“Punk,” PJ said, “Have you ever thought of doing that? Maybe that's how we should spend our retirement.”
Punk glanced up from his newspaper at the TV screen. A commercial showed a group of friends laughing around a roaring campfire, their faces lit by the flattering firelight, stars twinkling above them in an endless sky, and two RVs behind them.
“What? Camping? You've never wanted to go camping. I didn't think you even liked the outdoors much.” He huffed and went back to his paper.
“Wellll, I've never wanted to camp in a tent—” she wrinkled her nose—, “but those look pretty nice.” He wasn't listening.
The next night, PJ sipped an iced tea on their deck while Punk grilled burgers. “If we were camping, you could grill out all the time.” He flipped the burgers and asked her to get a plate.
Two days later, they were raking leaves in the back yard, and PJ leaned on her rake. “I just love fall and I bet it's really beautiful in those campgrounds.” Punk shook his head.
A few days after that, another TV commercial caught PJ's ear. Conrad Conniver, who pronounced his last name with the emphasis on the first syllable, was hawking his RV dealership, Happy Camper Heaven.
“We should check that place out, Punk. Look at the selection,” PJ said as she watched the camera pan acres of RVs.
Punk looked up from his crossword. “Are you kidding? That guy's a sleaze.”
“He does kind of remind me of that Johnny Carson character,” PJ had to admit. “But, Punk, if we could just go look, I promise not to bug you any more about ballroom dancing lessons.”
He eyed her and raised one eyebrow. She had his attention.
As they pulled into Happy Camper Heaven the next day, Punk said, “Now let me do the talking. The minute you start drooling over these rigs, that creep will decide he can sell you anything.”
“I doubt if we'll even talk to the boss. Look at all the salespeople out here.” She indicated people wearing bright yellow polo shirts with big happy faces on the back.
“And another thing,” Punk continued. “I'm not even looking at anything with a motor. We already have a truck that can pull anything. If we buy something—mind you, I said if—a used trailer would do fine to see if we even like camping. If it doesn't have a motor, nothing can go wrong with it.”
He pulled up to the front of the showroom. As he hefted his large frame out of the pickup, PJ reminisced about their days as high school sweethearts many years ago. She had been a little cheerleader with long straight red hair, as perky as cheerleaders are wont to be, and Punk was one of the football stars. His athletic body through the years had rounded a little in the middle and sloped some in the shoulders, but he had stayed reasonably fit with his carpet cleaning business. PJ had to admit that she, too, was not as trim as in her cheerleading days, but her hair, now cut in a short bob, was still red with the help of her stylist.
To their surprise, the first person who approached them was none other than the owner himself.
“Hey, folks! Con Conniver's the name, RVs are my game.” PJ thought he was going to twirl the ends of his mustache but he didn't. “What can I help you with this fine day?”
PJ started to open her mouth but Punk held out his hand. “Punk Norton. We just want to look at a few used trailers. Nothin' too expensive.”
Conniver craned his neck up at Punk. “Punk? How'd you get that name?”
Punk laughed. “Real name's Norbert. When I was a kid, I tagged along with my big brother Harold and his friends one time when they were lightin' firecrackers, I was in charge of the punk so they would yell 'Hey Punk! Bring the punk!' It stuck even when I played football in high school.”
Conniver clasped his hands. “Great story! Well, let's get started. What kind of unit do you have now?”
“Unit?” Punk asked.
“Camper. RV. What are you using now?”
“We don't have any...unit...now,” Punk said.
“Have you ever?”
They both shook their heads.
“Ever been camping at all?”
“Nope.”
“Well, let me tell you something,” Conniver slicked back his hair and stuck both hands in his pockets. “You got exactly the right idea. Get something cheap, try it out and see if you like it. Matter of fact, I wouldn't even sell you a new unit until you try some camping. But I've got some immaculate used units back here. Follow me.”
PJ was entranced with the small, efficient spaces, and Punk admitted that most of them looked pretty good, although he thought the carpets were a little dingy. Conniver didn't pull out some high pressure tactics as they expected. Soon they had narrowed down their preferences to two. Punk favored a compact twenty-three foot trailer while PJ eyed a ten-year-old thirty-foot Wildwood trailer with a long slide.
“It even has blue trim,” she told Punk. “It matches your truck.” She explored the storage spaces and admired the matching upholstery, border, bedspread and curtains which all coordinated with the blue carpet.
“It's a little too much of one thing, dontcha think?” Punk said.
“Absolutely not!” PJ answered. “I could get blue towels, blue sheets and blue throw pillows. We could call it 'Blue Heaven.'“
Punk rolled his eyes and went back to the smaller trailer.
“I think the smaller one's your best bet,” Conniver said. “Easier to maneuver and pull—say, what have you got for a towing vehicle?”
Punk pointed to his dark blue F250 HD truck sitting near the showroom door.
“Wow!” said Conniver, heading toward the truck. “What a sweet ride! Almost overkill for that little trailer. But,” he held up his hand, “I understand why you'd want to start with that one. Make sure you know what you're doing and that you can handle the truck when you're pulling something like that. Good learner's vehicle.”
By the time Conniver had finished raving about the truck, Punk had decided that he would have no problem pulling the longer trailer. He knew he could handle anything with his truck. They settled on the Wildwood and trooped into Conniver's office to sign the papers.
“Now, sign here and here—this just tells you everything that's been inspected and fixed; this page tells you what recourse you have if you have a problem.” Conniver shuffled through the stack of fine print. Punk and PJ signed.
Soon he and PJ were leaving Happy Camper Heaven, and PJ perused a big folder with a sales agreement, licensing information, and owner's manual.
“Oh look, Punk! Here's a coupon for a discount at Cliff Edge Park for Halloween weekend. That's nearby—a perfect place for our first trip!”
Punk nodded. He was getting excited now.
“This is going to be a snap,” he told PJ.