Dark Shower

I was dirty and cold, like a New Jersey snowball.  Or like a hiker who had crossed the Wasatch Range in early October without using the right trail.  I wanted a hot shower, and figured to find one for $5 or so at an RV campground.  I drove south on US 89 toward Logan, Utah.  The sun sank in the west and bled its last light into the cloudy sky.  Darkness fell over the valley.  I typed “campground” into Google Maps on my phone as the lights of passing traffic whirred by.

The map that my phone produced marked several locations.  But the first two locations I tried weren’t really campgrounds, so I got a tour of Logan by night as I drove from mark to mark.  Logan has a “Main Street” that runs north-south, and most of the other streets are numbered based on the quadrant in which they’re located: “W 200 S” is one street; “E 600 N” is another.  That night it seemed eerily mechanical.  The town was quiet.  I drove through strip malls, spec houses, planned developments.  In some of the yards I saw ghosts, ghouls, black cats, inflatable jack-o-lanterns grinning toothlessly.  Halloween was coming.  I had forgotten.

On the south side of town I found Valley  RV Park, marked by a red and white sign with the paint chipping off.  I pulled in.  My headlights shone on a gravel road that led between a couple RVs.  I saw no lights, movement, or any office to ask about a shower.  A sign by the entrance commanded all passers-by to “Stop!!!  Tenants and Visitors If you have exposed tattoos, body art, or body piercings Do not Enter this private property.”  Behind the sign I saw a cinderblock building containing a ladies’ room and men’s room, where, I figured, there were probably showers.

Given the evident disposition of the owners, I decided to look for an office and pay someone before walking into the bathroom.  The gravel road led by RVs, mostly older ones, often parked close to the road.  I passed a few tents.  Several trucks looked like they hadn’t moved in awhile.  Weeds high under the tires.  The light was on inside one large motorhome, and I looked in through the windshield.  Glued to the dash was a stained-glass lamp with a gold pull-chain dangling underneath.  I drove through the campground, the rumblings of my diesel motor reverberating off the sides of nearby RVs and gravel crunching under my tires.  No office.  The road looped around to the entrance.

I really wanted the shower, so I decided to risk it.  I parked the truck on some thinning grass beside a van-sized motorcoach.  I warned Duke to keep the goblins out, then got out of the truck and shut the door.  I had just climbed into the camper when I heard a thin, high voice.

“Hel-lo?” it asked tremulously.

I went to the camper door.  “Hello,” I said.  I climbed out of the camper and stood by my bumper.

“Can I help you?” she asked as she came closer.  The pitch of her voice rose and fell almost comically, like a feather in a gusty wind.  She was older – over fifty, but I wouldn’t guess by how much – with thinning gray hair that stuck out in all directions.  She held her arms apart, palms upward, as if divining an answer from the clouded darkness.  “Are you looking for a place to rent, or a place to stay the night?”

“Just a shower,” I said.  “Is there someone I can pay $5 or so to take a shower?  Then I’ll be on my way.”

“Well,” she said, bringing her hands together.  She walked closer.  “I’m the manager.”  She looked upward toward the clouds as she considered my question.  The red from my taillight shone on her pale cheek, and I saw that she wore lots of eyeliner.  Dark stuff.  The makeup stretched out above her eyes, and out to the sides.  She turned back toward me.  In the red light her hair looked electrified, her drawn-out eyes supernatural.

“It’s so dark out here,” she said.  “The showers are over there.”  She gestured toward to the cinderblock building with the men’s and women’s rooms.  “Over it that building.  You can barely see it, it’s so dark.  It’s not usually so dark out here.”

“I think I can see it.  Should I just pay you for the shower?”

“Well, the owners do let people do that – come in and take showers – and five dollars is the price they charge,” she said.  “But I think you’ll be alright.  Just go ahead.”

I thanked her and wished her goodnight.  As I climbed back into the camper, she called back after me.

“Si-i-ir?”

“Yes ma’am?”

“Use the middle shower.  The water pressure is better.  In some of the other showers, the water pressure is not good,” she explained.  “And take as long as you like.  Use the middle shower.”

“Alright, I will,” I said.  “Thank you.”

“Use the shower in the middle.   And take as long a shower as you want.”

“Okay.  Thanks.”

“Gosh it’s dark out here,” I heard her say as she walked away.  “I don’t know why it’s so dark.”

I took my headlamp to the men’s room, walked into the middle shower stall and closed the plywood door.  I started the water as I undressed.  Part of the showerhead was clogged, but water spat vehently from the remaining unclogged apertures.  Steam from the shower rose toward the white ceiling, where cobwebs in the corner caught its moisture.  I put on my shower shoes and stepped under the water.  On the other side of the ceiling, but visible from my open-topped stall, darkened strands of old cobweb flapped like streamers near an air intake.  This place was creepy.  I put the ball of my foot on the drain.  No use risking the entry of any subterranean ghouls.

In the middle of my shower, the light timed out.  The cinderblock building went black.  I reached out of my shower into the cold to fumble for my headlamp.  No wonder this place could afford to give away showers for free, I thought.  I walked naked and dripping toward the light switch.  They save by not having to buy Halloween decorations.