Sylvie Winslow
was the name my mom gave the dog,
like the Eagles song she loved
about too many women loving you at once
and it sounds weird to say this about your dog
but the name kind of works for him. Heartbreaker eyes,
really good hair, convinces you, like, he’ll stay forever
right before he makes a break for it. Golden retriever
escape artist. Pogo sticks for legs. Six-foot fences
mean nothing to him unless
he’s worn out from a walk and guess who
was the only one who walked him. He was my mom’s
in name only. I brought him with me because if I didn’t
I knew I’d never see him again. Thank God
I did. One week on the road and the only thing
that makes me slide open the Sprinter’s door
is Winslow’s sad eyes. It was harder the first few nights,
parking at the edge of the Walmart lots
in Cadillac, Grand Rapids, walking him
in little leashed circles while my brain
ran its own track. I felt like I had
a target on my back. Felt fraudulent
in a way I hadn’t before, Rich Girl
in a Benz, parked mirror to mirror
with people who had to work for what
they had. It made me hate myself or maybe see
myself for what I’d been all along, girl
with a choice, washing my hair with the sulfate-free shampoo
in the biodegradable packaging at the truck stop
shower, overtipping on every iPad screen, a tourist
in someone else’s everyday. Drove to look
at beautiful things then couldn’t make myself
climb out to actually see them. Still I wasn’t ready to bail.
Go home, face Mom, face everyone—the embarrassment
lit me up like kindling. Late that first Sunday,
curtains drawn, van door locked and barred and
Winslow’s sweet head in my lap, I decided Enough,
I told myself, This is a vacation, go be with other people
on vacation, and I booked myself three nights
at a fancy campsite in Buckley that came with WiFi
and a firepit. They had mini golf (for a fee) and
bike rentals (for a fee) and volleyball (free
somehow)—and a pet playground. That was
the important part. Winslow dozed
on the drive there, me making him little promises
anyway about a doggy seesaw I knew he’d love.
At the KOA it took me too many tries
to back the van into my spot. I parked.
I cried. Leashed Winslow and went to get
the lay of the land: lots of little kids, lots
of retirees. No one my age.
Once Winslow was tired, we sat
at my firepit to people-watch. The only ones
I couldn’t get a read on were the group
in the skoolie (I knew the lingo from Reddit),
bright yellow still, bus seats taken out. A few RVs
clustered around them to make a courtyard
and there they’d laid out blankets covered with stuff to sell
in epic piles. Stacks of paperbacks, friendship bracelets,
weird wire sculptures. And yeah I like to thrift
but it wasn’t interesting. The people selling it
were. Tanned, raggedy, blond from the sun
mostly, and I couldn’t keep a count because someone else
was always stepping off the school bus
to start their shift. What was their deal—
drugs? Religion? Dharma bums? I couldn’t stop
watching from behind my sunglasses
and they noticed. I didn’t know it until I lit
the firepit and a pair of them, white kids with dreadlocks,
did a drive-by of my campsite, waggled
their fingers hi at me. I smiled tight and waved
back, Winslow uselessly happy at my feet.
They came by again, walking in a loop.
This time the girl sat down.
What’s up, I’m Dawn, she said, and close-mouth smiled.
The guy said nothing. He stared into my Mercedes.
Hi, I said. Nothing else. Was I being a bitch?—
That’s when the guy picked up a stick and threw it
and Winslow startled, slipped his collar, and bolted after.