We save money renting an RV without parking cameras, but spend more on pull-through pitches. I lack spatial awareness. We get the last pull-through at the Malibu Beach RV Park and unfold deck chairs we bought in a giant Walmart on the first day and haven’t used. We sit outside with beers, faces to the ocean. The sky is lilac, orange and pink.
Two people step out of the next motor home. It’s the kind with push-out sides. In an accent the same as ours the man says Evening.
We decided in Arizona not to engage with anyone else from home. I say Guten Abend, and so do you. We briskly tilt our bottles towards our neighbours, then you turn to me and say your German sentence and I frown at you and say nein, nein.
I lean closer and whisper, the sky is lilac. You whisper to me, let’s walk to the fish place.
We say Guten Abend as we leave.
At the fish place I say this could be Troon, if Troon was hot with a Pacific view.
Chips are better in Troon, you say.
I’m sad that we have to be German. I want to see inside a magic expanding motor home. But you say No, remember South Canyon.
We hear them before we get back to our row. Loud voices, and swear words in a familiar cadence.
We pause at our door. You hold my gaze as muffled thumps wobble the big Winnebago and the man roars Collision fucking damage waiver.
Their door opens and the woman is there - Fuck you looking at? - and she misses the step and lands on her face on the ground.
The man says Oh Jesus Mandy. Jesus.
You look at me with wide eyes and wide hands. I shrug. You gesture again.
The man crouches by the woman. Her eyes open but don’t focus. I reach down and touch his shoulder.
I run to the site manager’s cabin, calling Pitch 52. Doctor. Emergency. The manager grabs a first aid kit and we run back to our row.
We sleep little after the blue flashing lights have gone. We leave at sunrise, sobered.
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