Vanlife Gothic

We come back with our take-out to the residential street where our van is parked. A yellowed piece of paper sticks out from between the windshield wipers. Inside and written in chicken scrawl in rust red pencil are the words “Park somewhere else. You’re truck’s an eyesore.” We are the uninvited.

We settle in for the night at the Walmart parking lot. Welcome to the dark side. But we’re tired. So tired. The clock strikes midnight. The stores should be closed, but you peek out the window and here they come...the People of Walmart. Hordes and hordes of them, still filing through the parking lot in a steady stream. Midnight Madness descends. The zombies have taken over. You close the curtains and stay completely still, praying that they never notice you.

Propane, our kingdom for a refill of propane. We scour the shores of Lake Superior, looking for a place to get our fix. But there never is any propane. At every stop, the “Out of Order” sign that dooms us hangs by the tank. Each station is the same as the last. Always out of order. We ask the cashier when there’ll be propane again. She laughs. They all laugh. The years go by. We’re still circling the lake, always searching. Always the same sign, the same scratch-off counter, and the same coolers filled with Coors Lite. We’ll never see propane again. Doomed.

Come and camp at the lake, they say. It’ll be nice, they say. So off we trot for a weekend at the lake. It’s nice up here, the lake is pretty. Perhaps they were right after alllll...wait, what’s that in the sky? The wind picks up and it’s coming our way. Fish flies in those skies, Hitchcock hordes of fish flies are heading our way. Flying at us in the wind like winged witches. Oh, the horror. But it’s nice up here this time of year.

It’s just you out in the middle of nowhere. This looks like a stealth enough spot to rest your head for the night. Just as you turn off the lights and put your head down on your pillow, you hear the sound of a car creeping in from off the maintenance road. Headlights beam into your window. Will this be the dreaded knock on the door? Don’t answer, never answer.

As we finish parking in the sleepy, seaside neighborhood, a face appears at your window. “Hi, I’m Jennifer.” She seems chirpy enough. A friendly face. It’s nice here. She lets us know that we’re welcome to stay, but under no circumstances should we remain parked in the cul-de-sac. They don’t like it when we park there, and they're already talking. Jennifer gets a little twitchy, maybe laughs a little too loudly. She furtively glances around and then, lowering her voice, tells us that she too has done vanlife. She understands our ways but they, on the other hand, they will never understand. And they’re tracking our every move on their FB group. We’d best go park behind the school. Move along. It’s nice here.

You’re in the old rec center parking lot on the outskirts of Ottawa, working on your shower build. An old white man creeps up to the van. He notices that you don’t look like the others. “You’re not from around here. Where are you from? How long have you been in the country?” You tell him that you’re from Canada, born and bred. “Oh, so you’ve been here for a couple of years? Okay.” And he heads off to the field with gleam in his eye.

You set your poop bag on the truck’s tailgate while you pack up the van. It’s going to be a good day. You climb into the truck and set off on the open road. Sun is shining, birds are chirping. It’s going to be a good day. About 20 minutes in, you suddenly realize that you never put your poop bag away. It must be lying in the middle of the highway from Thunder Bay. You gun it and speed through towns, through forests, through mountains. Shame burns through you, and you’re hoping that no one will ever discover your dirty little secret. After passing many hours and county lines, you pull into a rest stop and fall into a deep sleep. The next morning, you can see the sun shining outside. The birds are chirping. It’s okay, everything is going to be okay. You open your door to greet the day. It’s going to be a good day. But then you look down and see it, the Walmart bag full of poop propped up on your tailgate. Your heart skips a beat. They know.

You pull into clearing by the river and set up camp. Just as you’re feeling right at home, the inhabitant of the trailer across the way comes home. The disheveled man with the baseball cap that says “Famous” and the wild look in his eye sizes you up before approaching. He comes nearer, and nearer. He hovers by your chair as time stands still. He then speaks. You can make yourselves at home and sit a spell. But you’d best go back inside once the sun goes down. Lock the doors. It’s the bears’ park after dark.

You pull in to rest a while at the Flying J. Just as you sit there pondering who or what this mysterious J is, a monstrous big rig with an engine that sounds like death pulls up alongside you. The death grind goes silent. In the dark, you spot the silhouette of a figure at the wheel. The silhouette sits still, the seconds tick, the silence screams. All of a sudden, a smoker’s voice calls out from across the void. “Do you have a light?” You toss your lighter into the darkness. A sacrifice to the trucker gods. The voice thanks you, and with a cackle tells you to give her regards to the Backroom Boys and let ‘em know that Large Marge sent you.