Campground Paranoia

The next morning, Koffee Klutch sarcasm thanked me for the Fourth of July entertainment, but a more verbal frenzy concerned Weirdo Wolfie's rumored announcement. Supposedly prisoners and infiltrators had more than repaid folks for his party ruination. Did that mean Weirdo Wolfie was really going to leave? Who knew?

I knew, later. After Cane-man and I verbally abused each other and he had shuffled his cigarettes and newspaper home, and after Fred and the Cowboy family joined the Sunday Dune Congregation, Weirdo Wolfie entered the store-office wearing faded solid-red short shorts. Like a short, brown bear he leaned an elbow on the counter, scratched a nipple, and shed chest hair. His shrill New England accent enlarged my chill bumps. Touching the bluish welt on his forehead where he and the clothesline post had collided, Weirdo Wolfie rambled on about his version of the incident. He reminded me. "I knew you'd have happenings. All campgrounds do."

Yeah, I thought. All campgrounds you visit.

When Weirdo Wolfie waddled toward the door, he said, "See you in the spring."

"Perhaps," I said. "Fred and I haven't committed yet."

Weirdo Wolfie paused, as if in thought to say something, than closed the door behind him without another word. Later that afternoon, I saw him and Preacher shake hands and pat each other's back. Sometime after midnight Weirdo Wolfie packed up, hitched up, and hauled out undetected. Although no one admitted they missed him, Weirdo Wolfie remained the topic until Labor Day.

Wednesday before Labor Day, the dark-haired Naval Intelligence Officer, husky in Navy-issue-blue swim trunks, sat on a dune with his elbows balanced on his knees. While sassy seagulls dipped and soared overhead wind currents, and the NIO aimed bulky binoculars at the quiet Atlantic, Seapoo and I climbed the dune. We helped the NIO scan the scene of restless sea birds that sprinted at and then away from the surf.

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