of Oregon within these flames. I see Ray as a young man, forced into a wartime job of such horror! I see his desperate mind, forever trying to erase the memory. I see him now as the motor home’s flames surround him. I see Little John, laughing somewhere, smoking crack, feeling proud of himself by getting one over on Billy and Ray.
Helen returns to the front counter, and I am forced to continue with this overload of human consumption, regardless of my own personal thoughts and concerns. I want to scream into the dining room through all the loud jabbering and clanging of forks on plates, break through the sound of the country music playing in the background.
“Everyone shut up! All of you eat too much! Do you realize how clogged up your arteries are? Most of you are beyond overweight! How many of you line up your prescription drugs every morning? Those drugs are really a plot to kill you! Who wants my job? Look at my hands all stained with grease! It’s hotter than hell by this flaming grill! Guess what? I used to be rich! I’d still chose this hellhole in place of over-consumption! There’s sewage in this lake! A lake that is a breeding ground for every mosquito in the county! The flies are torturing you because we pile months of your garbage in the back forest! A forest that, because we are all so damned concerned about owning things, is slowly disappearing! You buy and own too much stuff! You eat too much! The owner of this place was almost killed today from a greedy, sick, addicted to drugs, asshole! Is there one single person in here that has a soul? Hey Helen! God bless America! You didn’t have to blowtorch a village full of mothers and children! What the hell are you so proud of?”
I wish I could be crazy enough to explode those feelings into reality. It would do me a world of good, but it would do absolutely nothing to solve the issues at hand. I’m beginning to understand crazy, homeless people that shout out crazy talk on street corners a little more than I should. Perhaps they drop out of society because they have had it with all the bullshit, kind of like, (gulp) me.
Jamie is a wonderful extension of my cooking. She is doing such a great job. I thank my lucky stars that she came to work here. Our conversations are short, to the point, and pleasant. I know that she wishes she could be somewhere else right now, as do I, but she is doing her best under these circumstances. It blows me away every time I see my younger self in her eyes. She will probably get married to some charming young man in college, more than likely within her first year, like I did. Jamie is a nurturer, and will make a good mother. I hope her journey in life does not end up in an RV park, like mine.
It is 8:00 PM, and I don’t remember the past few hours. I have been on auto-pilot and lost in my head with thoughts. Jamie and I made plenty of tips, no dinners came back, and we had no complaints, so whatever I cooked must have been just fine.
Billy and Ray come through the front entry. Ray’s head is hanging low. He can barely walk. Billy is by his side, holding his arm, pulling his oxygen tank behind her. I can hear his strained breathing from across the room. Ray lifts his head and sees me. Our eyes meet. Mine fill with tears, his are distant and shielded. I do not approach their personal tragedy; there is nothing to say.
Chapter Fifteen
The ways that grief and stress can alter a mind is amazing. My first thoughts upon waking go something like this; Today—Wednesday. Hour—6:22 AM. Date—July 2nd. Location—Hacienda RV Park. Emotional evaluation—Low. Current concern—Ray. Needs—Coffee. Reality—Bonita and Bandito. I feel like I am on auto pilot, that a computer is taking over my personality and thoughts out of necessity.
I should call my sons, but I’m not in the mood to communicate with anyone just yet. I should take a shower, but will do that in a few hours. Right now I need a good long walk to put things in perspective and try to relax.
After loading the dogs in the car, I drive to the front of the main building to get a newspaper. I see through the clear plastic of the newspaper stand the headlines and photo. CLOSE TRAGEDY FOR LOCAL MAN! The photo is of the motor home completely ablaze. There are flames shooting from both sides like a torch. The mountain next to the motor home is burning. Firemen have just arrived, and I see an ambulance with Ray on the gurney being lifted into the back. I begin to cry. I can’t help it. Seeing this in living color is so shocking. I want to see him, but I know they just want some peace and quiet right now. I may get a chance later. I need to give him a hug.
As I retrieve the newspaper, I hear yelling in the parking lot. I turn to see two large vans. One is the cable company, the other is a satellite dish company. The satellite dish man has unloaded a dish and several boxes of equipment. I am guessing that Billy and Ray have decided to switch over to satellite. I wonder why they are both here at the same time. Maybe the cable man came to fix the many cable problems today, and it is just a coincidence that they saw each other. The cable man is purple with rage! These guys must know each other. I’m sure they do in a small town like this. Hacienda is probably one of their major clients having hookups in every space as it is now.
The cable man is yelling that the satellite company cannot use the cable company cables. He’s yelling that he will rip them out. They begin to push each other in the parking lot. Someone’s going to get hit! The cable guy takes the first punch, landing the satellite guy on his ass. Bubba comes running out of the front entry. His fists are clinched, and his chest is puffed out. “JOE! WE TOLD YA LAST WEEK WE WUR DONE WITH YUR DAMN USELESS CABLE! NOW GET THE HELL OUT OF HERE BEFORE I RUIN YUR DAY FUR GOOD!”
The cable guy cowers back into his van and slams the door before Bubba reaches him. He peels out of the lot, throwing dust and rocks everywhere. I get into my car and leave. I see through my rearview mirror Bubba and the satellite guy laughing.
Once out on the highway, I realize I have no idea where I am going. If it wasn’t for the fact that I had to be at work by 11:30, I’d drive west until I hit the ocean. There I would get myself a seaside bungalow, walk the beach, and revel in the sound of the waves.
I look over at Bonita and Bandito, and I can’t help but smile. They are sitting proudly atop the piles of blankets in the passenger seat. Both of them have their noses pointed down the long stretch of highway ahead. Their large pointy ears are erect in anticipation of the destination that they must think I have in mind. They both look at me at the same time. They feel my glance, and see my eyes, even with my sunglasses on.
“What in heaven’s name would I do without you two? Life would make no sense at all!” Their tails, THUMP, THUMP, THUMP, as they hit the pile of blankets. In unison they turn back to enjoy the view ahead. I do likewise and put a Tracy Chapman CD in the stereo and cruise down the highway. She sings to me…“The whole worlds broke. Ain’t worth fixin’. It’s reason to start all over, make a new beginning. Too much pain, too much suffering. It’s reason to start all over. Start all over. Start all over…” You’re telling me, Tracy.
The heat of summer is slowly creeping higher. The air is dry. I wonder how hot it will get in this part of California. I was very surprised to find out that Ashland could get into th
e triple digits a good part of the summer. Pushing those housekeeping carts around in the heat of summer was a real bitch indeed! At least I could close the door to the room, tune in to some easy listening music, and turn on the air-conditioner while I cleaned. At least I didn’t have crazy people doing crazy things on a daily basis. It was only the owner of the inn that drove me to run. Other than him, I liked the job, the guests, and my fellow maids. What a beautiful environment it was! The gardens were extraordinary! The mineral tubs in each room were fed from the sulfur springs that flowed beneath the property. This gave the rooms a stinky smell that was not understood by all the guests, but once they bathed in their own private whirlpool in the room, they understood. People came from all over the world to stay there and go to the Shakespearian Festival in Ashland.
It was the vacuum incident that made me lose my mind. Seven maids worked there, but not all at the same time. Some days no one showed up. I was in charge of linen control, quality control, room refreshes, scheduling of time cards, and cleaning eight to ten rooms a day myself. We had only four vacuums. Two were broken. They were cheap vacuums. They could not get under beds, and had no hose for corners and edges.
I was constantly putting in a request for new vacuums. The owner was a millionaire! He had all sorts of property in Oregon, and several concepts going to expand the inn. He was about to add a large elegant spa, a gourmet restaurant, and a bar. He was obnoxious and demanding on setting time limits to clean the rooms. I had an excellent eye for detail. I would go above and beyond the call of duty to make the rooms perfect for the guests. I would even sew a rip in a curtain or bedspread on my own time to assure quality, after all, the rooms were priced at two to three hundred a night!
Now at this point we, the maids, were running back and forth to find a maid with a vacuum. Then a third one broke, and we were spending most of our precious time fighting over the one remaining vacuum. I started to get pushy with my constant requests for vacuums. He refused! I could not believe that he did not understand that the vacuums were causing chaos and making us completely lose our ability to keep up with the heavy demands of a full to capacity inn! A beautiful inn! Not a second rate piece of shit motel! A beautiful inn!
GRILL! Page 19