When we were at an RV campground recently, we got there ahead of the weekend crowd and watched as the sites filled up one by one. I was outside having a beer and reading a friend’s manuscript. My charmer was watching our baby coconut search out rocks and acorns beside the tow behind that we borrowed from my in-laws.
The parade filing in was a strange mix of senior couples in their brand-new, decked-out RV buses and packs of young families in broke-down campers that hadn’t been fixed since The Bradys toured the Grand Canyon. The retired living the high life of tranquility and the salt of the earth trying to forget about their underpaid, soul-sucking jobs that they’d have to return to in a few days. My baby coconut took time out from her treasure hunt to wave to each camper as they passed by our site, and nearly all were kind enough to smile as they waved back.
But there always has to be one, right? And this particular one was a tall, thin, pasty white, twenty-something a-hole walking his German shepherd. The duo walked behind our camper and didn’t reappear for several moments. I’m no fool. It doesn’t take that long to walk past a thirty foot tow behind camper. I know what man and his best friend had been up to, especially when they scurried past us without making eye contact. I jumped up and ran around to confirm. Yup. There it was. A huge, stinking pile of dog shit on the grass where my baby plays.
I ran back. “Hey, you mind picking up after your animal?” I called out after him.
“It’s not your park.” A-Hole said.
“Park rules say dog owners need to pick up—”
Then it happened. The finger over the shoulder routine. He never looked back. He couldn’t have cared less.
“Nice,” I grumbled. I’ve learned not to make a scene in front of my daughter, and I just let it go. For the moment.
Over the next few days, the piles grew into a little Mount Everest. The dog had chosen our spot as his depository and his master seemed to revel in my quiet seething. Well, I’d had enough of being shit upon. While buying ice cream in the campground store, I overheard him telling the site manager that he was leaving the next day, and so I began plotting my revenge.
I woke up just before dawn and put on my darkest clothes. I grabbed gloves and a bag, then went outside and carefully collected a bag full of poop. I still had my anxiety of meeting up with a black bear, but I swallowed that fear and traipsed over to his shit-free lot and liberally scattered the contents of the bag at the base of his camper steps and around the small yard so there was no way he could get to his truck without stepping in something as he packed up. I considered adding it to his steps but I wouldn’t want to risk him hurting himself—I suppose the bastard didn’t deserve that.
After my task was complete, I went back to our little home and made myself a pot of coffee.
As the sun rose and the campers began to stir, I moved outside, plopped down in a lawn chair, and sipped the hot java. Sure enough, soon after, I heard a “WTF!” shrieked across the campground. From my vantage in the chair, I couldn’t see his lot, but later, as he was leaving and passed by, I was serenaded with an expletive and another middle finger, and I surmised he stepped in a footful of it.
My daughter and I waved goodbye with cheery smiles.
Cash Laramie and Gideon Miles are back in PULP MODERN III. "Legends," co-written with Chuck Tyrell, features our antiheroes in 1920s New Orleans where Miles and his wife, Violet, run a jazz club. Two reporters show up to interview Miles about Cash Laramie. But the reporters aren't who they seem. They've been hired by the wife of the preacher who was killed by Cash and they're digging for information on the whereabouts of the outlaw marshal.
