We are all dropouts, my siblings and I. One never even made it to high school. One managed to go to college — and yes, I graduated. But we never thought of ourselves as “white trash” (I’d never even heard the term; I don’t think any of us did). We were rather par for our social circle, so we didn’t think of ourselves in the pejorative. But I couldn’t help noticing how cleaner my friends’ homes were and how they had nicer furniture and better TVs. And they had air conditioning! Which, if you’ve ever lived in a trailer where it gets hot in the summer, you know is more essential than running water. And I’m only slightly exaggerating.
Having indoor climate control was the proverbial railroad tracks for me, which set those lucky bastards apart from us, even though they lived in trailers just like we did. Their parents just happened to have real jobs, unlike our single mother who worked at a strip club and relied on tips and the generosity of lovers. As it was, she either couldn’t afford even a window unit, or it just never occurred to her to get one. Then one day I rode with my Uncle Jack to the Luskins appliance store atop “Luskins Hill” right off the beltway. There he purchased a 10,000 btu window air conditioner for my mother. But it was only a mild godsend as mobile homes are linear in design, with windows along the sides. As it was, the unit cooled only the living room and, to a lesser extent, the kitchen. But it was still a relief, and we would stand directly in front of it for optimal effect. Truth be told, we needed a 20,000 btu unit or higher to adequately do the job. But beggars can’t be choosers, can they?
Most of my friends in the trailer park had window units in their homes and having one in our home made me feel less lesser than them. If that makes sense. Two of my friends had central units installed in their trailers, which seemed extravagant at the time, given the time and place — trailer park in a 1970s working class suburb of Baltimore. But the fathers in both of those homes had well-paying jobs, one in manufacturing (back then those jobs still existed and paid well), and the other was a shady wheeler-dealer in what, I don’t know. I never liked him. My strained relationship with his punk son erupted in a knock-down-drag-out brawl one night, which resulted in my needing seven stiches in my kneecap — a week before I was to report to Navy bootcamp. But that’s another story for another post.