by Cathy Day
He tapped Peggy on the shoulder. "Thank god," she said, giving up on the boy, who walked out of the store with the woman and the Frisbee. "There," she said, pointing to a fat man chalking up a cue stick in the game room. "That's him. The king or whatever. I'd better go check the bathrooms." She stuck ten rolls of toilet paper down her mop handle and marched out the door.
Earl walked into the smoke-filled game room, stuck out his hand, and introduced himself.
"Are you new Boss Man?" The king ignored Earl's hand.
Earl put his hand in his back pocket. "I guess so. I'm the manager."
"I only talk to Boss Man." The king leaned his pool cue against the wall. "We stay for three days, okay?"
"That's fine. How many sites do you need?"
"Over there. We stay over there." The king pointed out the window to the campsites by the Frisbee golf course. They were closest to the woods, the most secluded, and, on the weekends, the most popular. But this was Tuesday, and the sites were empty.
"How many sites do you need?" Earl asked, trying to count the number of campers outside the pane-glass window.
"I don't know. Other Boss Man figure it out."
Earl got a map of the campgrounds and circled off a large area. "This is twenty-five sites. Sewer, water, and electric. How many vehicles do you have?" Outside the window, a few kids zipped around on quad runners, spraying gravel from the fat tires. "And those."
"Oh, many of those."
"I need license numbers. And you can only have one vehicle per site, or you have to pay an extra five dollars each."
From his back pocket, the king took out a roll of hundreds as thick as Earl's arm, held together by a rubber band. The king wet his fingers and laid ten bills on the counter. "This how much last Boss Man charge us. When we go, I to give you ten more. Is this okay, Boss Man?"
Earl stared at the bills on the counter. Technically, the king only owed him $900. Twelve bucks each for twenty-five sites for three nights. The rates were posted right over the counter, but Earl thought maybe the king couldn't read the sign. Instead, the king was offering him more than he'd made during the entire month of July, counting the Fourth. So far, Earl hadn't saved one dime toward buying the KOA; Altman's monthly profit estimates had been grossly exaggerated. At the moment, they had only one site filled, the Ramseys, an elderly couple on their way up to the Wisconsin Dells. Earl took the money.
Joey punched a one and three zeroes on the cash register, and Earl placed the bills inside, trying to be nonchalant. "Checkout's Friday at noon. No later. We're full up for the weekend." Earl pointed to the stack of registration cards, every site booked in advance for Labor Day, the last big weekend of the summer. "I just need you to sign here," he said, making an X on the registration card with his pen. The king made another X right next to it. "No," Earl said, "I need your name."
The king was walking out the door, but he turned and said, "You write John Smith." Outside, he held up his arm and whistled. Instantly, the game room, bathrooms, and pool emptied themselves of gypsies. The caravan headed back to the campsites, and Earl wondered where all they'd been over the years. Part of him wished he could be like the gypsies, but who lived like that anymore except for retirees and thieves? Earl hadn't even seen a hobo around for at least a decade. When he walked back to give them their three-day supply of garbage bags, Earl found the gypsies completely unhitched and unpacked, campfires ablaze, like magic.
THE NIGHT THE gypsies arrived, Earl opened the G volume of the Encyclopedia Americana. He'd bought the encyclopedias for Joey, although it was clear his son had hardly used them. When Earl opened the book, the spine made a pained, cracking noise. Earl read the entry for "Gypsies" at the dinner table. Periodically, he'd look up at Joey and Peggy. "They're from India originally," he said, his mouth full of hamburger. "They speak Romany. Hitler gassed a bunch of them."
Peggy nodded her head and said, "Really? That's interesting, honey."
Earl ran his finger down the page. "It's this diaspora thing. They call us gaje, like gentile to Jews."
Raising her eyebrows, Peggy said, "Oh. They're Jewish?"
"No, they're not Jewish," Earl said, shutting the encyclopedia. "They're just trying to get by, you know?" Peggy and Joey nodded and kept eating.
In bed, Earl heard the gypsies singing and clapping into the small hours of night. Their voices blew in his windows, open to catch the night breeze. Earl got out of bed and pulled back the curtains. His own camper sat below him in the backyard, dark and abandoned, the wheels braced by two-by-fours. It was a Skamper with a small kitchenette, an oven, sink, refrigerator, bunk beds, and a bathroom stall. It smelled of cigarette smoke, mildew, and fish. When he bought it off a guy at work years ago, he told Peggy, "We can go anywhere now." He'd never seen the country. All he ever saw was the inside of the yard office and the trains passing by the window, bound for somewhere else. Once, Earl had taken them to Michigan, but that was as far as they ever got. When his vacation time rolled around for the next few years, either money was short, or something needed fixing. So instead, they'd camped locally—at the KOA. At night, Earl would sit by the campfire with a beer, trying to imagine that he was somewhere else—a New Mexico desert, a Colorado mountain, a redwood forest—anywhere but where he was, which was five miles from his house in town.
Ever since they'd moved to the KOA, Peggy had been after Earl to sell the Skamper. "We live at a campgrounds, for godssake. What do we need with a camper?" she said. Earl knew she was right, but he said, "I like the idea of keeping it around, just in case we get a chance to go somewhere."
Across the field, the gypsies' campfires flickered, and he imagined them moving north in the summer, south in the winter. In his dreams that night, he was in the king's Chevy Silverado, headed west with the windows down, mountains on every side.
***
IN THE MORNING, the Ramseys came into the office to complain. "We're missing our lawn chairs and an Igloo cooler," Mr. Ramsey said. "I think we both know where they're at."
Earl remembered what Altman had said: They pretty much take over while they're here. Finally, Earl understood the deal struck between Altman and the king: Altman made a much-needed profit, and the gypsies got free rein of the place. Earl shrugged his shoulders at the Ramseys. "I'm sorry. There's not much I can do. I doubt they'd cough up your stuff anyway." He punched a key on the cash register, and the money drawer flew open. "Look, why don't I re-fund the two days you paid up for. Maybe you could head up to the Dells a little early?" Earl smiled, but he felt bad, buying them off this way. The Ramseys took the money, packed up their Winnebago, and headed for the highway.
After they left, Earl called the yard office to take a couple personal-leave days. He half listened to the "This isn't good teamwork" tongue-lashing from his supervisor, a College Boy named Jones—Travis or Trent or something like that. A few weeks earlier, College Boy had spotted boxes of VTX urinal cakes, toilet paper, and industrial cleaning supplies in the back of Earl's truck. He'd been saving on expenses this way, and College Boy knew it. "This is the last break you get, Earl," he said, and hung up.
Sitting at the camp-store counter, drinking his morning coffee, Earl tallied the numbers from the night before. The gypsy's $1,000. A bucket of quarters from the games. Sales in the camp store had doubled. Sure, a lot of merchandise walked out the door unpaid for, but the markup was high enough that he'd still come out ahead. As a sign of this blessing, a string of cars and trucks led by the king's Silverado passed by the window, shining in the pink morning light.
A few hours later, some of the trucks returned. The king, dressed in a suit and tie, walked into the office escorted by five young men in jeans and short-sleeved dress shirts, smelling of incense and cologne. "Boss Man," the king said, "where we find a pig and a sheep?"
Joey stopped refilling the candy jars, and Earl looked up from the T-shirt racks, losing his count. "Excuse me?" Earl asked.
"We christen new babies this morning. These the fathers," he said
, gesturing to the men. "Every year, we come here, and then we have a feast."
Earl pointed out the store window. "There's grocery stores in town."
"We want big ones."
"You mean alive? "Joey said, his eyes wide.
Earl set his clipboard down on the counter. "There's farms all around here. You can ask. We just moved and I don't know any of them right well yet."
The king straightened his tie. "I understand. We be back later." He started to walk out of the store, but turned at the door. "Boss Man, you need paved driveway here. We do good job."
"Thanks, but I think everything's okay," Earl said, waving his hand.
The king shrugged and walked out the door. Children streamed into the camp store clutching quarters in their hands, clamoring for candy and pop. Earl's father usually only came out to help on Sundays with the pancake breakfasts (he was a navy cook during WWII and could prepare a meal for fifty more easily than for two). But today, Earl had assigned his father to stand guard in the middle of the store. He frowned, folded his arms sternly over his chest, and asked, "What do you want?" in a gruff voice anytime a child wandered toward the merchandise. The gypsy children fled to the game room, where Joey waited with his arms folded, trying to look as imposing as his grandfather. Peggy was on hold with the phone company. The pay phone outside the camp store was full; since the moment the gypsies had arrived, the booth had been occupied by a steady stream of gypsy women, gesturing and yelling into the silence of the enclosed glass, dropping coin after coin into the slot.
A skinny young boy ran up to Earl, who was wrapping rolls of quarters, dimes, nickels, and pennies. "Boss Man, your machine took my quarter."
The pinball machines were unreliable and acted cranky every so often; the rental company had promised to send out a serviceman who'd never showed. "There you are," Earl said, handing over a quarter from his stack. "What's your name, son?"
"Macho," the boy said, smiling a smile without many teeth.
Earl laughed. "What's his name?" he asked, pointing to another boy standing nearby.
"Fuzz. My sister is Peaches." The boy closed his hand around the quarter. "Thank you, Boss Man," he said and ran back into the game room.
His father grunted. "Who the hell would name a boy Fuzz."
Earl shrugged. "They keep their real names secret, for protection." Earl's father grunted again.
Thirty seconds later, Earl found himself surrounded by ten children, all of whom said the machines had taken their quarters. "Trust me for a quarter," a little girl said. "My daddy beat me if I ask for another."
Shit, Earl thought. "Joey!" he yelled, "Get in here!" The children stood with their hands out, palms up, their eyes enormously brown. "No more free games," Earl said, trying to sound stern and in charge.
"But you gave him a free game," a pudgy girl said, "and he lies. I no lie, Boss Man."
Joey stepped into the camp store, his eyes small slits, his face red. "Whaddaya mean, you don't lie. I saw you in there playing just a second ago, and it was working fine."
A teenage boy in a blue T-shirt stepped up. "My sister is no liar."
Peggy hung up the phone and stood beside Earl. "If you want to play the games, you have to take the risk."
"Yeah," Joey said, looking right at the gypsy boy.
Earl raised his hands. "Okay, Joey, why don't you go on out and get the garbage. Pop," Earl said, "would you check the pool for me?" The children gave up asking for quarters and ran back into the game room. Looking out the window, Earl watched the blue-shirted gypsy boy peel out of the driveway on his quad runner. Joey followed, humming along at a fast clip in the golf cart.
Earl wanted to make sure Joey wasn't getting himself into any trouble, but his father called to him from outside. "Earl, you'd better come take a look at this." Walking around the A-frame, Earl saw the problem. The pool was packed with bobbing gypsies. A man pulled himself out of the water, his clothes shining wet and clinging to his dark skin. He yelled and did a cannonball that sent a spray of water all over the cement. The water level was down a couple of inches already. "Guess I need to put more water in the pool," Earl said.
Earl's father shook his head. "Why don't they wear bathing suits for godssake."
"Something about it being against their religion. Unclean. That's why they don't touch us, either."
"They're sure making the pool unclean, damn dirty wops."
"Dad, they aren't Italian. They're from India. By way of Europe." Earl knew he'd only corrected half of what was wrong with his father's statement, but he'd given up trying to correct the other part. Earl counted himself lucky that at least he'd gotten his father to stop saying "nigger" around Joey. He said "negro" instead.
"What's the word for somebody from India, then?"
Earl sighed. "Indian, I guess."
"If I was you, I'd tell them to hit the road. We're missing two buckets of pancake batter." In the distance, they heard a crashing sound and the whine of a motor revving too fast. "The golf cart," Earl said, already running toward the Frisbee golf course. Behind him, Earl heard the keys and change in his father's pockets jangling as he tried to keep up. When Earl trotted up to the first hole, Joey was climbing out of a ditch. Down below, the mangled golf cart sat smoking.
"Are you okay," Earl asked, bending over, breathing hard.
"Goddammit," Joey said, "he ran me right into the woods!" A cut over Joey's eye dripped blood down his face and onto his T-shirt. Earl handed him a handkerchief from his back pocket. "The big mouth from the store. On the quad runner. He ran me into the ditch." Then Joey looked down at the ground. "I'm sorry, Dad. I think I totaled the cart, but it wasn't my fault."
"Don't give me that shit, Joey. You were racing him."
Earl's father arrived, pale and breathing hard. "It wasn't his fault," he said. "The gypsy kid didn't have to get so rough."
"He still shouldn't have been fooling around," Earl said. "Get on up to the house and have your mother look at that cut. We'll talk about this later." Holding the handkerchief to his head, Joey dragged his feet in the gravel. Earl walked to the edge of the ditch where his father now stood. "Probably should just leave it down there for the time being. Don't know how to fix it even if I do get it out of there."
Earl's father threw a rock into the ditch. "How much one of them things run?"
"I don't know, but I'll bet they're not cheap."
"You should make them gypsies pay for part of it at least."
In silence, Earl and his father turned and walked toward the A-frame, past the gypsy section. The campers were arranged in rings, facing into the campfires. Clotheslines, strung from every tree, sagged with wet towels and clothes. The smell of cooked meat hung in the air. The king got up from his lawn chair. "What happen, Boss Man?" the king called out.
Earl kicked the gravel. "My son ran our cart into a ditch."
"One of yours ran him into the ditch," his father said, "if the truth be told."
The king shook his head. "Oh, no. I know this boy. He good boy."
"Like hell," Earl's father said. "That golf cart was an important piece of equipment. I think you owe my son for the damage. It's only fair."
"I don't think so, Boss Man."
Earl's father stepped forward, his chest inches from the king. "I do think so, or do we have to call the police to come out here and have a look-see?" He spoke right into the king's face. "Understand, Cochise?"
The king lit a cigarette and reached into his back pocket. He looked at Earl's father, then at Earl. "Okay, Boss Man. You right. We pay." He peeled two hundreds from the roll and held them out.
Earl knew his earlobes were red. "Thanks," he said, taking the bills and walking away. They felt damp in his hand, and he stuffed them in his back pocket. Earl felt queasy and sluggish, as if something inside was squeezing his stomach and heart.
His dad followed. "That gypsy kid deserves a good ass whupping, if you ask me. Joey wouldn't be getting in so much trouble if you tanned his hide once in a
while." Earl remembered well how handy his father had been with a yardstick and belt. His father stopped walking and touched his arm. "Son, these people are no good. This is probably one of the only places that'll take them, and you're being more than fair just by letting them stay here. But hell, they're taking everything they can off you."
"Don't you think I know that, Dad?" Earl tried to keep his voice level. "But we're making more money this week than we would have in a whole month. We need that money, or we're going to have to move." Earl pulled out his cigarettes and lit one. Twenty years of smoking, and he still didn't like to do it in front of his father, but he needed one bad. "Just let me handle things the way I think's best." Earl knew his tone sounded disrespectful and ungrateful, but he couldn't help it.
"Maybe your mom and I should go on home."
"Maybe you should," Earl said.
"Fine. You're the boss," his father said, turning his back and walking away. A few minutes later, Earl heard his parents' Oldsmobile hustling down the driveway, rocks pinging, spraying gravel from the tires.
THE NEXT MORNING, Peggy and Earl got up at daybreak to clean the game room. Earl found a cigarette burn on the green felt of the pool table. A june bug buzzed around the fluorescent lights. Joey was filling the pool and dumping gallons of chlorine into the water. He walked in to tell them that the levels were way off. "It's probably not safe to swim. Should we close the pool?" he asked.
"If we did, they'd probably swim anyway," Peggy said, dropping beer bottles into the garbage with a clank. "Just make sure it's filled up and keep dumping in chlorine."
A cloud of gravel dust hung over the driveway; the gypsies came and went day and night, but through the haze, Earl saw his parents' Oldsmobile coming toward them, even though he'd expected his dad to stay home and pout all day. His mom got out with an armful of the baskets she wove in her art and crafts class. "It's going to be a hot one today," she said, walking into the store. "These people will buy anything just to be buying. Thought I'd bring out my baskets and make me a little mad money." She covered a card table with a red and white gingham tablecloth. Off the edge of the table, she hung a sign, HANDMADE BASKETS, $20 EACH.