Every campground has a dumping station. This is where trailers can empty their waste-water holding tanks. It is also a place for a kind of entertainment called people watching. Think of it as being on a boardwalk, sitting on the bench, and watching the public pass by. It is amazing what we reveal about ourselves without intention. As an observer, it is fun to imagine a person’s occupation or character by how they look or dress, whether their hands are calloused or manicured, if they were friendly, grumpy and so on.
The gazebo and sitting area outside of the office is the equivalent to front row, middle seats, under the big top and the dump station is the center ring in our little circus. It is where our seasonal camper coffee club gathers each morning to do their people watching. When a trailer pulls up to dump, it’s as though the circus ringmaster has come to introduce the main act and draw everyone’s attention to the center ring. The anticipation is almost palpable as all eyes do a quick scan of the newest performer. Then, in almost a fever pitch, the assessments and betting begin; “Pro or newbie?” Gloves or no gloves? Will they wash their hands when they finish?, Will they rinse the sewer hose before putting it back? And on and on it goes, until the unit pulls away and they wait for the next unit to provide the encore.
Last week, I wished I had a video camera on the dump station so that I could have played back the unit we had mid-week. No one was around to watch, with the exception of the few of us working in the office. The ease of his approach and knowledge of how far forward he needed to be in order to line up the valves with the septic cap told us he was not a newbie. What happened after, had us naming all the occupations we prayed he wasn’t involved in, chef being at the top of the list.
As he pulled the sewer hose from the storage compartment, he simultaneously lit a cigarette. Not wearing any gloves, he proceeded to hookup to the waste water valve and dump the holding tanks, all the while handling the rinse hose, which had, just moments before, been down the sewer hose of the previous unit, and putting the cigarette in and out of his mouth. You can almost see the e-coli and other bacteria jumping from hand to cigarette to mouth. When the tanks were emptied he rinsed the area while the water splashed his sandaled feet, hung the hose and wiped his hands on his jeans, shuffled his feet twice in the gravel, so as not to put mud on the floor of the truck, hoisted himself into the driver’s seat, and pulled out. All the while the audience in the office gasped, groaned, and gagged in disbelief.
One must wonder about his personal hygiene training. Was this man an orphan? Did he not have a mother growing up? Obviously, if he didn’t wash his hands after that repulsive show, it would be a safe bet that he doesn’t wash after using the bathroom. Perhaps he worked in a sewer treatment plant, and the concentration of bacteria is all relative in his mind. We wondered if his lady was o.k. with his personal hygiene habits. I myself know that on Wednesdays, when my husband has to pump out the holding tanks of all the seasonal trailers, even though he wears gloves and washes his hands after the gloves are removed, he could not possibly exude enough pheromones for me to feel any attraction until after he has showered and scrubbed every inch of his body.
I contemplated relocating the antibacterial hand wash in the store to a more visible spot, but as he pulled away, my subconscious propelled me to the back room where I washed my own hands in a futile gesture of hygiene by proxy.
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