In college I worked as a bartender in the most hipster of all Orlando pseudo-dives. As part of the opening staff, I was around to see the beautiful trailer the owner bought, all eight or so inches from the side, mounted to our wall. It still had the windows and door intact, bearing only a few select bumper stickers to represent the camp in a way only bumper stickers can. I remember the fresh wood-paneled bathroom walls, carefully branded with various images of Elvis throughout his career. We had holiday lights strung across the room and back again, gently illuminating the 800 layers of lacquer drenched on top of doors repurposed as tables that ran along the stretch of the fairly narrow room.

This was my home for three years. Continue reading