Day Forty-Three: Clinton/Elk City - El Reno

We slept in our swimsuits the night before, with “epic” plans to wake up, unzip the tent, and sprint into the pool. Well, we might be young, but we’re not as young as we used to be… and needless to say, that didn’t happen. So we awkwardly tromped out of our tents in swimsuits and quickly covered up, then headed straight to the laundry room to clean the stench from our two-week-old clothes. How about that for spontaneity, eh? Who needs a pool when you can do laundry.

While we waited on the washer and dryer, we ordered breakfast from the campground kitchen, and ate bottomless pancakes with another couple sitting next to us, Don and Theresa Brown. Don was a real man’s man: a Native American man with a southern accent, missing fingers that indicated a do-it-yourself lifetime of fixing things, and a mouth that quoted, “You best believe I’m packin’.” Theresa was quite the opposite, mellow and sweet, but with just the right amount of witty attitude to counter Don’s abrasive jokes. She was tanned and wrinkled from years of sun and cigarettes, which she fiddled with occasionally before giving into temptation and stepping outside for a smoke from time to time. The two bounced off of one another with stories and questions while we ate together, then headed on their way for another day of driving in the RV. We cleaned our plates and folded our clothes, which were dry by the end of breakfast, then packed up to go.

The ride flew by, but good Lord, was it hot. We cranked out a leg of 50 miles with only one break, then stopped at Love’s truck stop for lunch. There was a Sonic attached, which provided us with chicken strip baskets and tots, and just enough bad-for-you-ness to make us question if we actually burn off all those calories in one day. Slater had a slow leak in his tire, but it was only seven more miles to the KOA, so we left soon after eating in hopes of arriving in time for a long pool session before getting a flat—and that we did! After finally checking in and setting up camp, we dipped in the pool, and didn’t tell anyone that we were too lazy to shower before getting in. Whoops, sorry.

The rest of the night revolved around a 75-course dinner that we ate at the Cherokee Restaurant up the road (okay, not really, but we learned that the South takes their food seriously). First came fried pickles, then a salad bar that was large enough to be dinner itself; then a plate each with not one, but two pork chops, green beans with bacon, a dinner roll the size of my face, and a baked potato with butter—or should I say butter with a baked potato? During dinner, we were conversing in muted tones about the South and all of its quirks and its distinct culture when a man approached us with an arrogance that filled the room. He leaned in toward Slater and got his attention: “Hey, man, I don’t know if this is what you were going for…” his eyes dropped down to examine Slater’s midsection, and he pointed a finger toward his chest, “but that’s the ugliest shirt I’ve ever seen.”

…………….. Excuse me, what?!?!?! He chuckled and began to walk away, but displayed no signs of joking. I was beyond confused. First of all, Slater’s shirt is dope. Pardon my usage of immature slang—that means that his shirt is awesome. I bought it for him. It is a forest-toned flannel with an Aztec pattern from Urban Outfitters that has, yes, been worn down to where it pills, but looks good nonetheless. This guy, on the other hand, was wearing a faded salmon t-shirt with stains and holes, and it hung just close enough to his belt buckle so that you could almost see his belly, which told tales of years of butter potatoes from the Cherokee Restaurant. So yes, we were confused, and yes, our conversation about the South’s quirkiness was relived. I was not happy and resisted every urge to make a snarky jab about his fashion sense.

On the walk back to the campground, we laughed off the strange encounter while we paid a visit to the buffalo farm alongside the restaurant, where we saw two buffalos that looked strikingly like our dogs… ha, just kidding, but we do talk to all animals as if they are our dogs. We returned to camp and changed out of our ugly clothes, showered off our grungy Northwestern selves, and slept in a tent like hippies do, just to show the South what’s up.