Chapter Sixteen
The next day was a moving day. We giggled over coffee as we looked at the map and settled on Natchitoches for no more reason than we liked the sound of it. A few calls and we had reservations for a site. An hour and we had breakfast. Another hour and I was making my final check circle of the trailer, saying it out loud to confirm it in my mind.
Starting at the passenger side it goes like this. I was saying it out loud at every checkpoint.
"Hitch lock in place," I touched it, confirming the little wire that made sure it wouldn't fall out.
"Safety Chain," I touched it.
"Leveler up," I looked.
Stairs up - door locked - awning in - leveler up - and so on.
Satisfied, I crawled up into the driver's seat set the destination on Google Maps, cried, "and we're off," and we were off.
I had discovered that 64 miles an hour was my comfortable speed with the trailer behind me, so the trip was about three hours with potty stops.
We pulled into the park, checked in, found the spot, got the trailer backed in, unhooked, set up, and went for a walk.
As always, Ashley looked amazing in her Daisy Duke cut-offs showing the bottom of her buttcheeks and her crop top putting those great tits on display. We spotted a half dozen flamingos and waved when we saw folks outside, telling them we'd be playing and singing later and giving out our lot number (34 if it matters).
We made a sandwich, and took a nap, for some reason I find that driving and setting up makes me sleepy. At about six, as the sun was westering I started playing on the picnic table.
Other couples filtered in and I noticed the male half of one very young couple, clearly still in their 20s and I wondered how they afforded to be nomads, was clearly infatuated with my Goddess. I played and sang and then noticed when a mixed-race couple joined the group. This was the first such couple I had seen.
He looked to be about my age which is to say he probably had a Medicare card in his wallet. She, on the other hand, didn't look old enough to vote. And she was black, the black you associate with a tribe deep in Africa where they still did the drums and barefoot dancing. She was tall, dressed in an ankle-length brightly patterned dress with a cap of kinky hair, bare feet, and jangly bracelets.
It was her face, though, that truly captivated me. She had the broad, flat nose and thick lips of her race. No white overseer had ever polluted her gene pool. Her eyes were so dark they were almost black. Her teeth, not bleached, but against her dark skin very white, were straight and her smile was infectious.
She bent down and whispered into the man's ear, she was taller than him, about six feet, and they exchanged words. He smiled and nodded and walked over to chat up an interesting, well-padded matron while her bone-thin better half was deep in a discussion that I doubted was seeking a solution to world peace with an equally thin woman I guessed in her 80s.
As I watched that little scene play out, the black girl approached me. I remembered a scene from some movie or other I had watched where the white protagonist kept referring to his black paramour as "my Nubian Goddess." This girl struck me that way.
"You play pretty good for a white boy," she said, sitting next to me as I was doing an obscure song by a guy named Dave McKenzie called "Rats in My Bedroom," kind of a parody of the Blues.
Her words were pure street black but the intonation, the vowels, made me suspect education.
"Always glad to have a negress approve," I said and laughed at the sudden flash of anger in her eyes.
"You, are beautiful," I said, "and I mean that. But if you want to play some bullshit race games, I'm not your boy."
She giggled at that, a pleasant sound.
"What gave me away?" she said, looking truly curious.
"You had the words," I said, "but it takes a lifetime to truly master the accent."
She smiled then.
"Interested anyway?" she asked.
"Ohhhhhhhhh yeah," I said, and then added, "can you sing?"
