At some point, we will hit a literal bump in the road, and our new camper will definitely break in half, our bed will smash down onto our heads, and we’ll learn our forever lesson about trying to live a life that makes us happy. Until then, we’ll just keep not taking the hint. Our maiden voyage, like most new things, felt a lot like trying to puke on someone else from a rollercoaster, but throwing up into the air instead, not understanding what direction your body is travelling through space, and slamming straight into your own floating vomit ribbons.
All human life is spent trying not to fail at any more things. Reassuringly, nature’s first green is gold, her hardest hue to hold. So even she fails, and we get seasons. Failing can take infinite forms: burning food, hurting yourself, and letting everyone down. Generally, barfing is a sure sign of failure. You take a risk, you fail, and puke comes out. When walking into the boulders, hikers ask about our crash pads. With bright eyes we explain that they are for rock climbing, and they say, “Oh, in case you fall, I get it!” But there’s no “in case.” It’s inevitable, climbing is falling. I should say, “They are for falling off rocks.” Maybe you can’t identify with any of this because you’re not a walking train wreck, you have a shiny golden face, and all your wheelies are eternal, but you have definitely failed at something, and will most definitely fail at something else again.
Quitters win all the time. Like that time we stayed in Las Vegas for 4 months because we had a water-treading job that paid $9/hr and a free rubble pile of a backyard to stay in owned* by a rich kid cokehead who bought a decrepit Mafia mansion for some reason. We stuck it out until long past shit got too crazy and then we quit, like winners do.
In an effort to move as close to Red Rock Canyon as possible, for as little money as possible, we settled into the dysfunctional commune that consisted of David the owner*, Paul the crazy old guy in the van, and whatever randos David brought over during benders and, possibly, cover-ups. The agreement was that in trade for rent, Eli would fix the ignition wiring in David’s ’67 Lincoln Continental, and I would weld fresh floor panels into the driver and passenger foot areas. So we moved in.