"The Camping Tales" drabbles by Rusty McCaugh
Mike from Camping Pt. 5
The Camping Tales
“Nine billion?” I asked. “That's a lot of money.”
“I don’t have that money thanks to that black president. He’s stealin' from the poor."
"Obama?" I retorted.
“Yea the black one.” Mike snorted a lugie combined with tobacco juices in the back of his throat. Hocked a snot rocket into the woods behind him.
“It seems that every president does so.” I tried to hold back my urges to test his racial elucidations, but couldn't. “Mike, what’s the…”
“I just want someone to talk to,” Mike interrupted, repeating himself. “I talk to my dog, but he don’t ever talk back.
Mike from Camping Pt. 4
The Camping Tales
"I just want someone to talk to," said Mike. "I talk to my dog, but he don't talk back. He's a good dog, he wouldn't ever bite a kid!"
The dog's name's Baby. For what reason? I left that to my imagination. But thank God Baby wouldn't ever bite a kid, I was worried.
"Now Mike," I paused, recollected my thoughts, "What're you doing out here camping alone?"
"I ain't have a job. My wife divorced me. We got married around Christmas. She took all my money. She wanted nine billion dollars.”
Mike sure must have been a rich man.
Mike from Camping Pt. 3
The Camping Tales
My imagination was not focused on the ignorance of Mike's racism. As a seventy-five-year-old Vietnam veteran, Mike's mind wouldn't be changed. I was most interested in what else besides brown tobacco juices and black remarks would come out of this man's mouth. Could his words paint a brighter color? I hoped so and before I could continue to find out, Mike had declared, "I'm bored. I want to go fishin'. I ain't never have anyone to go fishin' with. I want to go fishin' with someone." I understood the proclamation, grabbed my rod, and we went fishing.
Mike from Camping Pt. 2
The Camping Tales
"Mike," I began, unsure of where the conversation was leading, yet invoked by my own curiosity "What happened to the good ol' days?"
"It was the blacks!" Mike shouted again without any hesitation. Without a peek around the campsite. Not a twitch of the neck. "They brought their drugs here and I won't have it. No, I won't have it. I'm going to be governor one day and bring my town of Wausau back to the good ol' days."
How Mike would bring the town back was left to my imagination, but my imagination left those "good ol' days" behind.
Mike from Camping
The Camping Tales
"I want to go back to the good ol' days." Mike slobbered the words out of his toothless tobacco chewing mouth. "The days when there were no blacks." He spat. "And no drugs! I don't like drugs. No, no, no. I don't like 'em." Mike sat at the dusty green picnic table of my campsite with his back against the edge and his legs stretched out, right foot over left. Arms crossed. Thick grey hair in a tangle with an attempt at a comb-over. Mike had a lot to learn, but it was me asking all of the questions.
