LETTERS From CAMP Rehoboth |
CAMP Talk |
by Bill Sievert |
Sawdust Memories: (Excerpt Two): A Taste of Heaven and the Sour Grapes
(In the May 18 issue of Letters, I introduced you to chanteuse Dusty Rose, the gender-changing diva of Sawdust Mills Campground & Wilder Life Preserve. In this second excerpt from my forthcoming novel, Sawdust Memories: The Saga of Dusty Rose, you will meet some of the gay camp's other "perms"or permanent residentsincluding characters with temperaments both pious and sour. Enjoy!) Father Jack was hot under the collar as his final penitent of the night rushed out of the rubberized storage shed that served as his backyard confessional. Midway through the confessant's intense act of contrition, a portable generator empowering the hut's "tropical-wind" fan had run out of juiceand seconds later the young man was kicking open the resin double doors. "I know I'm a wimp," he said remorsefully as he pulled up his boxers, "but I just can't breathe in here..." "It's not your fault," his confidante said comfortingly. "It's mine. I should have checked the fuel yesterday. If you'll just hold on a minute, I'll run a cord from my trailer." But it was too late; Father Jack had lost another soul. "Mea culpa, my ass," he mumbled as he extinguished a votive cup with his fingers. "What a Nancy boy!" Back aching, Jack slowly lifted himself from his stool and stepped from the windowless Roughneck onto a tidy brick patio surrounded by an easy-to-grow garden of ferns and elephant ears. A sliver of sunshine poked through the branches of the bald cypress trees, but the first light of day was no match for the flaming Tiki torches that illuminated a hand-stenciled sign welcoming "all comers" to "Father Jack Hoffer's Tool Chapel of the Rubber Maid-onna." The camp clergyman"ex officio," he would explain, "by virtue of my position"immediately ripped the tight white band from his flabby neck and tugged at the armholes of his black tank top in a futile attempt to stir a breeze toward his pits. Already, the August morning was as sticky as Jack wasthe way it was every day in summer along the river and creek banks of Florida's Green Swamp. That's why Jack tried to limit the time he spent inside his poorly ventilated shed to the slightly less stifling hours of pre-dawn. Fortunately for him, that's also when the boys who dropped by the Tool Chapel were most eager to make atonement. His ministry was especially tempting to those who had not succeeded in finding indulgence by other means during the night while strolling Frederick Forest around Veronica Lake. Jack Hoffer was among 323 "perms"or full-time residentsof the Sawdust Mills Campground & Wilder Life Preserve. Five years earlier, the one-time logging center turned fishing camp had been transformed into Central Florida's "great gay escape," as the advertisements billed it, "200 acres of paradise, preserved exclusively for the GLBT community and other indigenous life forms." "We comprise a tasty sandwich of diversity herea big old gay BLT," Jack enjoyed telling first-time visitors. "Might you want to share a bite?" At 260 pounds, the unofficial chaplain certainly could down a Dagwood with the best of his fellow bears, but food wasn't a factor among his current priorities. "Dear Lord, I could kill for a shower!" he moaned. Weighing whether to hop into his E-Z Go golf cart for a short ride to the camp bathhouse or to exhaust the contents of his trailer's five-gallon hot-water tank, he opted for the instant gratification of a quick, cold dousing. He grabbed his garden hose, adjusted the nozzle andin a rapturous voiceurged his instrument: "Wash over me, sweet Jesus!" But for the second time since dawn cracked, his appeal to a higher power went unanswered. The liquid emanating from his patio pipeline was disagreeably tepidand just a trickle at that. He hurled the hose to the ground and cursed like the truck driver he used to be. "You performing another baptism out there, Padre?" asked a voice from the bedroom window of the Airstream next door. At Sawdust, the trailers were set so close that one inhabitant's mild bout of irritable bowel could rattle the residences of a half dozen neighbors. "It sounds like someone doesn't think his shower is so golden." "Oh, good morning, fabulous Philip. There's no water pressure again. It's because they're letting in too many perms, and when you add the temps, the damn well's runnin' dry." "So, as newcomers, it's our fault," said Philip, sticking his blond Beatle-banged head through the window's small opening. "Or maybe it's just that knot in your hose." "Ah...sorry. Did I wake you?" "No, you woke Franklin, and he woke me. Or, I should say that cute dude who hightailed it out of here a couple minutes ago woke Franklin. What's his story?" "What goes on in my Confessional is strictly confidential, as you should be aware by now." "Strict, yes; confidential, I'm not so sure." "Suffice it to say, it was a rough night." "Same old, same old..." Philip teased. "You didn't happen to encounter Miss Dusty during the night, did you?" "Dusty Rose? Why do you ask?" "Security Sal called here at some godawful hour of the night and said that Dusty hadn't shown up for her midnight set at the Lucille Ballroom. It's not like her to leave the crowd clamoring for more." "I caught part of her first set, but I slipped out during the intro to 'I Will Survive.' If I never hear that song again, I'll die a happy man." As if on cue, Philip flipped his hair back and broke into a verse of "at first I was alone, I was petrified..." But at last one of Jack's prayers was answered. Philip's performance was interrupted when his cell phone began ring-toning to the tune of Simon and Garfunkel's "Dangling Conversation." Upon their arrival at Sawdust two months prior, Philip and Franklin had quickly discovered thatbecause of their residence's metal walls and the camp's rural settinginterior cellular reception did not convey with their 1977 Sovereign. So, just in case of an emergency, each night Philip would dangle his mobile out the bedroom window by its charging cord, the result being some of the most reliable reception in the campground. Now, whenever camp management wanted to spread a late-night message about a storm warning or other important news to the residents of Grape Court, they would try Philip's cell first. While Philip yanked up the cord and took this latest call, Jack unraveled his twisted garden hose and pretended not to eavesdrop. "No...No kidding...You're right...I already asked Jack, and he hasn't seen her either...Sure, I'll get the word around..." "That was Sal," Philip immediately reported to his neighbor. "Nobody can find Dusty, but her pick-up's still parked in front of her cabin." "Oh, she's probably bedded down in some camper's tent." "Maybe, but after the first show she told Nicorette that she was just running home to grab a couple more boas. Sal has an APB out for her this morning; he's asking us all to keep our eyes open." "Have you asked Franklin where she might have gone? They must be pretty tight." "Why do you say that? He hardly knows her, except from her shows." "Well, they ought to have a lot in commonyou know, as the only colored perms in the community." "Colored perms? Are you talking about hairstyles or people?" "Do you always have to parse my sentences, Philip? You know what I'm saying." "Sometimes, Jack, you have a rather curiousI might say datedway of expressing yourself." "Well, yes, I suppose I am a little past my freshness dating. But I'd swear I heard the Reverend Jesse Jackson speak just recently about 'people of color.' I thought it was alright with the pee-cee crowd to say 'colored' again." Philip rolled his eyes and shook his shaggy tresses. "Anyway," Jack continued, "Franklin might have seen or heard something when he went back out last night. Or was it you? I'm sure I heard one of you gents take off in your golf cart around midnight." "Oh, really? It wasn't me. It was way too muggy outside for my taste. I cranked up the air-conditioner and went straight to bed." "What a shame; I thought you usually went to bed gay. You know, Philip, sometimes you have a rather curious way of expressing yourself." Don't even go there, Padre." Philip pulled his upper torso back into the trailer, crawled across the double bed and peered through the drawn Venetian blinds on the opposite side to get a look at the driveway. F-R-A-N-K-L-I-N!" "Sorry, sweetie," came a voice from the shower. "There's still a little warm water left if you can't wait for it to reheat." "Did you go back out last night after I went to bed?" "No. I fell asleep watching TV on the sofa as usual. Why?" "Then why isn't the golf cart on the carport where I parked it?" "It's not?" No, it's in front now." "I'm clueless." "Of course you are.... I just hope you weren't out sleepwalking again." Philip gazed past the curiously parked cart and noticed several of their neighbors grabbing seats on a patio across the gravel path. "The sour grapes are gathering," Philip called to Franklin, "I'm going over. Your cup's in the microwave." (This excerpt of "Sawdust Memories" is copyright 2006-2007 by William A. Sievert, who can be reached at billsievert@earthlink.net. Publisher inquiries welcome.) |
LETTERS From CAMP Rehoboth, Vol. 17, No. 7 June 15, 2007 |