These are my dashboard buds.
The clown camp wrapped last week, and I’m realizing that doing an entry for each day could be challenging for our mutual attention spans, especially since I’m not at the camp yet in today’s writing and there are so many more things in the world I’d like to write about. This is an ongoing travelogue experiment following revelations related to attending clown camp. You can find part 1 here, or wing it and keep reading.
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Sidenote: This weekend is the 122h annual Hobo Days festival in Britt, Iowa. I cannot overstate how badly I wish to attend this out of curiosity and pointers for living in what will surely be a wild few years economically speaking. We shall see if I’m able to swing it!
Minneapolis has state-sponsored COVID testing centers, and they too have gone the Spirit Halloween route. There are not many testing sites in Minneapolis, but the ones they have are high-capacity former department stores. There are still some private ones who charge, though fortunately, I found a state-sponsored PCR testing site through trial and error.
The first site (mall department store) was fun. An older man at the first table asked for my phone number to verify my online appointment, and I replied “but I’ve just met you!” An easy gag, sure, but I’ve been on the more masculine side of androgyny for this trip and letting a wisecrack slip out like that has a certain level of risk I hadn’t considered. He gave a hearty chuckle which gave way to some flustered organizing of pages. I confirmed the phone number and went on to the tester.
“Em Haver...tu?”
“Oh, I must have misspelled the name online”
“Did you stop by that desk to get your information verified?"
“Yes.”
The tester pitches a glance at the tester the station over. They both roll their eyes.
“What is he even doing” my tester mutters.
“I swear it’s not that hard,” the other tester says.
I need to clear the air.
“No, it’s okay, we didn’t get that far.”
“Unbelievable.”
“No no no, He asked for my number and I told him ‘hey, I just met you. ”
They chuckle and understand how that could temporarily scramble the brain. They asked me to verify my birthdate, which I also entered wrong online. Alas, any progress made in rehabilitating the older man’s image has been lost.
I make my way to the next testing site which will for sure have PCR tests, this one a former department store in a strip mall. I sign-in in-person by scanning a QR code they have taped on the front table, and then they direct me to more tables. I’ve opted to do both PCR and antigen tests, so I will be walking the perimeter of this former department store. I imagine housewares would have been in the back corner, where the rapid test administrator in cargo shorts is milling about as another person finishes their sign-in process. He picks my nose, and I wander through what could have been the former toy section on my way to the PCR booth (clearance Men’s.) The nurse really wants this whole COVID thing to be done already.
“I feel like everyone has been talking about it more this week. I’m just over it.”
Buffalo is a quintessential small town on a lake. There’s an idyllic riverwalk that runs along the town and ends in Sturges Park, where a public amphitheater hosts bands every Thursday night. (This week, a Billy Joel cover band.) Along the park’s pathways are musical instrument sculptures for the public to play. I’m the public, so I’m going to play. A minute into my session on the Contrabass Chimes, I notice one of the chimes is muted. I get on my tippy toes and notice what seems to be a nut or berry jamming up the tube’s resonance. Weird. I get a nearby stick to ramrod the blockage out. As I’m doing this, I spot a mom and her 4-or-so-year-old daughter approaching at a distance. I’m a lone stranger in a small town park jamming a stick into public art, so I play it cool and take initiative.
“There’s something stuck in here, it looks like somebody put a strawberry down there and I’m trying to get it loose. It doesn’t sound good now. See?” I hit the tube and it gives a dense rattle.
“Oh. Thank you,” says the mom, in some genuine, if confused, thanks.
“Oh yeah, no problem! Glad to help the community!”
After that, I feel fairly mellow in social interactions, if not emboldened. One man walking by with a fishing rod told me to not quit my day job, and I said “Yeah, that’s why I’m practicing DUH. Don’t you want to be a professional fisher?” He says his life has been too long to begin pro-fishing now. I tell him that he’ll never be a professional fisher “with an attitude like that.” He chuckles and walks out to the pier that’s just ahead of me and sits with a stranger who is also fishing. I play a few ditties on the tubes, like a wandering violinist at a romantic restaurant, scoring the soundtrack to a potential meet-cute. Maybe a fish will bite both of their baits at the same time, so when they reel it in together, they’ll accidentally bump into each other like a Bass Pro Shop Lady And The Tramp? I notice no cute interactions, and I move on.
There’s a Wal-Mart nearby, which is great news for car camping and little else worldwide. Wal-Mart’s general policy permits overnight parking for RVs and other travelers with fewer wheels. It’s at the discretion of the managers of course, but the consensus is that these parking lots are reliably safe and well-lit. I’ve done it before, and it can be done again! I hope Wal-Mart doesn’t pat itself on the back for helping out folks like this. It’s a very “socially democrat, fiscally republican” move. “Rest your head upon my shoulder, weary traveler, unless you’re a union organizer.”
Before retiring for the night, my clown camp roommate reaches out for updates on my location and testing journey. I say “wanna hang out?” They’re down, but it’s getting late and the camp has a curfew where the doors to the building lock at 10 pm… which is weird. I get to the parking lot and settle away from the main entrance because I do not want to be a creep or be seen as someone who is trying to sneak in. I turn off my headlights and my engine and chill out to see if they make it out in time. I feel like a rapscallion. The clock struck 10 and the clown rendezvous will not be realized.
An inflatable clown rests
What I didn’t realize was that, at 10 pm, they would also turn off all the lights for the parking lot and surrounding grounds, putting me in pitch black darkness.
I already feel a little dangerous for being on premises, but to leave now and draw attention to myself as a mystery person leaving the grounds on the first night of clown camp feels dangerous and dumb. Fortunately, this secluded parking lot has a tree line muffling any meager traffic nearby and zero chance of foot traffic.
I settle in for my first night at camp.
Thank you for reading! If you find yourself moved by these words, even if moved to irritation, consider sharing this newsletter. I’d like to keep this newsletter free, but I’m accepting alms through my venmo @EmHaverty.