Words to live by
A dispatch from St Petersburg, Florida
Philosophy and wisdom have a knack for weaseling their way into my life lately.
Usually but not always, profound landscapes spark inspiration and deep thoughts that if I was a real writer, I’d write about in a book you’d find in a self-help aisle.
Lately, though, I’ve stumbled across life gems and rules to live by in the darndest of places. At the post office, the taco shop, and on various walks here and there.
In my younger, cliched years, I’d wait for bleeding sunsets and turquoise waters in faraway places like Thailand to go soul-searching for the deeper meaning of it all.
These days, there’s little need for searching. The life lessons and reminders of what matters come at me like a prized fighter eyeing off a KO punch, no matter where I am.
The latest life nugget 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 livin’ 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 pulses with light beer, grilled dawgs, 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 kinda people.
The kinda people there for a good time.
My kinda people.
Well, some, not all.
I can’t say I get on board with the assault rifle fetishes and confederate flags that beaconed into the sky on either side of us. Those kinda people aren’t my kinda people. To my relief, no such flags or symbols adorned the tents and RVs that we were congregating around. Such vibes would’ve made for a hasty visit and an even quicker departure on my part.
Still, it was a new environment with new people who all knew each other well enough to have stories stretching back to the reckless college years. So naturally, I felt 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, I don’t think you need one.
Barefoot with shaggy hair that falls 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 a few tall tales.
Stories of a life working in construction and on the ski fields in Wyoming. Of growing up in Chicago and then escaping Chicago because of the brittle winters, only to return and then leave once more to work on boats in Florida. Of hypothermia 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.
A man who knows about good livin’.
Four beers and a belly full of laughs later, wide smiles and precious 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, he gave us the run-down: 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.
Then his demeanor stiffened. Leaning in and looking us both in the eye with two fingers stretched like open scissors, he said:
“You guys are welcome, but know this: We have a policy.”
I shuffled in my seat, anticipating a warning of sorts. Exposed, he knew we weren’t from here. Donnie seems like the kinda guy who could spot a phony from a mile away, sniff them out like a bloodhound and send them packing like a good suitcase.
“Everyone you see here is a complete dickhead,” gesturing to no one in particular.
“Oh…?”
“Yep. Dickheads, every one of them. And that’s okay. You can be a dickhead, too. Shit, dickheads are fun. Lovable, even. Be the biggest f*cking dickhead you want.”
Then he slammed his fist on the table.
“But whatever you do, don’t be an asshole…
...Everybody HATES assholes.”
Damn straight, Donnie. Those are some words to live by.
