We were traveling through New York and since I had always wanted to eat at Hardee’s Restaurant, we were making a quick stop to sample the famous, well-advertised Hardee’s burger.
He stepped out of the restaurant door, a jumbo soft drink in one hand and a white bag in the other. He wore clean, well-worn jeans and a purple T-shirt. Long silver hair lay neatly on his broad shoulders and his eyes were kind and alive. I watched him walk toward an outdated, rough-around-the-edges Winnebago, his steps slow and unsure. Tucking the bag under his chin, he opened the driver’s side of his vehicle and placed his drink on the passenger seat before clambering up into the seat.
I could not take my eyes away from the interior of the camper. Used coffee cups, crumpled paper bags, road maps, bath towels, mismatched sneakers, stockings, T-shirts, newspapers, books, and other items I could not identify filled the front seat and beyond. I was able to shame myself into looking away from this man’s obvious home on wheels and the refuse that was his testimony.
Leaving the door open, with one unlaced sneaker–clad foot dangling toward the ground, the gentleman reached into his white bag and began eating his burgers. Old-time Country and Western tunes clambered their way out of the rubble and surrounded the old RV. George Jones sang “He Stopped Loving Her Today” and the gentleman’s wayward, misplaced foot thumped softly against the bottom of the open van door; keeping perfect time with the sad melody.
The man turned toward me, nodding his head in greeting as he took another bite of his sandwich. I smiled quickly in return, suddenly very ashamed of my intrusive stares. Those of us in that parking lot were privy to his world; his abode.
The van was peppered with bumper stickers, dents, and graffiti. Two beach towels were tied to the spare tire cover; obviously hung there to dry. On a silver hook that protruded from the back door of the Winnebago, an outdated, mesh weave lawn chair dangled crookedly; its bright orange color in sharp contrast to the dull brown, wounded exterior.
Cardboard boxes were pushed against the long back window, making it impossible to see into the back. I could not help but wonder what treasures lay in the interior of those old tattered boxes. Did this RV hold all of his life possessions? Did he have children, a wife, siblings, or friends? What was his story and how did he end up in such dire straits?
Finished with dining, he leaned his head back against the back of the seat. His eyes were closed, both feet were in the van, and the driver’s door was now shut.
How do we define success? Is happiness measured by the elaborate car we drive or the lavish house we live in? Would the gentleman living in the old, battered camper trade it all in for a life drenched in luxury?
I watched the tired Winnebago drive out of the Hardee’s parking lot; swallowed up greedily by the eternal rush of everyday traffic. Though I wondered how the shaky, outdated vehicle managed to survive in a world of fast-moving, high-tech, super-charged hybrids, the answer was as clear to me as that gentleman’s snapping blue eyes.
You may e-mail columnist Belinda Ouellette of Connor at: dbwouellette@maine.rr.com.
