LETTERS From CAMP Rehoboth |
CAMP Talk: Going Mobile Home - Oh! |
by Bill Sievert |
You have to be careful about what you want in life because sometimes you'll get it. That simple truth has been ringing in my ears since the day John and I first stepped gingerly into our new summer home. For at least a decade, we had jokedand I do mean jokedabout simplifying our lives by selling our sprawling house, shucking most of our possessions and settling into a sleek, shiny Airstream. As some of you aficionados know, Airstream is the make of those classic silvery aluminum trailers with curved edges and a curious art-deco appeal. In a novel I wrote several years ago, my lead gay characters lived in one. I even began a collection of vintage toy trailers representing the history and aesthetics of 20th Century mobile housing. But never did I imagine that, at the onset of the 21st Century, John's and my personal reality would include life in a trailer park. No, we haven't purchased the trendy Airstream of our dreams. Neither have we moved into a comfy contemporary "double wide" with screened porch, patio and gas grill. Rather, we have rented a 50-year-old, 18-foot "travel-trailer," square and boxy and so compact that a simple sedan could drag it along the nation's two-lane roads in an age before there were self-propelled RVs or even an Interstate freeway system. Our mobile home can't travel anymore. It's much too old and long ago was affixed to concrete blocks upon which it is spending its declining days in the company of others of its age group. That is in a weedy trailer park on the outskirts of town. Our trailer's only remaining curb appeal comes from the rust spots covered over with graffiti-like splashes of mismatched make-up paint. The lot is so miniscule that there is barely space for the obligatory pair of flamingos, much less parking for our SUV, which appears to dwarf the place. I must point out that we had to rent this trailer sight unseen. As many of you are aware, it's not easy coming up with affordable housing in Rehoboth Beach in season, particularly when you have a dog and especially if you don't know you're going to need to find a place to live until April. In our case, we accepted an offer to buy our house before we could cement arrangements for new local digs. It all happened so fast. The offer came while we were on one of our regular jaunts south to escape the damp cold of early spring in Delaware, and the buyers wanted a quick settlement. "We've accepted their terms, but now where will we go?" we whined by telephone to our friend Joanie, who immediately began making calls in our behalf. She searched frantically for a condo or sub-rental or house-share for us. After more than a week of trying, all she could come up with was the travel trailer, and even it was about to go. "You have 20 seconds to think it over," she informed us early one morning from her cell phone. "I'm standing here outside the trailer with the owner. There's a man right behind me screaming that he already had been promised the place. I pulled out my checkbook first, but there could be a fight." "Well, what's it like?" "The fight?" she asked. "Oh, you mean the trailer. It's clean, but it's the ugliest one in the entire park and it's very, very tiny. Hurry, you have to decide. The other man is not at all happy that he may not get it. " "They're okay with the dog?" "Yes, they say their dog always loved the place." "So you're saying it's like a doghouse?" "Hurry." "Okay, okay. We'll take it." We raced north to pack up our 2,400 square foot house, hoping the trailer might be a little more spacious and cuter than we expected. Ha! Our new home redefines the concept of "lowered expectations." "The whole place is smaller than our master bath," John said as he took three strides from the living area through the kitchenette/lavatory and onto the bed. "It has a working shower," Joan chimed in, as positive in attitude as a realtor trying to unload swampland in Florida. "It is what it is," I said, "what little of it there is. Where is the laundry?" "You'll bring your laundry to my house," she said. At least it looked like we could squeeze our big-screen TV set onto a small table between the sofa bed and the kitchen sink. That eliminates the dining area, but there's really no place to prepare food anywayunless you use the toilet seat as a counter top. "We'll do a black-tie dinner party for our housewarming," John said, brightening. "We can have at least three guests if we all stand up to eat." "Yes, a black-tie dinner would be fun," I said, vowing to make the best of our situation even though I knew immediately there would be no space for my collection of toy trailers or for any of our vintage furnishings. I decided on the spot to begin collecting antique thimbles. Contrary to what some people may think, many gay men and women seem to have a natural affinity for old trailers. Perhaps because the closets are so tiny, it's not a difficult decision to stay out of them. Even one of the greatest classic gay cult films, John Waters' Pink Flamingos, was set in a trailer, inside of which sat the immortal Edie the Egg Lady in her playpen. This year, one of the hottest offerings on the Fringe Festival theatrical circuit is Lewis Routh's hysterical drag epic, Trailer Trash Tabloid. The play is currently touring gay venue throughout the country, scheduled for Orlando's GayDays in June, the San Francisco Fringe Fest in September and even Diversity Weekend in Eureka Springs, Arkansas, in November. Perhaps we'll be able to lure the show to Rehobothand host the cast party at our place. The play has a wonderfully tacky web site (www.trailertrashtabloid.com) full of helpful hints for those of us who are stepping up into "the life." I learned, for example, that covering the faux wood paneling of one's trailer with mirrored tiles makes it seem ever so much more spacious. And that, with wall space at a minimum, a trailer's miniature windows are great places over which to hang artwork, particularly seascapes. This tip is perfect for mobile homo-owners whose bedroom porthole, like ours, is only four feet from our neighbor's living room window. Though John and I keep stumbling over each other and the dog, we are beginning to adapt to our new confinementI mean environment. We may be getting to like it, even though we've discovered that some narrow-minded people are making judgments about us based solely on the place we live. When I called to have cable connected, the company representative immediately knew the location of our new address. "Oh, that's a mobile home park, isn't it?" she said. "Yes it is." "And may I ask, are you the property's new owner?" "No, just renting," I replied demurely, then made matters worse by adding: "We're sort of in-between homes." "I see" was the condescending response. "Perhaps I should get the last four digits of your Social Security number." "Excuse me," I said defensively. "We've had cable service in this town for over a decadein the Yacht and Country Club neighborhood. Why, we're even planning a black-tie dinner. We're not really trailer-park tra...tra..." I couldn't say it. Suddenly, the phrase that we had bandied about so cavalierly in the past seemed quite offensive. We have become part of yet another maligned and misunderstood segment of society. But, with a little help from friends who truly appreciate the diversity of our community, we are learning to hold our heads high. Well, we have to bend over a little but that's just because the ceiling is so low. Bill Sievert is co-owner of Splash on Baltimore Avenue and a member of the CAMP Rehoboth Board of Directors. He and John divide their time between Rehoboth and Florida. |
LETTERS From CAMP Rehoboth, Vol. 10, No. 4, May 5, 2000. |