The Lewises

Every summer, they swarm to Smoky River from the southern suburbs, clogging main roads, piling into parks, gobbling up motel vacancies and storming the beaches. Despite their fearsome dimensions, they float on concrete like luxury liners, dipping nonchalantly into and out of potholes, squashing errant animals into welcome mats, obliterating whole buildings with their shadows in passing.

That’s because they’re like bungalows on wheels, big fat white‑walled wheels with king‑sized shock absorbers, maneuvering down Homer’s street like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

They’re controlled by people the size of peanuts sitting way up high and far away behind giant cartoon steering wheels. And sometimes, even, as one of these monster mobiles thunders by Homer’s humble home and he peeks above the window sill in time, he learns the identity of its inhabitants, because right above the window, in bold sweeping strokes, it says, “THE LEWISES.”

They migrate by the millions to Smoky River, escaping the suburban jungles, houses on wheels. And almost nine times out of ten, as if they’re not already capable enough on their own of turning Smoky River into a parking lot, they’re pulling things, big things—sailboats, speedboats, motorcycles, mini‑houses, kitchen sinks.

It’s a thing-pulling bonanza. Even real old people participate, sitting behind the wheels of the rolling bungalow’s descendent, the Range Rover, mouths hanging open as if they’re surprised, as if they hardly can believe they’re moving, let alone in Smoky River, pulling entities the size of garages at ten to fifteen miles per hour below the posted speed limit. This last fact Homer knows because he’s heard Dad mention it in various configurations through his teeth as he tries to pass one on the road.

At night, the parks are packed with these vehicular mansions, which sit there imposingly, hooked into poles by grand networks of electrical cords, charging up for tomorrow’s adventures. They dwarf Stroker’s puny pup tent, their generators growling through the night. If Homer and his pals wait long enough, an actual Lewis will emerge briefly, clutching a cocktail, then retreat back into the bungalow to the muffled tones of “The Late Show” and intermittent eruptions of studio laughter.

In the daytime, many Lewises can be seen reclining in lawn chairs with the baseball game playing at record decibels on their radios, or roasting hotdogs over synthetic coals in grills on wheels. And the Lewis boats dot Lake Pearl by the hundreds, it seems, bobbing around.

Yes, it’s one time of year when Smoky River becomes the Twilight Zone, when parking spots are threatened with extinction, when it takes two green lights to make a left, when Homer has to stand in a Disneyland-sized line for an ice cream cone at the Big Dipper, when he better get to the beach by 10:00 a.m. if he wants a spot. Take off the wheels, and you practically have another municipality.

Yes, every summer, Smoky River is alive with the sound of Lewises.