Everyone has a Plan B. It’s the plan in the back of my head that happens when all else fails. For me, Plan B is buying a vintage trailer, parking it in the Mojave Desert, and collecting rocks. It sounds like fun, but I imagine it might get old fast. That is where alcohol enters the story. In order to get through each day, I would, no doubt, need to begin drinking in the morning. This would enable me to yell at passers by, “Get out o’ here. What you lookin’ at?” I could holler.
I’ve also tried unsuccessfully to persuade several friends to buy a trailer for their backyard, rather than adding on to their house. Nobody particularly likes this idea. I think it would be wonderful, if you had the space, to have a 1955 turquoise trailer as a guesthouse or office. My grandparents had one of those giant RVs for a while, and boy was it ugly. If you like mauve, almond, and beige, you’d like this RV. When I suggested they buy an old Airstream, they just stared at me. But I don’t want to drive one around and go to campgrounds. I just want to sit on a lawn chair outside my trailer at sunset, drinking out of the bottle and yelling at wild rabbits.