The trailer park is behind the historic part of McIntosh, where the homes are all framed with Spanish Moss and where the porch fans are kept on at night. Everyone here owns a golf cart. There wouldn't be use for a car, really, unless you had to go into Gainesville for some reason. There is one gas station, one restaurant, a small grocery store and a bank. And there are golf carts parked outside every one of them.
The people who live in the 55+ trailer park aren't all 55+ but they have their golfcarts, too. They drive to the laundromat or to the restroom, yellow-tinted toile in the windows and a strip of floral wallpaper with curling edges.
They all get together sometimes, to play pool, play poker. There is a room with screen for walls and an animal skull tacked to a post. There are a number of microwaves and kitchen appliances sitting in rows, gathering dust. The two refrigerators are locked unless Laura, the only employee in the park's main office, opens it on Saturday night.
I find her sitting in a rocking chair outside of the office, smoking a cigarette and rocking a baby in a carriage. I ask her if I can sit with her and she says yes. She invites me to a pig roast this weekend. She says she'll introduce me to people so I can "see what's what" and asks if I know how to play pool.
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