Words to live by
A dispatch from St Petersburg, Florida
The latest dose of wisdom found its way into my orbit via the RV park at the Firestone IndyCar Grand Prix in St Petersburg, Florida.
At the behest of a new friend, I dipped my toes into a pair of shoes instead of sand and headed off-island for the weekend to watch some fast cars and do some fast living, on the mainland.
There are two ways to experience a racing event—in the track or stands for general admission, or in the RV park, usually along the main straight. Here, the fans build weekend setups that rival Burning Man camps, and the energy is charged by light beer, grilled hot dogs, and brain-rattling roars from supercars.
RV camps attract all kinds of people from all walks of life but I’d say they’re all cut from the same cloth in a roundabout way. By that, I mean they’re salt-of-the-earth kind of people.
My kind of people. Well, some, not all.
I’m not on board with the assault rifle fetishes and confederate flags that beaconed into the sky to the side of us. Those people aren’t my people. And To my relief, no such flags or symbols adorned the tents and RVs that we were congregating around.
But regardless, it was a new environment with a group of friends who had known each other for years and had stories stretching back to their college days. So naturally, we felt a little out of place.
That was until we met our friend, and wielder of wisdom, Donnie. I didn’t catch his last name, but with a name like Donnie, who needs one?
Barefoot with shaggy hair that fell below the ears and sporting a vintage Jackson Hole Ski Resort t-shirt, Donnie was the first of the crew to lend us an olive branch by way of a cold beer and some tall tales.
Stories of a life working in construction and on the ski fields in Wyoming. Growing up in Chicago and then escaping Chicago because of the bitter winters, only to return and then leave once more to work on boats in Florida. Of nights spent hugging a pontoon next to a boat and slicing his feet on barnacles in teeth-shattering water after an innocent, albeit inebriated, peeing expedition went awry.
One story after another.
Never married, no kids. A life working in the sun and no regrets about it, Donnie seemingly goes where the work takes him and enjoys the simple pleasures along the way.
He’s a man who knows about good living.
Four beers and a belly full of laughs later, the banter flowed like water out of a busted drain pipe. But Donnie doesn’t like to spend too long in the same place, and after taking us under his wing, he had more hands to shake and taller stories to tell.
Before leaving us to fend for ourselves, he gave us the run-down: We could help ourselves to the coolers of beers and heavy seltzers, the free food, the open bar with every kind of liquor, and all the comforts they’d provided to enjoy the weekend.
But then his demeanor stiffened. Leaning in and looking us both in the eye with two fingers stretched like open scissors, he says: “You guys are welcome, but we have a policy…”
I shuffled awkwardly in my seat.
“All these guys,” he says, gesturing at the group. “They’re all dickheads.”
I nod.
“Every one of ‘em,” he says. “You can be a dickhead, too, if ya want.”
He sips his Bud Light, then he slams his fist on the table hard enough to topple three beer cans.
“But whatever you do, don’t be an asshole—
—everybody HATES assholes.”
