The Welcoming Committee (Book Part 17)

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My senses are bombarded with exhaust fumes, window-rattling bass, and many busy drivers I must keep attention to. A DJ on the radio speaks at an auctioneer’s pace, “Come on down to”—some car lot, I don’t catch the name of—”and spend that hard-earned Sturgis money on a brand new 2012…” Spying a turn off the main street, I take it and ease into the much more slow-paced residential road.

I’m uncertain what I expected from Sturgis, but it’s not this: starter homes that are close together and in decay. I window gaze for a block, then turn onto another vehicle-less residential street while eyeing a place to stop. A large cardboard sign is nailed to a tree, and in uppercase handwritten letters, it reads “TENT SPACES.” Slowing to check out the property, I make eye contact with several leisurely men idling on the porch. One smiles, another flutters a finger wave, then motions and points at a vacant street front space.

It’s a snap decision; either I keep driving and possibly not find anything better, or I squelch my anxious feelings and do it. My hands pull me into the spot as if they have a mind of their own,

With a black tray of clay chips, $300 worth, I’d sit in the dealer chair four nights at a poker table. I’d keep primarily men, mostly senior to me, in line. I was strict, and people knew it, but that’s how I kept the atmosphere of differing personalities coexisting together.

From an old-timer poker room manager, I learned the ropes. In my first month, he stood over me like a parrot on my shoulder, picking and shitting on my every behavior. Often, I felt embarrassed and beaten down. However, to make it in the casino industry, this early hazing made me tough. Because not unlike a shark smelling blood in the water, poker players are all too good at picking up weakness and vulnerability.

I walk up the sidewalk and say, “How’s it going, guys?” suddenly aware of my short pink sundress cover for my bathing suit. A gap-toothed man in a cherry red t-shirt with widened bug-like eyes says. “Hey, welcome! Go ahead and put your tent up wherever you see a patch of grass.” I pause, see the open areas, and say, “There is plenty of room, isn’t there?”

“Oh yeah,” the man continues, “It wasn’t like this a few days ago. Most people headed out yesterday.”  
Another man adds, “There’s a shed in the back with a shower and bathroom. The lady who owns it is nice, too. Coffee in the morning. She runs a nursing home out of the house.”

Having already picked out my spot in my mind, I tell them how excited I am and how great the place is.

Bug’s eyes adds, “Sure is. We’ve been coming here for 10 years, and it’s a steal at only $20 a night.”
The price tag is unexpected, but I had assumed it was free.

My 1984 VW Westfalia camper van, fit with a stove, sink, bed, and room to spare, was the obvious choice for the road trip. But after calculating the cost of driving it versus my 2008 Toyota Scion TC, the option became clear; I could spend half as much and go twice as long in my car. 

Also, not knowing how reliable the van would be, I trusted the newer Scion’s mechanics. The icing on the cake was the idea of the smaller, sleeker car going undetected in a parking lot during sleepy times.

Immediately, I dropped the idea of camping, knowing my car’s back seat would suffice, but I felt obligated to the guys; the thought of letting them down was something I wanted to avoid.