GRILL!: The Misadventures of an RV Park Fast-Fry Cook. Diane StegmanЧитать онлайн книгу.
“Bad dogs! You stop that! Do you hear me? That’s not nice!” As we pass the golf cart parked on the side of the road, I see the ice chest tilted in a sea of empty beer cans in the cargo space of the cart.
We continue walking around the park. About five spaces down from Bubba’s, I see a large cement drainpipe extending into the lake. Water is flowing at a steady stream from its opening. I presume that the flowing water is the continuous source and supply of the lake. A group of mud hens honk and float near the rippling water. Bits of trash float near the waters’ edge.
As I round the farthest curve at the far end of the park, I see the forest of pine trees that borders the park. There is a dirt road that curves off the main circular drive and disappears into the forest. Good road for a private walk, I think to myself. On closer inspection of the pine trees, I can see fragments of color beyond the tree line, like large tractors, or equipment of some sort. They are barely noticeable, but it’s evident that there’s a back area in there for storage of some kind.
I hear the golf cart start up and come my way around the park. Are Bubba and Terry after me for scaring the kittens? Instead, they zoom past me laughing loudly about something, each holding a beer, leaving in their wake, thick, floating dust. How could anyone drink that much beer all day long and still function? I don’t get it! I see them disappear down yet another side dirt road further down, possibly another entry into the forest storage area.
At about mid-way on my walk, I hear the grinding of a truck trying to get started. The sound is coming from deep within the cover of the pine trees; back there, in the forest. What in the hell is back there? I will explore this soon.
Guests are enjoying their spaces, grilling up hot dogs and hamburgers, swatting flies, and most of them have satellite dishes set up or in the process of getting set up. So I guess the deal is to eat and watch TV in the presence of nature. I do not see many of them walking around. “Ouch!” I feel the sting of a mosquito bite on my ankle. “Gosh darn it anyway!” I hurry up our walk so I can go cover my legs and feet. Mosquitoes love this time of the evening. I am only wearing my flip-flops, a short-sleeved t-shirt, and capri pants. I look at the lake and see the thin layer of mosquitoes floating above and around the water’s surface. We pass the group of ducks resting beneath the cattail grass. I am very happy that the dogs did not notice them.
As I round the front of the main building, bypassing the straight path to my trailer which is behind the main building, I hear the rumbling engine of a large and really old looking dump truck. It looks beat to shit! It shakes and rattles its way to the rear of the restaurant. There is a pile of trash bags about halfway up the teetering side wood panels. Oh, I get it. That’s where they put all the trash. Then what? Whatever, I’m sure I will find out later. Bubba is behind the wheel and Terry is following him in the golf cart. They disappear out of view behind the restaurant.
The front parking lot is full of restaurant customers. The majority of the cars being Jeeps, well-used trucks, a couple of all-terrain scooters, and cars with license plates from many different states. Two logging trucks, empty of driver and logs, are parked with engines running on the other side of the highway. Three RVs are in line by the edge of the lot and some kids are climbing the small fence that borders the park. Someone is obviously registering for a space inside while the family waits. Billy must have quite a crew working for her! I suddenly feel very insecure and apprehensive about my new job as cook. This must be the only place to eat for miles!
I walk the final curve toward my trailer and climb the inconvenient, awkward stairs. Once inside I unleash the dogs and peek out the window next to the dining table. I see Bubba standing with his back to me, looking at the pile of trash bags. He is standing in front of my pile of additional trash bags. His heavy stumps of legs are spread apart and his fists are planted on his hips. He lifts his baseball cap with one hand and scratches his head violently, the hat flapping back and forth. Terry 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