The Leisure Seeker: A Novel by Michael Zadoorian Page B

are crumbling. There’s no one in sight.

Seven
    TEXAS
    The late afternoon sun angles in hard on us. Maybe it’s just my imagination, but it’s hotter here. I guess even though it’s fall, it’s still Texas. We put on our big sungoggles, roll up the windows, and turn on the air-conditioning for the first time. Unfortunately, it doesn’t take long to realize that the air-conditioning doesn’t work very well. John probably hasn’t had it recharged in years. I turn it up all the way, but the air it blows is mossy and acrid, just barely cool.
    The other thing I realize is something I already knew. The exhaust problem that Kevin mentioned was never fixed. Consequently, rolling up the windows is not a good idea. Tepid air is not the only thing coming from the vents; there is also a mist of exhaust pouring in. Within minutes, we’re both yawning like crazy. I turn off the AC, roll the windows down, and immediately feel better. John wakes up as well.
    Even still, I fear I may have pushed him too hard today. He’s talking to himself under his breath, like he’s forgotten I’m here. I’m hoping we’ll find somewhere to stay in Shamrock, which is the next big town. I check my books for campgrounds and am relieved to find one right on West I-40, parallel to 66.
    After passing a fancy 1930s art deco gas station called the “U Drop Inn,” we arrive at the campground. I have John park near the check-in station. He turns off the engine.
    “Is this home?”
    He’s tired and disoriented. “No, John. I’m going to go check us in. You don’t need to come.” I grab my cane and purse, then slowly lower myself from the van. I’m feeling shaky, so I try to be extra careful. Halfway to the office, I think of something so I turn and head back to the van.
    “Oh John, could you give me the keys?” I say sweetly. Without discussing the matter, John hands them over.
    When I stump into the office with my cane, the old man behind the counter just stands there staring at me as I walk up. He frowns and snorts, as if to say “This one’s ready for the glue factory.”
    I should tell you, I have no tolerance for staring, particularly with people my age, who love to act like the whole world is their television. It grinds me, especially since most of us spent our best years telling our children that it’s impolite to stare. I don’t know where this one gets off. He’s no prize, believe you me: greasy fishing hat, a forehead mole you could hang a hat on, and a face that looks like he’s been sniffing Limburger cheese for the past dozen or so years.
    I stare right back at him.
    “Hello,” he finally says, blinking. I guess I win.
    “Good afternoon,” I say, after a long pause. “We need a campsite for the night.”
    “All right,” he says, a low Texas growl to his voice. “We’re pretty open today. Anywhere in particular?”
    From what I could see, all the spaces look the same, a few trees here and there, but mostly flat and dry.
    “Near a shower facility would be good,” I tell him. I give him a twenty. He fills out a card, tears off part of that, and hands it to me with my change. Then he starts eyeballing me again.
    “Pardon me? Is there something wrong?” I say to him, huffy now, raring for it.
    “Are you ready?” he says, his voice gentler now.
    “Ready for what?” My hand tightens on the grip of my cane.
    “Ready to accept Jesus as your personal savior?”
    “Oh, for Christ’s sake,” I say, too tired for this. “Maybe some other time.”
    “Never too late, you know.”
    “I know,” I say, making a break for the door, fast as I can haul myself.
    Once we find the site and I get John out of the van, he’s a little better. He can still set up the electricity. I watch himclosely because I’m not sure when I’ll have to do it. If he gets worse as the trip wears on, it’ll be up to me. That is, unless I accept Jesus as my personal savior, then maybe He can do it.
     
    We are so pooped by the time we get