Just a Happy Camper

by Jinx Schwartz

  “I gotcha. These fancy binocs of Chino’s have a range finder, and you’re right, the whistle is iffy. We have to go with the Chino plan. It worked the last time we used it, and at a greater distance.”

  “Okay, let’s give it a few more…go buy a lottery ticket.”

  “Huh?”

  “We’ve hit the jackpot. An entire wedding party just pulled in, bride in full white, a florist, and at least twenty people. As soon as they start walking toward the wall, all eyes will be on them. Must be a family with people on both sides.”

  “Yep, I see what looks like a family dressed for a wedding on this side, sans the bride and groom. Wait! OMG. Hetta, I think the groom is on the Mexican side. How sad. I hope they are honeymooning in some romantic country they can both go to. A full mariachi band is setting up over here, so we’d better get on with it before they start up.”

  “Okay, but keep a good grip on the bird while I get my side going.”

  I looked around, didn’t see anyone with a gun or badge paying any attention to me, then opened all the doors in my pickup, put the portable speakers Chino wired up for me on the roof, and slid a DVD into my truck’s player.

  “Hitting play.”

  Whale calls echoed through the park, sounding eerie and way cool at the same time.

  The wedding goers clapped in appreciation, as did others. I figured if someone in authority objected, I’d tell them I’d lost my whale and was calling him home.

  “Turn it off, Hetta! I can’t hear it, but Trouble is going nuts.”

  I quickly killed the whale soundings, and blessed Chino’s brilliance. He was the one who noticed that Trouble seemed mesmerized with his whale recordings, and then with the real songs when they were out on the boat, dragging sonar. Trouble even mimicked them, sounding, Chino said, much like a whale with a sore throat. I did not ask how he knew that.

  Convinced that Trouble could hear the whale recording, I asked, “Ready? Count to ten when I say. Oh, and don’t forget Trouble’s harness when you walk Po Thang across the border in a few minutes. And, speaking of, I tucked my dog’s passport into the side pocket on his harness. Here comes the music on ten. Hold on to him until you’re sure he hears something, Chica.”

  “Hanging up and counting. Bye.”

  I’d left all the doors to the pickup open, even the camper shell’s back hatch. Armed with a handful of jerky, I stood near the driver’s door.

  Turning on the whale calls, with the volume at max, I garnered more appreciative attention, judging by the wide smiles. Unfortunately, everyone was now looking my way, including a park ranger. Rats.

  My phone rang. “Hetta! Incoming!”

  “Oh, what the hell. No turning back now.”

  I focused my binocs on about where I thought the house’s Margarita deck was, and caught a glimpse of what I hoped was Trouble headed my way. Needing to divert all those eyes away from me, I turned facing the sea while holding the binoculars in one hand and pointing west with the other.

  Heads turned, people wondering what I saw out there.

  As soon as I had the gawkers all looking for something out in the ocean, I took a quick glance at the sky, and spotted Trouble. He zoomed over the wall and was headed straight for me when he was suddenly attacked by a pair of seagulls. “Oh, no! Trouble, let it go,” I whispered under my breath. “This is no time to let them bully you into a dustup.”

  But Trouble thrives on squabbles, and this was not his first rodeo when dealing with seagulls. Once, while crossing the Sea of Cortez, he had a nasty encounter with one, and that time he was cowed. After that, he’d declared war.

  The phone rang. “What’s that little turd doin’?” Jan yelled.

  “He’s gotten into a brawl with two gulls.”

  “Oh, crap. How’s he doing?”

  “Little turd is pulling a Red Baron on their asses. Hey, they started it.”

  I watched the dog fight, rooting for Trouble, but he was badly out-winged by birds twice his size. And, alas, the noisy brouhaha caught the attention of a park ranger.

  In for a penny, in for a pound, I pulled out my whistle and began to blow.

  Momentarily distracted from the fray, Trouble took a glancing blow and tumbled beak over tailfeathers toward the ground, correcting his descent just in time to miss the ranger.

  It was not so with the gulls.

  One of them managed to peel off, but the other knocked the ranger’s hat off, sending him diving for cover while whirly-gigging his arms in self-defense.

  Evidently declaring victory, Trouble did a celebratory loop before diving into the front seat of my pickup, where he sat panting while I slammed the doors and drove off.

  In my rearview mirror I watched the ranger rise, dust off his hat, glare in my direction and then at the soaring gulls.

  As soon as I felt it safe to do so, I pulled over.

  “To the victor goes the jerky!” I said, putting a water dish near Trouble, handing him his jerky, and giving him a once-over to make sure he wasn’t bleeding anywhere.

  I heard Jan yelling and realized she was still on the line. “Sorry, forgot you were there, Chica. We made a successful, if somewhat messy, getaway and we’re headed for the border crossing. See you real soon. I’ll wait at the pedestrian exit. How’d you like the show?”

  “I was trying to follow with binoculars, not very well, but what I saw was freakin’ awesome. Give Trouble a kiss for me. Okay, toodles.”

  Chapter Seven

  After Jan handed over Po Thang at the border, we beat feet for I-8 East. According to my GPS, I had twelve-hundred-and-twenty-seven miles in front of me, with only two days to drive it. Of course, the four lane divided made all the difference, but it was still going to be grueling.

  I called Jenks to check in and whine a little.

  “Hey there,” he said, “I’ve been waiting for your call. How’d it go?”

  “Trouble would have made Manfred Freiherr von Richthofen proud.”

  Trouble heard his name and began singing his cacophonic version of whale songs.

  “What is that awful noise?”

  I told him about my parrot’s new favorite thing: whale calls.

  “Ha. Tell me more about our Red Baron? I gotta hear this.”

  “More like the Green Baron.” I recounted the aerial dogfight above Friendship Park, the downing of a park ranger, and Trouble’s victory loop after escaping the gulls. Jenks, a retired Navy aviator, loved the story.

  “I can’t wait to tell my old flying buddies about this. So, how far are you going to drive today? According to my international clock, it’s nearing noon your time. Daylight’s burning.”

  “I’ll drive until I get tired. You tell the Trob for me that I might be at my parents’ house sometime tomorrow barring road problems, but for sure by Tuesday. I ain’t gonna kill myself and my animals because of a job.”

  “I’ll tell him you need an extra day. I’m having lunch with him today. He knows you always come through, so pushing yourself into exhaustion isn’t something he wants. Don’t sweat it.”

  “Thanks. I’ll message you when I quit for the night. I normally try to get through El Paso before I stop, but tomorrow’s Sunday, so I’ll play it by ear.”

  “Just be careful. Those interstates get pretty boring. Love you.”

  “Me too.”

  ❋

  Yes, interstate highways are boring, but fast. Especially through Arizona, New Mexico and Texas. Miles and miles of nothing but miles and miles.

  With stops for gas, coffee, pees, stretches and all, I reached the eastern side of El Paso in ten hours, averaging a little over seventy mph. Don’t tell the California, Arizona, New Mexico or Texas highway patrols.

  One thing I’ve learned from living on a boat, there are times when you have to suck it up and do with four or five hours a night sleep. I crashed as soon as I hit the motel room, not even bothering to undress. The animals were beat, as well, so when my alarm went off six hours later, we were fairly refr
eshed. I decided a big breakfast was in order to fuel the rest of the miles I had in front of me, so I took the time to stop at a Denny’s for lots of coffee and a breakfast for myself that included a fruit plate and hamburger steak.

  Trouble got extra jerky to go with his fruit salad, and Po Thang swallowed his hamburger patty whole. Fed and rested, we tackled the remaining miles.

  Jenks called when I was doing a solid ninety past Fort Stockton. “How you avoid getting tickets always amazes me. My tracker says you are doing eighty-nine miles an hour.”

  “Well, it’s wrong. I’m pinned on ninety. And you know I have a built-in radar. I can somehow sense when a cop is round the bend. Besides, this is Texas. Everyone’s doing ninety.”

  “If you say so. Uh, that Gringo I told you about who was looking for you at the boatyard in La Paz? He came nosing around Marina de la Paz today, asking questions about you.”

  “Crap. How do you know?”

  “I called Nacho a couple of days ago, and he sent someone to mingle with the coffee group yesterday morning. Evidently he has a snitch in the cruising fleet, and he brought up your name during coffee, and someone mentioned he was the second person asking about you in the past two days.”

  “He didn’t by chance figure out who this mystery man is, did he?”

  “No one knows. The snitch will go to coffee daily, so maybe the dude will show up again.”

  “And he’s a Gringo, right?”

  “That’s what they say. But, he has some kind of accent. Nacho is worried the guy is a cartel pogo,” he said, referring to the Mexican nickname for someone who is Hispanic, but jumps back and forth across the border.

  “Double crap. Oh, well, I ain’t there, and I’m sure Nacho will deal with whoever it is long before I get back to Mexico.”

  “Probably. How are you feeling this morning?”

  “Amazingly well for being on the road for days, and facing another long one. I’m gonna call all my US friends to keep me awake, and listen to a couple of audio books to make the time go by. Sure wish you were here.”

  “Me, too. I’ll get to Texas while you’re there, for sure. It would be nice to see your parents.”

  “What am I? Chopped liver?”

  “Glad to see the long trip hasn’t killed your sense of snarky. Gotta run.”

  “Love you.”

  “Me too.”

  “Ack! Love you. Love you. Love you. Love…”

  I pulled over, threw a blanket over Trouble’s cage, and he shut up.

  Po Thang growled. It was his blankie.

  Kids these days. You just can’t please ’em.

  ❋

  The last hundred miles seemed like a million, and when I pulled onto the gravel drive down to my parents’ lakeside home, I began to unravel. I flat ran out of steam, barely managing to get out of the car and almost taking a face plant when Po Thang jumped out behind me, bumping the backs of my knees as he did so.

  Running around like a crazy dog on the cool green grass, he rolled, scooted and sniffed at this new sensation, then loped for the lake.

  My dad came out and watched Po Thang’s antics, then his belly flop into Lake Buchanan, and a return to all that nice grass. “That dawg never saw grass before?”

  “Now that I think of it, I guess not. Hope he doesn’t stir up a fire ant nest.”

  “Nah, I got the boogers under control for now. How you doin’, honey? We’re so glad you’re here.”

  From my backseat, Trouble belted out the only lyric he’d mastered from his signature song, “Trouble with a capital T,” loudly and repeatedly.

  Dad’s face fell. “Speakin’ of little boogers, please don’t tell me that’s your Aunt Lillian’s parrot.”

  “Afraid so.”

  “Well, hell.”

  Okay, so I’d sort of neglected to tell them I had Trouble again. They’d managed to ship him to me in Mexico after they got stuck with him after my worst-ever Aunt Lillian fell in love—again—and left for Mexico with number whatever husband. She’d rescued Trouble when he showed up at her nearby lake house and was being besieged by blue jays. Now, we’d come full circle.

  Three beers, the promising aroma of Daddy’s smoked brisket, and a recliner chair later—I’ve never owned one, but love it when someone else does—I was recounting Trouble’s escapades at the California border when a horrible screech split the air.

  No, not Trouble.

  My aunt from hell had arrived.

  “My baby! My precious baby! You’ve come home to Mama.”

  “Ack! Pinche puta.”

  “Well, how about that? My sweet baby bird speaks Spanish now,” Aunt Lillian cawed.

  My father was grinning from ear to ear. He isn’t fluent in Spanish, but like most Texans, he’s picked up all of the especially bad words.

  Momma cut those almost black eyes of hers at him as only a Southern belle can, wiping the delight from his face. After all, it was her sister Trouble was talking about.

  Aunt Lil finally deigned to give me a once over, and as usual, I didn’t pass muster. “Good heavens, Hetta. What have you done to yourself?”

  What little patience I had with her disappeared after three grueling days on the road with very little sleep, mostly living on candy bars and soft drinks. “Gosh, I’ve been so busy teaching Trouble to speak Spanish I haven’t had time for the spa,” I snarled.

  Dad bit back a laugh, Momma gave me an exasperated glance, and Auntie Lil took the bait. “Oh, really? So, what did he just say?”

  “Your sweet widdle baby bird just called you an effing whore.”

  ❋

  After my aunt left in a huff, Daddy gave me a congratulatory pat on the back, my mother shook her head and said something about respecting my elders, and I opened a celebratory Shiner Bock. Whenever I, or my sister, visit, Dad loads up the garage fridge.

  We moved outside to enjoy what was left of the day, which was glorious. It was too early in the year for skeeters, and with only a slight breeze off the lake, a perfect evening to sit out.

  “Seen any bluebonnets yet?” I asked Dad.

  “A few. We had a lot of rain this winter, so it should be a good wildflower year. Not long from now, that whole field,” he waved his arm, “up there will be blue.”

  “You expecting company?” I asked as a car turned into his drive.

  “Naw.”

  We watched as the car stopped and the passenger leaned out the window to read the name on the mailbox in the fading light. Then he waved his arm in a “wagons ho” signal and drove toward the house. Within minutes an RV lumbered down the drive behind him.

  “Must be some lost tourists,” Mama speculated.

  “Nice rig,” Daddy said, pushing himself to standing and going out to meet whoever it was.

  “I think that might be for me,” I told my mother.

  “You invited company? Wish you’d told us, we’d a made more food.”

  “Hetta!” Daddy hollered, “your RV is here.”

  “Great! Leave it in the drive so Aunt Lil can’t get back in.”

  “Het-ta,” my mother said, using a tone that we all know means trouble if we don’t act right.

  “Okay, okay, I’ll try to play nice. But if she thinks for one minute that she’s getting Trouble back, she’s got another think coming. Right, Trouble?”

  “Ack! Pinche puta.”

  ❋

  I signed for the RV and tow car, and the delivery guys parked it next to my parents’ RV. We sent them on their way with two huge brisket sandwiches.

  Of course, we had to check out my new home, so before we went in to eat, I looked at the paperwork. “What we have here is a Thor Axis RUV 24.1, with a Fiat 500 toad.”

  “That Fiat looks a mite small,” Daddy said.

  “Yes, but the RV is only twenty-five feet long, so I’m glad I’m not hauling a big car. Besides, Jenks and I drove one of those Fiats all over France last fall, and it has some zip to it. I’ll have to leave my pickup here.”

 
With a slide out, and two-twin beds that can convert to a king, and full galley, the RV was small enough not to be daunting, and big enough for a gal, a dog and a parrot.

  “We’ll take it for a spin tomorrow, but right now I want about two pounds of brisket and a soft bed. I’m beat.”

  “And, daughter dear, tomorrow morning you will go to your aunt’s house and apologize.”

  “Maaaumaa, do I have to? It was her own ex-parrot that insulted her, not me.”

  “Don’t even try that innocent act on me. Now, let’s eat.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Why is it being scolded by your mother feels so good when you’re an adult?

  I slept the sleep of the uncontrite.

  Chapter Eight

  My aunt saved me the dreaded apology visit by arriving bright and early at my parents’ house. I was still in the guest room and didn’t go out when Po Thang saw her coming and started raising hell.

  Po Thang is an excellent judge of character.

  I crept to the door and locked it, then listened to what she had to say, which was plenty.

  “…and, little sister, not only will I not cross your threshold again while that filthy-mouthed bird is here, I am removing your daughter from my will.”

  Again? Hell, I didn’t know I was back in. She must have a pile of old wills somewhere, what with her taking out and putting back in at least one family member a month. She keeps forgetting that once, when she needed me to do something for her, I learned she didn’t even have that much money.

  When I heard her speed out to the main road, I left my hideout for the kitchen.

  “Oh, was that Aunt Lillian?”

  “Like you didn’t know, Hetta?”

  I headed for the coffeepot. “Moi?”

  Daddy saved me from whatever my mother had to say when he joined me at the counter and asked, “Is she gone?”

  My mother laughed. “You two are pills. Lil isn’t all that bad, she’s just unhappy.”

  “And she wants everyone else to be. Guess what, Daddy? I’m out of the will again.”