Rudy Galvan, 62, vintage travel trailer restoration specialist, sits at a splintered pine picnic table at the annual Elk Rapids fire department beer garden. His 7-year-old golden retriever Mabel curls at his scuffed work boots, gnawing a beef stick a tow-headed kid slipped her 10 minutes prior. He’s halfway through a hazy IPA, still buzzing from handing over the 1968 Airstream Trade Wind he spent 11 months restoring to a pair of retired Chicago teachers, who cried when they saw the custom oak built-ins he’d copied directly from his late wife Elara’s 2012 camping sketchbook. He’d avoided this event the past three years, because Elara ran the peach pie table here every summer until her ovarian cancer got too bad to stand for four hours straight. He only showed up tonight because his next-door neighbor practically banged his door down, called him a hermit who only talked to half-assembled campers and his dog, said if he didn’t get out for one night he was gonna start naming his drill bits.
When the fire department’s siren blares to signal the start of the annual raffle, she leans in closer so he can hear her over the crowd’s cheer, her breath warm against the shell of his ear. She asks if he wants to come out to the park tomorrow to look at the Scotty, maybe grab a cheeseburger and shake at the little highway diner after, says she’s been dying to try their fried pickles and hasn’t found anyone to go with yet. He says yes before he can overthink it, before he can remind himself he doesn’t date, that he’s supposed to be still holding out for a wife who’s never coming home.
She grins, scribbles her cell number on a crumpled napkin, doodles a tiny pine tree next to it before shoving it into the breast pocket of his faded flannel shirt, her fingers brushing his chest through the thin fabric. She stands, slings her utility belt over her hip, says she’s got to go break up a group of teens trying to sneak beer down by the lake, winks at him before melting into the crowd. Mabel lifts her head, huffs, then goes back to gnawing her half-eaten beef stick. Rudy pulls the napkin out of his pocket, runs his thumb over the smudged ink, the wobbly outline of the pine tree. He hasn’t felt this light since the last trip he and Elara took to the state park, windows rolled down in their old pickup, Willie Nelson playing on the radio, Elara’s hand resting on his thigh the whole drive. He tucks the napkin back in his pocket, takes a slow sip of his now-warm IPA, and watches a group of kids chase each other through the crowd with neon glow sticks trailing behind them.
