Welcome to the Campsite

Jenn, Charlie’s daughter, called from Eugene.  “I can’t take it anymore,” she said.  “Can you come get me out of here?”  We weren’t sure if she was referring to all the Eugene deadheads or her deadbeat boyfriend. 

“I love him but I can’t live with him,” she said.  “He’s the father of my baby, but he blows up.  I accidentally stepped on his white shoes getting on the bus and he screamed at me.  Then I thought, ‘Hey, I bought you those shoes.’”

Charlie told her, “I don’t like anyone who hurts you. He’s hurting you, so I don’t like him.” 

We’re saying as little as possible.  The more you say someone’s bad, the more the other person comes to their defense.  We didn’t want her to come to his defense.  He should be coming to her defense since she’s pregnant.  Instead, he got in an argument with her and left.

We drove down in the big fat ass truck while getting ten luxurious miles to the gallon on the freeway.  We’ve driven this road many times on the Harley, getting well over forty. 

This time we looked at the black clouds overhead and didn’t brace ourselves for pelting rain.  When the clouds unleashed, we didn’t have to pull over.  Being comfortable is sometimes worth ten miles to the gallon.

We got lost, as usual, so we were late to pick her up.  She stood at the front door, waiting for us and trying not to cry.  The same luggage she brought to Eugene is the same luggage we’re packing in the truck not three weeks later.  Jenn was so excited about her new life when we were handling this luggage the first time.  Now, she’s trying not to cry.

“I called my Mom and she said, ‘You owe me money’ and ‘I told you so.’  I can’t stay with my friends because other people are living there now.”

“Stay with us,” we said.  “Our house is like Kosovo, but we don’t want you to go back.  You left for the right reasons.”

“There’s so many hippies here I’m afraid if I stay, I’ll get in a fight.”

“Portland isn’t Eugene.”

“I know someone who works at Broadway Bagels.  Do you know where that is?”

“On Broadway,” I said.  “Downtown.  You’d like downtown.”

“I beat up a girl who works there now,” Jenn said.  “She deserved it, she even admitted that later.  I don’t know anyone else.”

Charlie and I tried to think of something to say.  I’ve never beat up anyone in my life, except in Tae Kwon Do and even then, not really.  Charlie’s in Law Enforcement.  That means he breaks up fights, not starts them.

She’s certainly not boring. 

“Want to hear a joke?”  she said.

“Sure.”

“What’s the opposite of Christopher Reeve?”

“What?”

”Christopher Walken.”

Charlie and I laughed too loud, but Jenn didn’t seem to mind.  “I love that joke,” she said.  “I can hardly get it out without laughing.”

The ride home was easy after that.  We found lots of things to laugh at, particularly Charlie’s taste in music. 

“They made music after the seventies,” Jenn told him. 

“Dead Kennedys?” he said.  “There’s a band called ‘Dead Kennedys?’”

We pulled up to our driveway.  I wonder what she imagined our bubble would look like.  I said, “I’m so sorry.  Our house is disgusting.  I’ll buy you all the spaghetti-o’s you want if you don’t complain.  That’s the only way my daughter agrees to live with us.”

She didn’t say a word.

She saw the door to the haunted downstairs.  “What’s down here?” she said.

“Dead people,” Charlie said. 

“I’ll show you,” I said.  “It scares me, though.”

She bravely walked among the sawdust without making a comment or a face.  She must really like spaghetti-o’s.

Later, Charlie said, “She’s not used to living like this.”

“Who is?”

“She’s used to living with nine people in one house and always having to look out for herself,” Charlie said.  “To move into our cul-de-sac, without friends or anything familiar must be scary.  She left the guy she loves, her Mom doesn’t want her back, and on top of that she’s pregnant.”

“All I could offer her was unlimited spaghetti-o’s.”

“That’s all her mother ever offered me.”

I hope she likes spaghetti-o’s.  I like her jokes.

A little help? [] 8:20:11 PM