Eric is my Poodle and Other Stories

I informed Eric several days ago that on this road trip through the USA he would play the part of my poodle. The reference I was making was to Steinbeck's novel "Travels with Charley" in which Steinbeck treks across the USA with his aristocratic and sophisticated French poodle. Eric was not amused; regardless of how sophisticated said poodle was. It took one night of camping out for me to realize that I who was in fact the poodle. The only thing necessary to convince me that I was more of a companion in the situation was Eric sending me to fetch a pile of wood and then proceeding to start a fire in a very rapid and Boy Scout-esk fashion (keep in mind that this was after he also erected our tent). Suffice to say I did manage to reap the joys of Smores which were cooked on that campfire. :)
I am also apparently not very adept at choosing good campgrounds. This was proved so when we drove into Clarksville, Indiana yesterday afternoon. I was at the wheel as Eric squinted at a Googlemap printout with directions to our supposed campsite. We soon found ourselves wandering around the most decrepit and run down area of Clarksville - the kind of area of town that makes you nervous if you hang out there past 7pm. There was nothing resembling a beautiful, natural campsite in sight. Almost by accident we stumbled upon a sign directing us to the camp area. We drove past "Derbey's Dinner Playhouse" with its flashing pink neon sign and dubiously entered the parking lot.
" There's some old dude looking at you." Eric said as we pulled up to the building (which featured a window through which this man was apparently having a good look). I went in to fix our reservation and was greeted by Earl. Pale blue eyes, bleached blonde hair, a diamond stud in his left ear, ranging in age from 55-65, and exuding an air of creepy self confidence.I will simply refer to the other character as "Mumbly" as the only thing I understood was an occasional "Bathroom...mumble, mumble, key, mumble, deposit, mumble." Then the fatal words "Earl...mumble,mumble, smoking, mumble." Apparently Earl was going on a smoke break and would be available to conveniently show us our campsite. He proceeded to lead us to a patch of grass surrounded as far as the eye can see by concrete on every side. Keeping in mind the rather shady neighborhood we had just driven through, I couldn't help but ask Earl an important question: "How safe is it around here?" I didn't expect him to say it wasn't, but also didn't expect him to launch into a descriptive analogy with some vague reference to Andy Griffith. He flicked the ashes from his cigarette looked me up and down AGAIN and then said: "Don't worry, we patrol this area at night all the time." I didn't have the heart to tell Earl that the idea of him creeping around my tent in the middle of the night 'patrolling' was scarier than the idea of some delinquent from the outside coming to murder me in my sleep.
Ah, but the night turned out to be uneventful (although not very resting) and what glorious sight should greet Eric and me when we stepped out of our tent early the next morning? None other than Earl on a 'patrol' on his bright yellow go cart, staring intensely at us as he puttered by with a half smoked cigarette dangling from his lips. We hightailed it out of there.