When we left for Raleigh at 5:00, after Diane got home for work, I felt confident and elated.  Raleigh was supposed to be a big show, and we looked forward to the chance of actually making a profit for a change.
    The camper was working fine.  On Wednesday, I had taken it to Haberson Swanston, the RV place where we had already spent $700 on the generator.  I asked them to recheck the generator and adjust the carburetor which had been breathing on the last trip.  I waited in the office, watching “How to Lose a Man in 10 Days” on my computer, a funny romantic story with Mathew McConnihay and a girl I didn’t know who acted liked a young Goldie Hawn.  I enjoyed it.
    Then Jeff, the manager, came over.  He explained that the generator had only been turning about 20 amps instead of 40.  This was because someone long ago had jury rigged the programming card and some of the wires were incorrectly installed.  Jeff said they corrected all the connections according to Onan standards and the generator was now turning out 40 amps, enough to keep the battery properly charged.  The carburetor, he said had been backed off half a turn so it didn’t race so much when idling.
    “How much do I owe you this time,  asked, full of trepidation inspired by my recently acquired poverty.
    “You don’t owe us anything, this time,” said Jeff.  “We believe in helping our customers.”
    “But what about the carburetor?  I must owe you for that.”
    “You already had the engine casing open.  Adjusting it only took a minute or two.”
    (I had tried to adjust the carburetor myself on Tuesday, but there just didn’t seem to be any way I could get my hands in that big thing to work on it.)  Jeff must have seen the relief on my face and I thanked him and went home.
    With the cover still half off, I was able to hear the engine throbbing again.  I realized it wasn’t the carburetor at all.  The air conditioner was on its last legs.  When I got home, I tried the old trick of listening to it using a long screwdriver like a stethoscope.  I could hear the compressor grinding grrrgrrrcrunchrattle, like a gorilla grinding its teeth just before it got ready to throw a large handful of excrement at the zoo audience standing just beyond its cage.
    Well, I had decided I would just replace the air conditioner when it died, just as I would get all I could out of these tires for awhile.  Maybe if Raleigh was really a good show, we might be able to get the security of new tires next week.  I bolted a new topper on the roof, so we could carry more stock, then spent the next two days working on the interior of the camper for the Raleigh trip.  I put a few souvenirs of old trips on the walls, and a framed print of Cousin Eddie right over the door.  Maybe he would look after us.
    Jeff had also told me that seven miles to the gallon was just about right for Rocinante, so as we drove, I felt pretty good, knowing that there probably would be no more big surprises.  I knew the car burned a lot of oil, the air conditioner was dying, and we might need new tires after awhile, so what else could go wrong?
    Diane drove for a few hours, givng me some rest.  Unlike when she drove the van, she hugged the left line when she drove, and I soon stopped worrying about seeing the highway line on the right running under my feet.  We stopped for dinner at a Wal-Mart in Chieftain and then I took over, full of energy and the thing with feathers that perches in our souls.
    “There are no Wal-Marts along route 95,” Diane said.  That was a bit disturbing.  I wasn’t about to pull off the highway and follow one of her safaris from town to town searching for a Wal-Mart in the middle of the night.  I just decided to keep driving and trust God for awhile.  After all, I could always stop at a rest stop.  I know you’re not supposed to spend the night at a rest stop in Georgia, but what constitutes “overnight parking?”  How is that different from taking a long nap?  If I were to park in a rest area at 2:00 am and sleep until 8:00, was I spending the night or just resting?  And, besides, we had learned from the Georgia police last week that it wasn’t illegal to sleep in your vehicle.
    God solved the problem.  104 miles into Georgia, at 1:30 am, we passed a Wal-mart.  I pulled off and joined the twenty or so other campers and trucks where were staying in the parking lot.  He slept the sleep of the just and satisfied, and even had a beer.

    On Friday morning, as Diane was serving breakfast, Freddy noticed the door stop I had put on the refrigerator.  There was a small crack in the plastic hinge because the refrigerator had swung open too far several times when we were parked at an angle in the driveway of the school last week.  “Daddy,” he said, “This isn’t going to work—it puts too much stress on the door.  Watch.”
    As he started to open it, I shouted, “Stop.  You’re going to brea—“ just as the refrigerator door fell off in his hands, sending cans of soda, beer, and a quarter pound of butter on the floor.
    Freddy tried to say he was sorry, but Diane and I were just furious.  How would I fix the door?  The plastic was broken.  We would have to get a new hinge piece at an RV place, if we could.  And how would we drive without a refrigerator door?
    As I examined what would have to be done, the answer came to me.  The four hinge pieces on the tops and bottoms of each door of the refrigerator were the same.  All I had to do was reverse them.  If I put the topside on the bottomside, I would have good hinges on the rightside.  This was beginning to sound like “The Reluctant Dragon:” Poor little upside down cake, your top is on your bottom.
    After about an hour, we fixed the door and drove on.  The camper drove well for a few hours.  About noon, just south of “South of the Border,” we stopped for gas and the car STALLED.  I tried revving up the engine, then shifting at a higher rpm, but it was pretty dangerous.  We couldn’t pull into traffic.  We were stalling every time we idled.  I figured Jeff shouldn’t have backed off that carburetor adjustment, so we found a mechanic in Dillon and asked him to adjust the carburetor back where it was.
    This shop didn’t take credit cards.  It had parts scattered everywhere—a mechanic surrounded by a junkyard.  He examined the engine, and told me the compression wasn’t very good.  “We have to be in Raleigh by 4:00,” I said.  “We can’t have a ring job now.”
    He checked the distributor—the center was not making a very good spark.  He decided we needed a new distributor cap.  When I asked what it would cost, he said he couldn’t tell me until the part arrived.  I said I didn’t have much cash and would he take a check.  He said he could drive me to the bank when the job was finished.  I began to wonder if I wasn’t getting screwed this time.  I turned on the generator so we could have the air conditioner.  We had lunch.  I sat down in my bathroom and started writing this on the laptop.
    And here I sit now, waiting, wondering.  Every time we have had a problem on the road—two broken axles with the old van, John in Atlanta, the tire guy in Charlotte, Jeff in New Port Richey—nice, honest guys have been helpful and fair.  Are these Dillon guys the same or are we getting the small town hustle??????????

Saturday Morning, Raleigh:
    We just finished setting up for the show.  Diane broke some of our beautiful blown glass pieces because the blouse I bought her had big, draping sleeves, like Joseph’s amazing Technicolor dreamcoat.  Bad start.
    I couldn’t get yesterday’s events out of my mind.  Suddenly, it isn’t funny anymore.  Suddenly I’m in the shitter pipe, floundering, and I can’t get out.
    Dave, the mechanic at the junkyard, charged me $142, after working all afternoon on the car.  I certainly can’t complain about his price.  He told me, though, that we had a couple of bad cylinders and we needed a new engine.  He didn’t think we’d make it home to Florida.  Dave said he could get an engine for $1500 that was fully warranteed for 100,000 miles, and would install it for $600.  The price seemed right.  I called Jeff.  Jeff said his company would put in a new engine for $8,000, and I should buy a new camper instead.  I told him I was bankrupt and nobody would lend us a dime.
    Then I called Joey, a friend of ours who works on trunk engines.  He said we should bring it by his shop when we get home.  He didn’t quote a price, but he said the labor was costly on that job.  I just don’t know what to do.  Last year, after having a few drinks too many, Joey had made a pass at my wife.  She was kind of annoyed about it and refused to show us her thong bikini underwear, no matter how Joey pleaded.  I asked her if maybe she could work out a “deal” with Joey on the new engine—maybe if she agreed to show him her thong now, he’d lower the installation price of the new engine.  She refused.  She just isn’t a team player, I guess.
    Anyway, the engine, with new spark plugs and a new distributor, was running incredibly roughly, far worse than when we had pulled into the shop in the first place.  Dave asked me to drive it around the block, and it stalled three times as I tried to pull out the driveway.  It was useless.  They adjusted it again, and I drove around the block with their guy.  The engine was racing, so that when he shifted into reverse, the car popped into gear with a jump that I thought would ruin the transmission.  He got it around the block, but he was driving with two feet.
    They said this was the best they could do, so we tried pulling out of the driveway and the car DIED, right there, right in the middle of the road.  I turned the key until I ran the battery down, but it wouldn’t start.  An African American gentleman in a car started beeping his horn, telling me to get out of the way.  I stuck my head out of the car and let loose a string of obscenities.  Diane told me so many obscenities could be dangerous.  We later learned that we were in front of the neighborhood crack house, but that’s another story.
    We pushed the car to the side of the road, thinking we were out of gas, and tried five gallons of gas—the car wouldn’t start.  At this point, Dave disappeared.  He acted like, well, they’re out of the driveway, so my job is done.  And there we were—stuck!
    We were on the property directly next door to the junkyard mechanic.  Richard Gardener there.  Rick is one of those people who actually practice Christianity instead of just talking about it.  Seeing out plight, Rick offered us electricity, the hospitality of his home, food, chairs, even money.  He was one of the kindest people I’d ever met.  All we needed, of course, was electricity, which we accepted gracefully.  Rick stayed there with us when the others disappeared.
    Finally, the owner of the shop, Larry, came around.  He and a customer friend examined the distributor cap, and the friend said there was an electrical thing under the rotor than needed replacement, because the electricity was not getting through it to the distributor.  Larry bought the part and the engine actually started.  He fiddled with the cap quite awhile, trying to adjust the timing by ear.  We thanked everybody, paid for the part, and headed for the gas station.
    The engine was really revving up loudly.  Then when we stopped, we had preignition for awhile, then BANG!  The loudest backfire I ever heard rang out through the gas station.  People looked up and dropped packages.  One young woman laughed hysterically as she drove by with another girl—obviously a big fan of Cousin Eddie’s who recognized the truly quaint with a sense of humor that was entirely piquant.
    I opened the engine.  Smoke poured out.  Out brand new smoke detector went off.  I tried to adjust the timing better than Larry had.  Pretty soon it was better, and we were off and running, expecting to make Raleigh by 10 or 11 pm.
    As we got close, we decided to go right to Wal-Mart, as it would be too late to get it at the fairgrounds.  Diane proceeded to give me directions, but got all mixed up.  “You’re supposed to be going south,” she said.
    “But Raleigh is north.”
    “Yes, but my directions to Wal-Mart are from the cat show.”
    With her flashlight with dying batteries, I know she was never going to figure this one out, so I suggested we got to the cat show and figure the way to Wal-Mart from there.  We still had trouble figuring out where to turn.  I finally pulled into a Crown Gas Station and filled up the tank.  The African American gentleman running the place, was very nice.  I explained what had happened, and he said we could either stay right there are his station for drive up another mile and stay at K-Mart.
“Do you think it’s safe here?” I asked, noticing that he stayed behind a glass wall and spoke through an microphone, passing my credit card through a little metal drawer under the mike.
“Lock your car,” he said.
As I headed for the door, several African American teenagers rushed into the store.  One of them said, “Hey, man, I know.  Get the fuck outa here.”  When I walked outside, there were about seven cars, all pulling up together, fill of teenagers, radios blaring, vulgarities raging.  Now, this gang of kids didn’t really do anything illegal, but at the same time, it didn’t look like an ideal location to spend the night.  We headed for the K-Mart.
    I wasn’t sure how legal we were, or even how safe, but we saw a six sixteen wheeler parked on the west side by the grass, and decided to park next to him.  There is safety in numbers, but I didn’t sleep well that night.
    The next morning, we got to the cat show and set up shop.  I spoke to my friend, Gary, on the phone.  He knows somebody that might be able to do the engine for a fair price.  We’ll just have to wait and see.
Tonight, we’ll sleep right here at the fairgrounds.  I’ll probably have to buy more gasoline so we can run the generator on Sunday.  Diane will be celebrating Mother’s Day by trying to sell cat show stuff.
And my emotionally drained body is going to take a nap.  Maybe I’ll wake up and learn the last eight months have just been some kind of nightmare.
 

    We set up on Saturday and, after a slow start, did okay.  Diane pulled in just under $300, enough to pay expenses.  Everything we sell tomorrow, on Mother’s Day would be profit.
    While we were trying to decide how we would spend the night, there was a knock at the door.  A policeman with the unfortunate name of Officer Tippet was at the door.  I naturally wanted to ask if there was any relationship to the officer Lee Harvey Oswald shot on November 22, 1963, but didn’t.  Officer Tippet wanted $15 for a pass to stay at the campground overnight.
    Diane asked if we could afford it; I said, “Let’s do it.”  It was the first night Rocinante spent in a real campsight, connected to electricity, water, and a real sewer pipe.  We got out the folding chairs and spent the evening sitting around, visiting with other campers from the cat show, and watching Freddy practice with the new bow and arrow he had purchased at the neighboring flea market.  Itwas a very nice evening.
Sunday was a disaster.  Diane sold only one item.  I tried to adjust the new distributor so we could make it home without stalling.  I used the position of the wires to help me find the best place.  The engine idled rather fast and farted several times when I turned it off, but it seemed to run rather well.
    I had spent most of Sunday sleeping, knowing I’d be driving most of the night.  When we hit the road that evening, Diane was really worried that the engine would die on the road, but it really ran pretty well.  We stopped for the night at the same Wal-Mart we had stopped on the first night in Georgia, exit 102, and got home by about 4:00 Monday afternoon.
    The next problem was to find an automobile repair place that would install a new motor at a reasonable price.  Joey didn’t come through—said he could never come near the price of the guy in South Carolina, thong or no thong.  I ran through the yellow pages, had a few rejections, then finally round a place called Russ’s Auto Repair.  Russ and his brother seemed like nice guys.  They agreed to do the engine for $3500, including the air conditioning.  It’s more than South Carolina, but how could I drive back there?  Besides, after that guy left us flat, I didn’t trust him.
    Russ told me that the engine was guaranteed for only one year, but that was standard for camper engines.  I checked this on the internet and everybody had the same rule.  Dave up in South Carolina had problem been mistaken about the warrantee.
    So Rocinante is now sitting in Russ’ shop, having a transplant.  It will be finished early next week, in time for us to leave for Oklahoma City.  The new engine will need an oil change after the first 500 miles.  We’re going to make an appointment at a Wal-Mart 500 miles away, so we can spend the night there, then get the oil changed first thing in the morning.  This is required for the warrantee.
    The good news?  We’ll get better gas mileage.  The summer trip should cost about $1000 less in gas money, so that will help a little.  The bad news is that we’ve just about emptied the savings account.  We owe Freddy $9000.  All the fees for the cat shows are already paid.  If we do well, we’ll have more cat stuff mailed to Longmont, where we’ll spend the fourth of July.  If we don’t do well, we have plenty of stock already paid for.
    Sorry this chapter wasn’t so funny.  After awhile, getting screwed up over and over again loses its humor.  Come back for the news from Oklahoma sometime after May 25th.  Hopefully, we’ll have lots to say and pictures to show about great tourist spots.  We may be stopping at the Cow Chip Throwing Capital of the World, The Will Rogers Museum, Mickey Mantle’s hometown, the Tom Mix Museum, and World’s Largest Peanut.  We’ll post pictures of these exciting places.
 

 CHAPTER THREE