Airstream
When I was sixteen I bought an Airstream trailer. I got a good deal on
it, because it had just been In a big flood. Part of the roof had caved
in, and the walls were covered with Spam River swamp slime. At one hundred
dollars, it was a major purchase for me. It was way bigger than the
crushed velvet bellbottom and vest outfit I bought the summer before.
Even with the gold plaited chain buttons that adorned the vest. I bought
that with my carnival money. I ran three kiddie rides: the boats, the
race cars and the airplanes to earn that money. I sat on my ride operator
stool frightening young children with out of control madness, as I dreamt
about the tailor made crushed velvet belibottoms and the eye catching
vest. Once I had captured the eyes of the young carnival beauties, I
needed some place to take them, so I started saving for the trailer.
The next summer I was popping the Octopus into high gear. Pumping the
arms that cradled the young girls high above the midway. Threatening
to never let them down as they screamed for mercy. I had the power of
the octopus in my hands: free rides and nobody could make those arms
move up and down while spinning at the same time, the way I could. I
fell in love with the glimmer of the gypsy caravan. The lights of the
midway smoldering in the prairie night. I was a barker calling in the
loose change. The sweat of the field hands tightening around their
girls. They were so easy beneath the glitter and glamour of the county
fair. At the end of the summer I purchased the Airstream. To everyone
else it was my biggest folly.
| |
I parked my Airstream out behind “Puppy” our crippled, blind, part spaniel
we had chained to a doghouse in the deep back yard long ago. It was a
forgotten part of my parent’s property. The grass was long where the
lawn mower had yet to tread. I mowed a path to the front door and left
the rest wild to discourage visitors. It was my first home outside my
parent’s house. I was so proud of the musty old trailer, even though
it was only a slight improvement over Puppy’s dog house. The giant hole
in the ceiling let the stars In, and I sat on a pillow in the middle of
the floor that first night, looking out through that hole thinking about
all of the undiscovered galaxies I would someday explore.
The next day my girlfriend, Sue, and I scrubbed the mildew from the walls
and I fashioned a wood and shingle roof to patch the hole. It would
never hit the road again, but it served as a wild refuge for the acid
daze that followed. We painted the walls lavender which really vibrated
beneath my black light. We covered the fold—up kitchen table with Peter
Max inspired black light paint. We made love on the table to consummate
our creation. Not thinking about the water color. All the paints
swirled. We were too high. The paints mixed with our sweat and we
thought it was beautiful. It was the first art I ever created. We made
love six more times that day. The silver bird, as we called it, seemed
to channel sexual energy. Our friends made love their too. Our bodies
caressing each other on a tiny mattress. at times there were three
couples at once, and it was difficult to see where one began and the
other ended. With this energy the silver bird took flight to the melody
of Pink Floyd, and we flew high above Spamland. The only thing that
tethered us was the electrical cord plugged into my parent’s garage.
|