When Clark said he wanted to go camping, Lex imagined throwing a tent up in the woods somewhere and suffering through a weekend of uncomfortable sleeping bags, mosquitoes, and charred food cooked over a fire. He didn't expect this.
"The Minnie Winnie has seven floor plans you can choose from, which include a rear bedroom and a cabover bunk. Good for the kids," Jeff, their squat, balding salesman said, crowding into the small Class C Winnebago camper along with Clark, Lex, Sam and PJ. Lex tried not to let the horror show on his face as Clark listened intently to Jeff's exuberant recitation of the various configurations and Sam and PJ did their best to try and reach the ladderless, beige bunk four feet above the floor.
The interior of the Minnie Winnie was so small. Three feet separated the pale beige pleather couch (pleather!) from the dual bench-seated, beige booth with faux wood laminate table, the entirety of their living area. A tiny kitchen with small stove, small double sink, and skinny refrigerator filled the rest of the space - a word Lex used generously. Beige faux wood flooring spanned the interior. A narrow hallway, barely two feet wide, separated the front of the camper from the rear, where a double bed (a double!) nearly took up the entire bedroom.
Lex ventured cautiously to peek into the bathroom, as his eight year old argued with his three year old about who should boost whom up into the bunk. Clark had taken a seat with Jeff on the cozy couch, as Jeff extolled the virtues of the twenty-inch (twenty!) flat screen television affixed high on the wall above the dining table.
The plebian bathroom made Lex cry internally. Granted, their house in the suburbs of Metropolis didn't have the grandiosity of the penthouse, but at least the master bathroom had a double sink and he wouldn't hit his elbows taking a shower. And everything was so beige.
Lex also found, to his dismay, barely any storage space and no full length closets. Where was he going to hang his pressed clothes? How were they going to fit all of Sam's, PJ's, and Clark's things as well as Lex's own? Would Lex be forced to bring only a single pair of shoes?
Lex shuddered. Wearing hiking boots on a tent-camping weekend was one thing, but this camper was made for week or more-long trips, and Lex prided himself on his sartorial choices. He had an image to uphold. The tabloids would have a field day if they snapped a picture of him in the same clothing twice.
Lex wanted to dive out the nearest window, but he wouldn't fit through it. Instead, he returned the few steps to the front of the camper to find Clark watching him warily, even as he continued chatting with Jeff. Sam and PJ had made it onto the bunk and were now both attempting to touch the ceiling with their feet.
"Well, Lex, what do you think?" Clark ventured. Lex could hear the hope lacing Clark's voice. Their children stopped playing to look at Lex with expectant smiles.
Lex sighed inwardly, resigned himself to one pair of shoes, and turned to Jeff. "Does it come in any other colors?"