Tumbleweed Logic

by ZaneDoe

  Broken Arrow was a friendly community, exceptionally so, and invitations flowed freely along with the conversations. It was the environment Lena missed and craved the past three years, an environment she found difficult to leave even with her intense desire to be back in Monterey. She put off continuing her trip for a week, then two, then lucked upon an opportunity.

  Lena was not fond of the Cadillac even though the gold behemoth served its purpose well: an entire closet could fit in the trunk, the back seat was a kin to a small yard for Pepper and it pulled the camper without problem--all good things. However, it was just too big and far too loud. She felt as though she was driving a condo on wheels, and that was without the camper attached. She drove over some railroad tracks while finding her way through Texas and in doing so damaged the muffler that gave birth to a loud rumbling noise that couldn’t have annoyed anyone more than it annoyed Lena. She made the decision to wait until she was back home to attempt its repair, along with any other damage that might have occurred to the car on the journey. When she saw the opportunity, she was quick to seize it.

  At the top of a hill, displayed as if it were about to roll over the edge, was an International Scout. Taped to the window was a For Sale sign, minus a phone number. Its precarious position had the townspeople placing bets on if or when the Scout would take a dive. Since Lena decided to extend her stay she a wanted, before the Scout had a chance to take the plunge, to find the elusive owner and make an offer.

  The International Scout had its own moderately loud screeching sound from under the hood but paled compared to the Cadillac’s obnoxious rumble. The price was right and the International Scout was hers. The townspeople who bet the Scout would remain stationary claimed a win, while those betting it would take the plunge called foul. From that point on Lena regularly heard, “Hey, aren’t you the gal who bought that Scout?” “So, you bought that Scout…”and “You’re the Scout lady,” and so it went until “Scout” became Lena’s nickname. She liked having a nickname; it made her feel even more at home within the community, another feeling void for the past three years.

  Hail bombarded the campground again. The RV doors were slamming shut per usual. The tinny pinging made the campground sound like an arcade. Minutes passed and the hail was on its way and the campers came popping out of their RVs to check for damage.

  “Scout!” Again, he yelled, “Scout!” Lena hoped, but knew better, that he would make it short. She opened the camper door.

  “Hi Burt. How can I help you?”

  In his usual matter-of-fact manner, Burt informed Lena that she left the windows of her International Scout open. Then immediately, without pause--except to spit chew juice into his cup--Burt dove right into a personal story from his past of saturated car seats, which led to a story of molded rugs and on to a story about rust that turned into a story about a reunion with his brother. No matter how far off the original subject Burt’s stories veered, he managed to tie them all together at the end and always jumping back to the original story or comment. She politely listened to his stories of warning--the Scout had so many leaks it hardly mattered if the windows were up or down but it would only rain on Burt’s verbal parade if she pointed out that fact. Burt had the usual log of chew between his bottom lip and gum. Though she tried to avoid looking at the wet log peeping out from his bottom lip, she inevitably ended up focusing on the brown wad as it submerged and reemerged between words. It made her queasy.

  “Ever seen such hail, Burt?” hollered a passerby, much to Lena’s relief.

  “Yep, I have…” and Burt was on his way.

  Relieved of polite duty she yelled out, “See you later, Burt.” Without looking back, he waved his hand goodbye. He had a willing listener in his path, like a fresh bucket of oats to a hungry horse. Burt trotted off, story in progress. With visions of Burt’s chew still fresh in her mind, Lena put lunch off and went to check just how much ice had filled the Scout. She shrugged at the layer of ice pebbles on its floor. The sun would reclaim them in no time.

  Scout walked to the office where a handful of people made the daily pilgrimage in hopes of retrieving mail. The campground employees were rarely consistent with mail runs so these same people made several trips to the office each day. Mr. Chitwell often planted himself in the vinyl chair and waited patiently for mail and for telephone calls. Scout never saw him receive either. He was in his eighties and not very sociable. He was tall, very thin and pale, wore two hearing aids, and walked with a cane. Mr. Chitwell’s financial status allowed him to live anywhere he chose, and he chose Broken Arrow. He felt wanted and needed at Broken Arrow, and he was. He bailed out Lila and her beloved campground regularly. When the water was turned off due to lack of payment, “We’re having problems with the water pump…it should be fixed within an hour…” was told to the complaining vacationers (long-term residents knew better) as they filed into the office. There were times the pump truly was malfunctioning—flooded usually. At those times, a series of connected extension cords streamed from the office to the pump house, the lifeline to a borrowed blow dryer that was helping to dry out the pump. When Jose paraded through the park with tools hanging from his waist (magazine tucked under his shirt) making the visual announcement that he was on his way to fix the problem, the long-terms knew the drought was caused by an unpaid water bill. Jose sat in the pump house reading his magazine, reading and waiting while Mr. Chitwell wrote out a check to the water company. He handed it to Lila, who handed it to Eric, the immaculate groundskeeper, who announced to everyone in the office that he was off to the post office as he raced out the door and down to the water company. The bill was paid and soon Jose left the pump house a triumphant handyman, accepting “good work” praises from relieved campers as he proudly headed back to the office. A similar chain of events took place with the electricity. The telephone wasn’t immune to the Broken Arrow fund deficit either.

  Broken Arrow’s breakdowns and glossed-over chaos had little effect on its popularity. Like Mr. Chitwell, Broken Arrow had its aches and pains but kept right on going day after unpredictable day. It was a campground like no other, run by Lila, a woman like no other. Lila was as mysterious as she was open. She was as private as she was social. Lila had a calm manner and a calming effect on others. She possessed a past that was not only colorful but also one to be envied. Lila flew cargo planes in her youth, traveled to every continent and brushed elbows with those on the big screen, in the big office and many who have been memorialized in history books. She kept an old Airstream trailer on the grounds, immaculate and shiny like a polished miniature silver blimp. Word was that President Kennedy used that same Airstream while visiting a military base in New Mexico. Word also was that Lila and Mr. Kennedy “appreciated” each other. Lila never spoke about Mr. Kennedy or of the significance of the well-kept Airstream but most saw it as her memento of a significant encounter in her extraordinary life. More than once Scout got a glimpse of Lila late at night as she crossed the campground to the old silver blimp. She seemed to take refuge there, alone. A tiny light illuminated the shaded windows. No one asked questions, and no one disturbed Lila while she was within its confines.

  Like the Airstream, Lila was old but still in her prime. She created a unique quality and way of life at Broken Arrow that showed in the characters that called Broken Arrow home. The sense of family was the glue that held Broken Arrow together and made long-terms out of those who intended a short stay. For some, Broken Arrow was the family that they never had; it was a place where they were truly wanted and the family that they could finally rely upon.

  At dusk, like clockwork, a convergence of men home from work, play or just the end of their day, strolled down to the showers behind the office. The showers turned on and the steam filled and rose from the windows like smoke. Men lined up in front of the wavy mirrors to shave, brush their teeth, comb their hair and converse. Below the window was a weathered bench attached to the wall and the best seat at the campground to watch the s
pectacular sunsets. The bright yellow sun turns orange and disappears behind swirls of purple, peach and rose-colored skies, replaced with stars scattered across a dark teal that eventually turns black. The inordinate amount of shooting stars did not go unnoticed by newcomers. Scout often graced the bench with Pepper at the end of the day, much like her bench at the beach. Bits and pieces of the men’s conversations wafted out with the steam, she could put a name to a comment, a face to a laugh. The women’s showers were quiet most of the time. Their showers were brief--not much steam, not much conversation. The women spent their time conversing in the office where there were tables, chairs and a small library of donated books and magazines plus free coffee and donuts.

  “Hi, John. How are you?” Scout made a point to smile as she spoke to John. He was a grump down to the bone and it was a challenge to get a smile out of him. He shuffled towards the back door of the office, pulling his oxygen tank with one hand and puffing on a cigarette with the other.

  “Fine. You?” he answered gruffly, no smile.

  She was pleased he responded even if it was with peeve and effort. John’s body was large and oval and he always wore khaki. He reminded Scout of a giant Mr. Potatohead. John’s trailer mate watched him through the window of their metal home. Bobby’s baseball cap bill was cockeyed pushed against the glass and a lighted cigarette balanced mid-lip. A constant hard-core expression donned Bobby’s weathered face, one that rivaled John’s. Penny, a campground neighbor, described Bobby as looking like a partially exposed mummy she once saw at an Egyptian museum. It was hard for Scout to look at Bobby from that description on and not visualize the mummy. Bobby’s skin was rather dark, dried out and clung to her bone structure. Bobby’s entire exterior was rough and had seen many years but no one was quite sure how many.

  “I’m doing great, John,” Scout replied while still staring at Bobby’s face in the window. “Just watching the sun go down and the stars go up.”

  John continued on to the office at a snail’s pace. Like the sound of a one-shot party popper, Bobby sounded off a belch and left the window.

  “Waiting for the bingo bus?” teased Jose as he passed on his way to the office.

  “Previous to this moment, I was enjoying the sunset,” she quipped. “Did you need the bench to plop down on and slack off or feign exhaustion for Lila’s sake?”

  Jose stopped and Scout continued, “Oh, don’t let me stop you. By all means, be on your way to the office,” she paused, “and beyond.”

  “Don’t try and get rid of me; I work here, remember?”

  “Work!” She exaggerated her surprise. “I don’t think stuffing donuts, drinking coffee and gabbing with senior citizens qualifies as work, Jose, unless you’re on some kind of ‘special’ program.” She smiled.

  “Oooooh, am I not paying enough attention to you. Am I spending too much time with the others and that’s upsetting you? Do I detect jealousy? All alone, drooping on the bench, forlorn---”

  “Oh look, Jose! One of the horses just relieved himself, you better go get your shovel, earn your pay.” She turned from Jose and looked back up towards the sky. Jose continued on his way to the office.

  “Jose! Are you ready to go to dinner?” Lila called out as she balanced against the back door.

  Lila noticed Scout sitting on the bench with Pepper and insisted, “Scout, now don’t sit out here by yourself; grab a jacket and come to dinner with us.” Scout loved how Lila made not-so-subtle requests that always stemmed from the heart. “Come on, we’re leaving in a few minutes and you’re going with us.”

  “Sounds fun; I’ll be in the office shortly.” She sat a few minutes longer, petting Pepper and watching the sky; she knew it took time gathering everyone up for an event so she didn’t rush off.

  John left the office, trudging his way back to his trailer. As he passed, Lena wished him a pleasant evening. He nodded. Bobby’s face filled the trailer window like an old weathered beacon guiding him home.

  The steam from the windows disappeared and night was on its way.

  Chapter Five

  Raising The Dead Husbands Club