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Authors: Jennifer Bradbury
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cover,” Win said. “Now let’s find a place to crash in the Buckeye State.”
I returned to my bike, chucked the camera and case at Win, and studied the map. “According to this, there’s a campground just over the line,” I said.
“Good. I’m hungry. And did I mention the boys are in trouble?”
Twenty minutes later we reached our destination: the Rest-a-While Campground.
“What kind of campground is this?” Win said.
I shrugged. It didn’t look like I’d imagined, based on the few state or national parks my family had camped in during summer vacations. A narrow ribbon of patchy asphalt split a strip of grass that cut back between the fields on either side. At the far end sat a small, run-down house. In two rows on either side of the house a half dozen RVs sat parked, each plugged into its own outlet for water and electricity.
“See any tents?” I asked as we rolled up.
“No,” Win said as a man emerged from the house at the end. “But that guy can probably tell us where to set up.”
The man was wearing a pair of denim overalls covered in drops and smears of what appeared to be the entire color history of the little shack. He had no shirt on beneath the bib, but around his waist he wore a tool belt stocked with a random assortment of gear, including a walkie-talkie, a couple of screwdrivers, and a ring of keys. He stood at the bottom of a short flight of steps, eyeing us cautiously from a safe twenty feet away.
“What do you want?” the guy said from beneath a ball cap advertising motor oil.
“How much for tent sites?” I asked.
He didn’t respond as he reached behind him and pulled a flashlight from one of the pockets of his tool belt. He turned it on and pointed it at us, shining it straight into my eyes and then Win’s before scanning the bikes.
It was only six o’clock and there was plenty of light left.
“No tent sites,” the man said, still shining his light at Win’s front pannier. “We’re not set up for that.”
“But this is a campground, right?” I said. “The map has a little green tent on it right here.” I pointed gently at the map, my fingertip resting on the small green icon denoting a campground just outside Hanersville, Ohio. “I guess we’ll pay the RV price. …”
“RV sites is twelve dollars, but we ain’t set up for
those
,” he said, gesturing again at the bikes with his flashlight, which I now noticed was pink.
“Well, we’re not going to use power or anything, and really all we need is a place to set up our tent, if we could get some water from the hose or whatever,” I said hopefully.
He shook his head. “The lady wouldn’t like that.”
I shot Win a look. He was staring at the flashlight, the beginnings of a smile starting at his mouth.
“The lady?” I said.
“Lady owns this campground. My wife. She wouldn’t like this,” he said. “Not civil.”
I looked around at the RVs, piles of empty pop cans strewn like landscaping across the makeshift yards.
“I don’t understand—,” I began.
“Isn’t that a kids’ flashlight?” Win asked, pointing at the pink plastic light the man clutched.
He ignored Win. “The lady wouldn’t like it,” he repeated. “You’ll mess on the grass.”
The piles of junk and the oil leaking from the undersides of the RVs had surely done plenty of damage already.
“Seriously, my little cousin in New Jersey has a light just like that. Only hers has this little thing you can put on the front that makes the light change from purple to pink to yellow. …” Win leaned a little closer. “Looks like yours broke off.”
The man stood up straighter and held the light like he might try to prove to us that in spite of its girly origins, it could still inflict some pain.
“Shut up, Win,” I said. “Sir, I promise you we won’t mess up the grass. The tent isn’t very big—”
“He thinks we’re going to poop in his yard, Chris,” Win said, starting to laugh. “He didn’t say
I returned to my bike, chucked the camera and case at Win, and studied the map. “According to this, there’s a campground just over the line,” I said.
“Good. I’m hungry. And did I mention the boys are in trouble?”
Twenty minutes later we reached our destination: the Rest-a-While Campground.
“What kind of campground is this?” Win said.
I shrugged. It didn’t look like I’d imagined, based on the few state or national parks my family had camped in during summer vacations. A narrow ribbon of patchy asphalt split a strip of grass that cut back between the fields on either side. At the far end sat a small, run-down house. In two rows on either side of the house a half dozen RVs sat parked, each plugged into its own outlet for water and electricity.
“See any tents?” I asked as we rolled up.
“No,” Win said as a man emerged from the house at the end. “But that guy can probably tell us where to set up.”
The man was wearing a pair of denim overalls covered in drops and smears of what appeared to be the entire color history of the little shack. He had no shirt on beneath the bib, but around his waist he wore a tool belt stocked with a random assortment of gear, including a walkie-talkie, a couple of screwdrivers, and a ring of keys. He stood at the bottom of a short flight of steps, eyeing us cautiously from a safe twenty feet away.
“What do you want?” the guy said from beneath a ball cap advertising motor oil.
“How much for tent sites?” I asked.
He didn’t respond as he reached behind him and pulled a flashlight from one of the pockets of his tool belt. He turned it on and pointed it at us, shining it straight into my eyes and then Win’s before scanning the bikes.
It was only six o’clock and there was plenty of light left.
“No tent sites,” the man said, still shining his light at Win’s front pannier. “We’re not set up for that.”
“But this is a campground, right?” I said. “The map has a little green tent on it right here.” I pointed gently at the map, my fingertip resting on the small green icon denoting a campground just outside Hanersville, Ohio. “I guess we’ll pay the RV price. …”
“RV sites is twelve dollars, but we ain’t set up for
those
,” he said, gesturing again at the bikes with his flashlight, which I now noticed was pink.
“Well, we’re not going to use power or anything, and really all we need is a place to set up our tent, if we could get some water from the hose or whatever,” I said hopefully.
He shook his head. “The lady wouldn’t like that.”
I shot Win a look. He was staring at the flashlight, the beginnings of a smile starting at his mouth.
“The lady?” I said.
“Lady owns this campground. My wife. She wouldn’t like this,” he said. “Not civil.”
I looked around at the RVs, piles of empty pop cans strewn like landscaping across the makeshift yards.
“I don’t understand—,” I began.
“Isn’t that a kids’ flashlight?” Win asked, pointing at the pink plastic light the man clutched.
He ignored Win. “The lady wouldn’t like it,” he repeated. “You’ll mess on the grass.”
The piles of junk and the oil leaking from the undersides of the RVs had surely done plenty of damage already.
“Seriously, my little cousin in New Jersey has a light just like that. Only hers has this little thing you can put on the front that makes the light change from purple to pink to yellow. …” Win leaned a little closer. “Looks like yours broke off.”
The man stood up straighter and held the light like he might try to prove to us that in spite of its girly origins, it could still inflict some pain.
“Shut up, Win,” I said. “Sir, I promise you we won’t mess up the grass. The tent isn’t very big—”
“He thinks we’re going to poop in his yard, Chris,” Win said, starting to laugh. “He didn’t say
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