Vacationland Turned Femicideland

TW: Substance abuse, violence, and sexual violence

People from all over the world pack up to go to Maine, or "Vacationland", as it’s dubbed and slapped on every state license plate, for their getaways. Southern New Englanders, which, we, Mainers, consider anyone living south of the Piscataqua River, are the biggest suckers for Maine (although it’s a tight tie between them and the Canadians just north of us). They – mostly the southern New Englanders – haul all their shit up for summertime and, oftentimes, stay as “peepers” for the leaves during the Fall months. That’s when, of course, the leaves are exploding with colors like Chinese fireworks. 

We, Mainers, have identified numerous types who come to visit us, mostly during those short summer months – the hikers, the boaters, the loafers, the hippies, the wandering farmers, the artists, and everyone else. 

The hikers bring their tents, their hiking boots, their enthusiastic hiking pals, their hiking sticks, their pro-hiking dogs, their pro-hiking kids, and all the other hiking shit that goes with that so-called sport. 

The boaters bring their boats, their boating gear, their boating friends, their boating kids, their boating booze, and stay at their big, boating cottages. 

After those groups of people are the loafers, the hippies, the wandering farmers, and the artists – most of these types of folks are soul-searching, certain – so they think – they’ll find something of lasting value in Maine. Maine beckons them to experience something spiritually life-altering. Why Maine has gotten this notoriety, I do not know. That even goes for the loafers, despite the fact that they are perpetually lost both psychically, geographically, and emotionally. That said, they still fit in with the hippies, the wandering farmers, and the artists. Like the rest of the visitors mentioned above, and everybody else who don’t really fit an exact category, who come to Maine, they stay in Airbnbs, little cabins, and grimy, zero-star motels. Most of these groups of people dabble in drugs and heavy drinking. They are also big animal lovers and deeply concerned about the climate, but then again, who isn’t these days? 

During the high season, all these people like to cookout, BBQ, and toast S’mores over an open fire pit. Most of them enjoying fishing or jumping into either the ocean or a lake or pond from a dock. They all eat overpriced lobster rolls and gulp down gallons and gallons and gallons of clam chowdah, relishing in either saying the word or hearing it said that way by the locals. (If they are high or drunk, they might be obnoxious enough to make the local Mainer say it again). Thousands of pounds of oysters are also devoured, along with Blueberry beer and shitty Blueberry martinis and mixed-drink concoctions. 

 When it gets colder, people move inside for either a hot toady or mulled wine in front of the fire. While people still come here during the winter months, the place pretty much clears out, and we, Mainers, are left alone to face a brutal winter of snow, sleet, ice, and cold. The wild influx of money also dries up, so we all work our asses off in a few short months to ensure we’re covered for the rest of the year. Still, there are some suckers who enjoy that type of wintery scene, so visitors still come up to enjoy the colder months, cozying up in houses or cottages of various sizes. (Even celebrities, like Martha Stewart, get sighted in Bar Harbor after Thanksgiving). Year-round people go “antiquing.” They seek out the natural wonders, too – moose and beaver on land, whales and puffin in water. 

It's been this way for travelers for generations. We, Mainers, are fiercely proud of this place and revel in both hating and loving visitors – money makes it either a symbiotic or parasitic relationship, depends upon when you ask and who you’re asking. One thing is true: the visitors are part of the color and bombastic nature of the summer months. And certainly, their green money is the best color of all. I myself loved it at one time, too. 

Nary a Mainer would deny their love for this wild place, this "Vacationland." They wouldn’t dare speak ill of it, even if they thought ill of it. I’m here now, however, to do just that. I’m here to say, not only do I despise every corny, saccharine, stereotypical thing I mentioned above, but I hate the place, too. 

I especially hate the sound of boots crunching on fall leaves, the burning of fresh, untreated firewood outside, and the ubiquitous plaid shirts that Mainers wear. Those three things, I hate more than anything else about this place. That said, I hate everything about Maine. Even the vast pine trees that cover the entire state.

I have the privilege of being able to say that, however. I was, as the colloquial saying goes, born and bred here in a small town called Ellington, Maine. It’s just 15 minutes away from “The Island”, as we locals call it. (That’s where everyone – the tourists – go to whale watch and catch ferries to Nova Scotia; the big cruise ships stop there, too). I went to primary and secondary school here in Ellington before heading to “the city,” that is, Bangor, for a few short years at Hamilton College. I dropped out shortly after starting college (I smoked too much pot and apparently read too much philosophy), returned home, and began working at a bar in Ellington called Pepio’s just off Main Street. Pepio’s is the only bar that stays open late for the waitstaff who get off work around 8 o’clock during the winter months and 9 o’clock during the summer months. While Pepio’s isn’t a rough bar, you won’t find the likes of Martha Stewart or the wealthier inhabitants of Ellington imbibing there. Absolutely-fucking-not. Did I tell you I hate Pepio’s too? 

I had my last few drinks at Pepio’s. I had just gotten off work and a lobsterman I’d known from high school – his name was Dale – popped in for a nightcap of Captain Morgan and Seven Up. I remember being turned off by Dale’s drink choice and by Dale’s dirty, plaid shirt. It was late October, but still unusually warm (thanks, Climate Change). Dale asked me if I wanted to hang out at his trailer on Bayside Road for “one last drink” of some “Natty Light.” Being that I was headed back to my own broken down, rusty trailer a road over in Trenton (we called ourselves “Trenton Trash” with pride), I said, “Sure, why not?” So, I got on my motorized bike and followed him in his dented pickup truck. Nature was still making all its raucous noise at that point, and I was enjoying the ride from the bar to Dale’s place down Bayside. It’s a street that begins at Pepio’s and gets darker as it makes its way towards “The Island.” 

We turned onto Dale’s property. I could see a couple of men standing around a burning fire. I shrugged, thinking I probably knew them. As it turned out, I didn’t know any of them. 

Dale got there before I did. He smirked when I asked him for a Natty. “Here you go,” he said slyly. I couldn’t make out his body language. None of the other guys said a word to me. Since Mainers can be standoffish, I paid them no mind. I took a few sips from the beer. Before I knew it, the starry sky was spinning like the kaleidoscope toys I used to view as a little kid. Then I saw lots of plaid, heard my clothes being torn off, and a lot of brutal words being said about me. They all piled on top of me, one at a time. 

And then I lost it all – I mean, I really lost it all. 

Dale drove a fishing knife into my heart. “You bitch.”

That’s when Vacationland became Femicideland.