I Still Have My Nuts
An old essay from my first trip in Nomadland
“Never argue with stupid people, they will drag you down to their level and then beat you with experience.” — Mark Twain
“I’m Scott. My wife is Cheryl. We are hunters. Waterfall hunters. That’s right. Waterfall hunters.” — Scott
“They Took My Foreskin…but I still have my nuts.” — Jerzy
I crossed the border. Or better stated the event horizon. I’m in Vermont. There is a food co-op…actually two…nearby. And some Confederate battle flags. Crap — maybe the border wasn’t the event horizon. No matter how far I travel, I never travel far. But I digress.
I recently left Massachusetts under the literal clouds of Tropical Storm Isaias. I’d not spent that much time in Massachusetts since 1990…and in the interim it seems Massachusetts (in fact all of New England) turned into Florida. It’s damned tropical here as evidenced by the glancing, but severe blow the region took from Isaias. But more on that at the wrap.
My final weeks in Massachusetts proved mildly entertaining. Jerzy Sass (not New York Sass — but Jerzy Sass) wants you to know he is still a man. And with Rehab Guy actually in rehab after threatening to burn the campground owner’s house down (and a subsequent brief stop in jail), well, I needed a guy like Jerzy for entertainment.
Jerzy Sass happened to be a neighbor of mine for a couple of weeks. A couple of weeks was fine. A few weeks was too much. By the way, one of the HUGE benefits of being a nomad is, I can leave Jerzy and people like him behind when I have had enough. Sorry, dear reader, that you cannot do the same. The ability to leave annoying, and in some cases potentially dangerous neighbors whenever I please is perhaps the best thing about this whole experience. “Hey Mr. Leering Guy” in the tent, fifty yards away from me as I write… “you’ve been sitting there leering for 2 days now….so either kill me in my sleep or, well I may just take off because you are FREAKING me out.” Isn’t that cool? Ok. Back to Jerzy. I met him one morning when, upon opening my door, I see Mr. Sass standing three feet away holding the (unused) coaxial cable for my camp site. His stream of conscious greeting (and introduction) verbatim: “Is there f_____g cable in this camp? They took my foreskin and my prostrate…. but I still have my nuts…I’m Jerzy…Jerzy Sass. Not New York Sass…. Jerzy Sass…who the f__k are you?” Umm…” good morning to you too Mr. Jerzy Sass. Glad you aren’t my neighbor for long…” I assume, based on nothing more than the fact that you are holding a cable, that there is cable here…”. Ok — lets break this down. Jerzy is a foul-mouthed ex-Navy submariner who claims to have been a personal favorite of Admiral Elmo Zumwalt (yeah, the guy who has a class of destroyers named after him). While I cannot prove or disprove Jerzy’s assertion — that Zumwalt personally guided him through his career — I’d have to question the good Admiral’s overall judgement if the foreskin-less dude holding a coaxial cable, referring to me as “Coast Guard Mother F_____r” was his personal protégé.
My “interaction” with Jerzy is noteworthy in one significant respect: it demonstrates that even when we speak a common language, there is huge diversity in how we communicate. Jerzy was not deliberately being an ass. He was trying to make a connection with me. He knew I had been in the Coast Guard (my truck plates say so), and he had been in the Navy. The best he could do for an opening line was to obliquely reference some operation he participated in in Vietnam (before Zumwalt noticed his potential and plucked him from obscurity) where he had been exposed to Agent Orange and suffered the medical consequences…and he wanted to hook up his cable TV. His approach was blunt to say the least, but after a few days it was clear that while his communication style was vastly different than mine, he was a rather decent person.
And spending time in an RV park — where there is a weird pattern of life mash up of blue collar family neighborhoods and over 55 couple only — provides ample opportunity to observe the Jerzy Sass’s as they come and go. Thursdays and Friday’s people roll in. Sundays they roll out. Some — mostly the older set like Paulie and the dead guy — stay for the season before going back to The Villages (or wherever) in Florida. The Rehab Guy — younger — is a slightly different demographic typical of these places. He is a guy living a liminal life, almost out of choices and on the street. Most of the people I see are older and waited almost too long to actually try to extract some joy from life — but are trying to cram it in before rapidly approaching death. Or they are families who pack up the trailer, drive 30 minutes to a local campground and “have fun” for two days. Seems altogether too much work from my perspective. But I do get to meet some interesting people this way. I don’t discuss politics — a sure way to make enemies fast….but rather lead with a values question (our values tend to be aligned regardless of one’s politics and that will frequently elicit weird shit like Scott telling me he is a waterfall hunter. Apparently, it is a thing. He was shocked that I didn’t know it was a thing. Honestly — 53 years and I had no idea waterfall hunting — i.e. seeking out waterfalls to, well, look at and photograph, and racking up your conquests in a journal, was the pursuit of many…or some…I guess I should have known. Humans always enjoy the quest — regardless of the thing being sought — used to be the Holy Grail…. now it’s waterfalls. Apparently, they found a couple of good ones.
There are anomalies. Two young Coast Guard Petty Officers stationed in New Jersey and Boston, decided to meet at the Pittsfield, Mass. campground for a weekend — these guys saw my truck plates and came to visit. It was heartening to see how respectful and generous they were — good for the Coast Guard (and for anyone who finds themselves in need of the Coast Guard!). A wholly different communication style than that of Jerzy…despite the sameness of their intentions.
And my current (Vermont) campground owners — a couple in their early thirties. This is truly a rarity — almost all the campground owners I have met are far older and end up buying campgrounds as a retirement gig. These two are successful professionals, who happened upon the weekend camper activity a few years ago, enjoyed it and studied the business model of campground ownership. They decided it was a good business for young people seeking independence (as opposed to old people looking for something “fun” to do before one dies). They bought the place I am spending at least 8 weeks in — and I am damned glad they did. It’s a franchise — a KOA campground. You see them all over the country. I had sworn them off because to a person, every KOA person I talked to about reservations were either rude, inflexible or both (communication differences — yet again) …when Covid lockdowns started I contacted the KOA in Brattleboro to make reservations months in advance. Kat and Allen were friendly, customer oriented, flexible…. willing to dig my out of snow if I stayed into the winter (ugh, no thanks) …altogether different from any other KOA I had the misfortune of contacting. And guess what — being NICE works! Try it Jerzy and save me the time of trying to figure out what the hell you are actually saying!
So…before obtaining (crossing?) the event horizon…. the singularity…I made a quick, Airstream free trip to visit friends in Montauk, NY…Love it there, but what can I say, what happens in Montauk, stays in Montauk. Aside from the fact there are quite a few Ricky’s, Jimmy’s and Joey’s there (yeah, it’s a northeast thing) …you’ll have to find out for yourself.
I must note that I left the Airstream in Pittsfield while I traveled to Montauk because Hurricane Isaias was tracking up the coast and I did not, under any circumstances, want to get caught on Long Island with the extremely vulnerable Airstream. But, as you may have predicted (if you’ve read any of my posts), when I went east, Isaias went west….and pretty much traveled directly towards my “safe” parking place. So, on the day the storm hit New England I raced from Long Island to get back to the Airstream (still at the Pittsfield campground, tucked under some trees to maximize the drama) and move if the f___ out. I had the perfect spot in mind — a Zombie mall in Pittsfield…. empty parking lots, buildings to block the wind…I set up and within a minute a tweeker decided to approach me and tell me I had an awesome “antique” camper…shit. The sky was slate gray now and spitting rain. The tweeker just stood there admiring my antique. Sigh. Just leave…and guess what he does. He gets to the edge of the parking lot, stops, places his thumb and index finger on his head as if in deep thought and then turns around and starts walking towards me. Goddamnit. He approaches, scrunches up his forehead like he was thinking hard and says “you know man, I sleep in this parking lot and when it rains if floods like crazy. Just sayin…”. He turns and walks off. Well that was helpful. I packed up and headed straight for the local Walmart (the tweeker told me that the Walmart lot never floods — and I trust nobody more than a tweeker to know which parking lots flood and which don’t). And it didn’t. I set up there and spent hours turning the entire rig every 40 minutes or so to keep it nose into the wind. Damn….so this is stress free living eh?
I survived with only minor (self-inflicted) damage and headed north. To Vermont. To the land of Bernie and Confederate battle flags. To the event horizon. To beer Valhalla. Gotta get me some Ben and Jerries’. Or not.
