PART FOUR of "Gomorrah", Wisconsin - Apple River Hideaway

Now. This is the part of the tale that’s a little bit fuzzy to me. I remember everything, but I don’t remember the order of events very clearly. I think that had to do with both my medication and the amount of adrenaline pumping through my veins. This is what I do remember:

I remember feeling relieved that we had told the Apple River Hideaway staff, but wasn’t naïve enough to expect much from them. I remember coming back from the bathroom… And here is where I don’t remember the order of events very clearly. Maybe I will as I write them out…

My friend was out of the tent. She reported that she had dialed 411 to be connected to the Apple River Hideaway directly. Now, before I tell you how the conversation went I need to tell you about what happened after me and F’s husband went to the bathroom. My friend didn’t know that we had walked off, and was still in the tent listening. She heard the baboons calling her husband all sorts of names, such as “faggot” et cetera. She was in a right rage about it, justifiably, and came out of the tent to find that we weren’t there for the harassment. This was the moment she chose to make the phone call.

“Yeah, hi. Can you do something about these a-holes next to our campsite? They won’t turn their fricken music down and-”

Note: I’m not censoring her swear words. These were her words, exactly. But she wasn’t able to get to the “faggot” part because the woman on the other end cut her off and said in a very holier than thou, snotty attitude, “Do you think you can talk to me without using all the swear words?”

This is irony in it’s most fittest form. My God-fearing friend who even in her utmost rage is doing everything she can to avoid using profanity to the owner of a campsite who invites just about all the seven deadly sins to manifest themselves upon her river’s shore. This phone call proved futile.

F’s husband then made a phone call… And here is where I don’t remember the order of things… I’m not sure who made the phone calls first… It’s not that important, but I like to keep to the facts best I can. I think he made his call second to hers… Regardless, this one was just as futile. He was connected (I think….) to one of the four staff guys that we had talked to up by the bathrooms. This is what the Drunk Staff Moron said:

“Oh, that volley ball court? I thought you meant the other one…”

To paint you a picture, Reader? The other volley ball court was so far down the shoreline that you couldn’t even see it in daylight. Not to mention the fact that it was in the complete opposite direction of our campsite, of the place we had emerged from in full view under the lights of the registration area. Also, let’s not forget the important fact that we had pointed directly to the area to which we came from. Oh, and let’s not forget the most important fact: you could HEAR the damn, cliché club music pounding through the air only a few strides away. Really? Really. ‘Paying homage to a little Arrested Development: COME ON!

After the futile phone calls and deciding to take advantage of the currently quiet air, we tried to go back to sleep. The minute I found myself in my sleeping bag again, the music was cranked back up. I can’t remember why it was down in the first place (maybe they were just switching CD’s), but I was beyond my head at this point. At first, I had intentions of doing something completely rash. I was going to do something violent to their baby-makers and it wasn’t going to be pretty. Little did they know that they had just messed with a little New York Sicilian, and I was going to make them regret it with horrible consequences. I was going to do it. I was. I had it all planned out. It was definitely pre-meditated. I don’t care what people say: you can still pre-meditate your actions when you’re temporarily insane. I? Had it all planned out.

But I thought about what might happen if I were do such a thing. So, maybe I wasn’t as temporarily insane as I believed… I thought, “I would be getting my friends into trouble too if I did this, and none of us know how many there are in their whole group anyway… Cops will get called… It would get ugly…”. But the music was making me go mad. I had to escape it. So I started to throw my things together, to pull on my socks, grumbling to myself, “I wish I had a crowbar…. Or even better, a magic wand… Then I could leviosa their asses right into the river…”. I practically ripped my tent as I whipped my zipper up and over. My friend heard the “zrrrrrip!” of my tent and very affectionately demanded I get back into it. I told her I wasn’t going to do anything, I was just going to go sleep in my car. Except, I think I may have shouted it at her… I think I may have said it loud and angry… I didn’t mean to. I was pissed off at the baboons. Definitely not her. But that’s what I said, and that’s what I did.

I threw my stuff into my car, my blanket that was beneath my sleeping bag, my sweatshirt pillow, my sack-purse that held all my stomach, anxiety, and poison ivy medication, and I slammed my door shut. I tried to sleep in the driver’s seat for like two seconds before realizing that position was just stupid. So I crawled over the seat into the back. I was cold. It was damp. I threw my blanket off of me, dug into my purse to find my keys (which was a challenge with all the pill bottles and tubes of ointment), turned on my car and blasted the heat. I could still hear the music, but it was far less irritating. However, when I put my head down onto my sweatshirt pillow I could feel the beat-beating of the bass. This, does not do me well. My senses are so damn sensitive. Even when I’m not trying to sleep, too much bass has a tendency to increase my anxiety and make me very uncomfortable.

I am NOT a freak… how dare you!

It’s not that abnormal for bass beats to make a person anxious. In fact, it’s rather common for people who have anxiety. I learned this while watching an educational science show on cable one time. I remember jumping to the edge of my seat and saying to the television, “No way! I’m not the only one!” Because, let’s face it, before I knew that others get anxiety from bass, I, too, thought I was a freak.

So, there I was, desperately trying to think of something else, anything else, to distract me from the bass. But when you’re trying to think, you’re not falling asleep.

I heard a tap-tapping on my window. I sat up, slightly alarmed and slightly out of it. I saw a man outside my window. I stared. It took me a minute to be one hundred per cent sure that I didn’t know him. I leaned into my driver’s side seat. I let the window come down just a crack enough to hear what he wanted to say, and just enough for me to say anything to him should I have to.

“Hey, do you not have a place to stay tonight? You need somewhere to sleep other than your car?”

Oh. It’s this guy. The guy that thinks he’s suave and clever but is completely transparent. My eyelids dropped half-way to express, “You made me sit up, for this?” I said, “Nope. I’m fine.” And pointedly closed the window. What did he think I was going to do? Bat my eye lashes, hop out of the car, and go to bed with him? On the other hand… With all the little Chipmunks in the park, I couldn’t blame him for expecting it.

The music had eventually gone away. Did the Hideaway Staff finally come to our rescue? I didn’t know. My car had eventually heated up, and it heated up enough to relax me completely. I finally fell asleep. But little did I know, I was missing out on some things, things that would be laughed about later, but for the time being were completely obnoxious…