The Long, Wrong Trailer

by Karen Musser Nortman

The Long, Wrong Trailer

  by

  Karen Musser Nortman

  Copyright © 2014 by Karen Musser Nortman. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form by any electronic or mechanical means (including photocopying, recording or information storage and retrieval) without permission in writing from the author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is purely coincidental.

  Thank you for downloading this ebook. This book remains the copyrighted property of the author and may not be redistributed to others for commercial or non-commercial purposes. If you enjoyed this book, please encourage your friends to download their own copy from their favorite authorized retailer. Thank you for your support.

  Chapter One

  “Punk,” PJ said, “Have you ever thought of doing that? Maybe that's how we should spend our retirement.”

  Punk glanced up from his newspaper at the TV screen. A commercial showed a group of friends laughing around a roaring campfire, their faces lit by the flattering firelight, stars twinkling above them in an endless sky, and two RVs behind them.

  “What? Camping? You've never wanted to go camping. I didn't think you even liked the outdoors much.” He huffed and went back to his paper.

  “Wellll, I've never wanted to camp in a tent—” she wrinkled her nose—, “but those look pretty nice.” He wasn't listening.

  The next night, PJ sipped an iced tea on their deck while Punk grilled burgers. “If we were camping, you could grill out all the time.” He flipped the burgers and asked her to get a plate.

  Two days later, they were raking leaves in the back yard, and PJ leaned on her rake. “I just love fall and I bet it's really beautiful in those campgrounds.” Punk shook his head.

  A few days after that, another TV commercial caught PJ's ear. Conrad Conniver, who pronounced his last name with the emphasis on the first syllable, was hawking his RV dealership, Happy Camper Heaven.

  “We should check that place out, Punk. Look at the selection,” PJ said as she watched the camera pan acres of RVs.

  Punk looked up from his crossword. “Are you kidding? That guy's a sleaze.”

  “He does kind of remind me of that Johnny Carson character,” PJ had to admit. “But, Punk, if we could just go look, I promise not to bug you any more about ballroom dancing lessons.”

  He eyed her and raised one eyebrow. She had his attention.

  As they pulled into Happy Camper Heaven the next day, Punk said, “Now let me do the talking. The minute you start drooling over these rigs, that creep will decide he can sell you anything.”

  “I doubt if we'll even talk to the boss. Look at all the salespeople out here.” She indicated people wearing bright yellow polo shirts with big happy faces on the back.

  “And another thing,” Punk continued. “I'm not even looking at anything with a motor. We already have a truck that can pull anything. If we buy something—mind you, I said if—a used trailer would do fine to see if we even like camping. If it doesn't have a motor, nothing can go wrong with it.”

  He pulled up to the front of the showroom. As he hefted his large frame out of the pickup, PJ reminisced about their days as high school sweethearts many years ago. She had been a little cheerleader with long straight red hair, as perky as cheerleaders are wont to be, and Punk was one of the football stars. His athletic body through the years had rounded a little in the middle and sloped some in the shoulders, but he had stayed reasonably fit with his carpet cleaning business. PJ had to admit that she, too, was not as trim as in her cheerleading days, but her hair, now cut in a short bob, was still red with the help of her stylist.

  To their surprise, the first person who approached them was none other than the owner himself.

  “Hey, folks! Con Conniver's the name, RVs are my game.” PJ thought he was going to twirl the ends of his mustache but he didn't. “What can I help you with this fine day?”

  PJ started to open her mouth but Punk held out his hand. “Punk Norton. We just want to look at a few used trailers. Nothin' too expensive.”

  Conniver craned his neck up at Punk. “Punk? How'd you get that name?”

  Punk laughed. “Real name's Norbert. When I was a kid, I tagged along with my big brother Harold and his friends one time when they were lightin' firecrackers, I was in charge of the punk so they would yell 'Hey Punk! Bring the punk!' It stuck even when I played football in high school.”

  Conniver clasped his hands. “Great story! Well, let's get started. What kind of unit do you have now?”

  “Unit?” Punk asked.

  “Camper. RV. What are you using now?”

  “We don't have any...unit...now,” Punk said.

  “Have you ever?”

  They both shook their heads.

  “Ever been camping at all?”

  “Nope.”

  “Well, let me tell you something,” Conniver slicked back his hair and stuck both hands in his pockets. “You got exactly the right idea. Get something cheap, try it out and see if you like it. Matter of fact, I wouldn't even sell you a new unit until you try some camping. But I've got some immaculate used units back here. Follow me.”

  PJ was entranced with the small, efficient spaces, and Punk admitted that most of them looked pretty good, although he thought the carpets were a little dingy. Conniver didn't pull out some high pressure tactics as they expected. Soon they had narrowed down their preferences to two. Punk favored a compact twenty-three foot trailer while PJ eyed a ten-year-old thirty-foot Wildwood trailer with a long slide.

  “It even has blue trim,” she told Punk. “It matches your truck.” She explored the storage spaces and admired the matching upholstery, border, bedspread and curtains which all coordinated with the blue carpet.

  “It's a little too much of one thing, dontcha think?” Punk said.

  “Absolutely not!” PJ answered. “I could get blue towels, blue sheets and blue throw pillows. We could call it 'Blue Heaven.'“

  Punk rolled his eyes and went back to the smaller trailer.

  “I think the smaller one's your best bet,” Conniver said. “Easier to maneuver and pull—say, what have you got for a towing vehicle?”

  Punk pointed to his dark blue F250 HD truck sitting near the showroom door.

  “Wow!” said Conniver, heading toward the truck. “What a sweet ride! Almost overkill for that little trailer. But,” he held up his hand, “I understand why you'd want to start with that one. Make sure you know what you're doing and that you can handle the truck when you're pulling something like that. Good learner's vehicle.”

  By the time Conniver had finished raving about the truck, Punk had decided that he would have no problem pulling the longer trailer. He knew he could handle anything with his truck. They settled on the Wildwood and trooped into Conniver's office to sign the papers.

  “Now, sign here and here—this just tells you everything that's been inspected and fixed; this page tells you what recourse you have if you have a problem.” Conniver shuffled through the stack of fine print. Punk and PJ signed.

  Soon he and PJ were leaving Happy Camper Heaven, and PJ perused a big folder with a sales agreement, licensing information, and owner's manual.

  “Oh look, Punk! Here's a coupon for a discount at Cliff Edge Park for Halloween weekend. That's nearby—a perfect place for our first trip!”

  Punk nodded. He was getting excited now.

  “This is going to be a snap,” he told PJ.

  Chapter Two

  Punk and PJ towed their new-used trailer twenty miles t
o Cliff Edge Park with no mishaps. It was the Friday before Halloween, and after two days of heavy rain, the sun was trying to make an appearance. Punk had spent the last week poring over the brochures and instructions that came with the trailer and now he considered himself pretty much an expert.

  “First thing we have to do is fill the fresh tank with water,” he said. “Hon, look at that campground map and see where the water thingies are.”

  She looked at him. “Water thingies?”

  He threw up one hand, exasperated. “You know. Um, hydrants. There's one!” He screeched the truck and the trailer to a halt, throwing them both against their seat belts. He clambered out of the truck, found the hose after checking three storage compartments, and got it hooked up.

  By the time he finished and got back in, PJ had scanned the campground and spotted several empty sites. They hadn't made a reservation, deciding they would wait and see what the weather did. She pointed the spots out to Punk and he edged the camper along the one-way road as they considered each possibility.

  “That one is close to the shower house,” PJ said.

  “We have our own shower, Patty Jo,” Punk reminded her.

  “Well, I just thought it would save water.”

  “Here's one with lots of shade,” he said.

  “It's October. We don't need shade,” she said.

  “There's a perfect one,” he said.

  “It has a reserved tag on it,” she said.

  After similar discussion of five different sites and two loops around the campground, they agreed on one that Punk thought it would be easiest to back into.

  “Now,” Punk said, stopping the truck, “I need you to get out and guide me in. I don't want to be too close to that tree either.”

  PJ got out and stood where he told her to. Punk pulled forward and then reversed slowly, turning the trailer into the site. PJ saw that the back end was headed straight for a post and waved her arms, yelling “Stop!” He jerked to a halt and she ran forward to explain. They tried again and this time he turned it too sharp, heading toward the fire pit on the other side of the site. The third time, he got the trailer pretty much in the center of the site and PJ waved him back.

  Just as she held up a hand to indicate far enough, the trailer tire nearest her hit a large puddle, spraying her new Halloween sweatshirt—orange with a large black cat with glowing eyes on the front—and her face with muddy water.

  “Punk!” she yelled.

  He turned off the truck and jumped out. “What? What is it? Did I hit something?” Then he saw her face. “Whoops,” he said. He pulled a disreputable looking rag from under the seat and walking back to her, offered it while trying to keep a straight face. She seethed but took the rag, gave it a disgusted glance, and silently wiped her face. She had heard stories about couples whose marriages teetered on the basis of backing up a camper and she didn't want to be one of those.

  “I'm really sorry, honey. Why don't you sit at the picnic table while I set the trailer up?”

  She shook her head. This had been her idea and she wasn't giving up. They both put on old gloves, and removed the sway bars.

  He then unhitched the truck and started to lower the stabilizers at each corner, remembering to put blocks of wood under them on the soggy ground. When he got to the back corners, he stood for a moment and scratched his head. The ground sloped away under the back end.

  “I think we're going to need something taller.” He returned to the bed of the pickup and pulled out two pieces of firewood about equal in length. He stood them on end and PJ held them in place while he cranked down the stabilizers.

  “There,” he said, and stood up straight, admiring his handiwork.

  The logs began sinking in the soft ground, toppling over, and the trailer started to slide backwards down the slope.

  Chapter 3

  Punk and PJ stood riveted watching their travel trailer roll slowly down a short slope and cringed as the back crunched against a large oak, bringing it to a halt.

  “Oh, Punk! What did we do?” PJ put her hands up covering her face.

  Punk rubbed his head. “It's what we didn't do. We forgot to put in the wheel brakes.”

  “How bad do you think it is?”

  “Looks like the tree just crushed that rack thing. But I don't know if we can pull it back out.” He turned and trudged toward the front of the trailer, PJ following. He pointed at the trailer hitch angling upward.

  “I'm afraid it might be too high to get it back on the ball. I'll back the truck up and you let me know when the ball is almost under the hitch.” After several tries, she signaled that the position was good. Punk returned to the hitch and started cranking the jack. Exhausted, he stopped and peered at the ball.

  “It doesn't seem to be getting any closer.”

  “Probly need to put your stabilizers back up.” The deep, gruff voice caused both Punk and PJ to jump. A wiry little man about their age leaned on the side of the pickup, a toothpick dangling out of one side of his mouth.

  “What? Oh, you're right.” Punk slapped himself in the forehead. “Thanks. This is our first trip.”

  “Really?” the man asked, but his grin said that wasn't news.

  Punk got the crank back out and set to work on the stabilizers. PJ tried to make herself useful pulling the blocks off to the side.

  “Still might not be enough,” the man said, as Punk returned to the jack. Punk looked at him, hoping for further enlightenment.

  “Go ahead and try it,” the man nodded, but he was right. As the bottom of the jack raised off the blocks, the ball was still a tantalizing inch from the hitch.

  Punk was puzzling over their dilemma. “PJ,” he said, “climb up on that side of the tongue. I'll get on this side and maybe we can bring it down enough.”

  With effort, they each climbed up with their feet on either side of the propane tanks, reaching across and grasping each other's shoulders. The man by the pickup leaned over and peered at the hitch.

  “Nope,” he said.

  Punk looked him, exasperated. “Do you have any suggestions?”

  “I do.” He paused and chewed on the toothpick. “You need to jack the back end up.”

  “You're right!” Punk said, as he let go of PJ and climbed back down. PJ caught herself as she started to tumble off the other side. “Oh, sorry, honey.”

  He dug around and found the jack. But when he carried it to the back end of the trailer and took a look at the ground, he realized it would just sink in the mud too, and besides, wasn't tall enough.

  The man had followed him. “Got some boards?” he said.

  Punk nodded and trudged back to the truck. He pulled out a couple of two-by-fours. The man helped him set up the jack on a stack of the stabilizer blocks on top of two boards. Punk verified that the ball was directly under the hitch and went back to the jack. PJ stayed by the front and yelled when the tongue lowered enough for the hitch to cover the ball.

  The man stood by the jack while Punk went forward to lock the coupler safety pin.

  “Thanks for your help,” Punk said to the man.

  The man held out his hand. “I'm Fred—we're camped across the road.”

  It took another hour to pull the trailer into a level position, put the wheel brakes in, and finish the setup.

  “Good thing we started early this afternoon,” PJ said to Punk, as he got out lawn chairs. Ready to fix a little supper and relax, PJ unfolded the steps and unlocked the trailer door. She opened the door to the sound of spurting water.

  Chapter Four

  Yelling “Punk!” as she went in, PJ looked at the kitchen sink. Nothing. She rushed into the tiny bathroom. The bathtub faucet was spewing water in fits and starts. She turned off the taps.

  “What is it?” Punk asked, poking his head around the corner. “Those were turned on?”

  “Yes. How would we know? We've never had water in it before.”

  Punk went back to the control panel above the kitchen sink. “Th
e pump's turned on, too. I'll turn it off. Oh, man!”

  “What is it?” PJ came back out of the bathroom in time to see her husband's distress increase. “What's the matter?”

  He was still looking at the control panel. “Our fresh water tank is almost empty.”

  “Why?”

  “Because,” he threw up one hand, “the pump was left on and the faucet was on. All of the fresh water that I put in has run through to the grey water tank!”

  PJ looked at him. “What does that mean?”

  He put his hands on his hips. “We have no water. And we have a full waste water tank.” He turned on his heel and headed back out the door, his wife in his wake.

  He scanned the surrounding campsites. “Were there any more hydrants in this campground?”

  Punk pointed across the road. “I think there's one behind where that guy Fred is camped.”

  Fred was sitting at his picnic table nursing a beer, watching them. Punk hurried over and explained his latest dilemma.

  “Let me get this straight. You just bought that trailer?” Fred asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “And you didn't turn on the faucets or the pump?”

  “No.”

  “So it was that way when you got it. Where'd you buy it?”

  “That Happy Camper Heaven back in town.”

  “Con Conniver?” Fred said, emphasizing the second syllable and shaking his head. “Oh, man, you are in for all kinds of trouble. Man, there are so many good dealers around, why would you...well, where's your hose? You got more than one?”

  Punk wanted to ask what Fred meant about Conniver but thought he'd better take care of the water problem first. “No, only one, I think.”

  “Go get it. It'll take two to reach this hydrant but you can borrow mine. Meanwhile, open the drain in your grey water tank and let it empty.”

  “On the ground?” Punk said. “But—”

  “It's clean water,” Fred said. “You never used it. Go.”

  PJ, who had trailed after Punk over to Fred's, now followed her husband back and stood by while he opened the drain and then rummaged the compartment where the hose belonged.

  “It's not here,” Punk said. “How can that be? I just used it when we came in.”

  PJ realized that water was beginning to puddle around her feet from the emptying tank at the same time it dawned on Punk where the hose was.