In the summer of 2018, I considered buying an RV. The timing was perfect. I was renting a house on a month-to-month basis. The business I’d co-owned with my mother had recently sold, and I had some disposable cash.
And for the first time since high school, I was free of any romantic entanglements. The world was my oyster, and I was going to explore it in a recreational vehicle. My plan was to travel throughout the country and write about my experiences. Like a modern-day Jack Kerouac, I would go out “on the road” and write what was sure to become a bestseller.
Like all of my grand plans, the first thing I did was tell everyone about it. To their credit, my family and friends listened with faux enthusiasm and were kind enough not to state what, based on my history, I’m sure they felt was obvious, which was that there was no way any of it was going to happen. I appreciated their restraint because I have grown very tired of saying, “This time I mean it.”
The second step was to visit an RV dealership near Asheville to see what kind of deal I could wrangle on my future chariot of adventure. I’d figured my budget would allow me to buy something used, and while maybe not tour-bus luxurious, at least clean and comfortable.
When I told the salesperson my budget, he directed me to a 2010 model pop-up camper.
“Does your vehicle have a hitch?” he asked. I was about eighty-percent certain he was talking about the thing that allows you to pull stuff behind your car, so I answered him sincerely: “I honestly don’t know.”
I increased my budget a bit and soon the salesperson and I were huddled inside what he described as a “Class C RV.” To me, it was more like a Class F. It was built the year I graduated high school and the interior was covered in wood paneling and brown velour. I increased my budget a few more times and was finally shown an RV that I could actually see myself living in. It was $80,000. I lied and told the salesperson I’d consider it and get back to him.
On the ride home, I tried to imagine what owning an RV would realistically be like. Would I be able to maneuver such a vehicle in and out of RV parks? What about hooking up the electricity? And the propane? And emptying the sewage?
Things I not only don’t know how to do, but things I’m scared to do.
Plus, if I had $80,000, I would rather travel around the country in my twelve-year-old Volkswagen Jetta and stay at five-star hotels, where connecting and maintaining the utilities is not my responsibility.
A month later, I informed my friends and family that the RV adventure had been permanently shelved. What I didn’t tell them was that I had already moved on to a new idea, a novel about a constantly tipsy private detective, a redneck deputy, and a bum-legged auto mechanic named Floppy who chase rumors of buried treasure through the mountains of North Carolina. Even by my standards the idea was too ridiculous to share.
Steven Tingle is the author of Graveyard Fields and is the monthly contributor to this column. Find more at steventingle.com.
