by Gabe Durham
APOLOGY + OPPORTUNITY
Tommy, Janna, I’m going to stop you right there. Now when I say the feelings you’re describing are exceptional, I mean nuke the moon. Your account of the time spent between yesterday’s kickball game and this evening when I happened upon you in each other—all I can say is wow and God bless and cherish it because for some of us, this has never happened. Have I been in love? I would hesitate and then say yes. But there is love and there is the ineffable mountain you’re scaling. To review: you two share the same favorite show, favorite movie, favorite band, favorite song, you both run track, and you both find camp a little immature. What I need to secure from you now are two swears on this copy of Camp Bylaws for the Hearty and True that you won’t let my uninformed intrusion dampen your beginnings. There’s an expression for the look you two are giving each other: Married in our Hearts. And when such looks are exchanged between two consenters age fifteen and up, the Lord winks and turns away. So too shall I. What happens next is: I’m going for a forty-minute nature walk. You will find my cabin unlocked.
THURSDAY
NO PETS
No petting. No ballpoint pens. No collared shirts in the daytime. No unearned moral clarity. No befriending townies. No slavery, including that of the puckish bet-based variety. No immediate stripping post-food fight. God, some of you, it’s like Gutter Radio is live broadcasting right into your ears, keeping you hip to the kind of life choices that mean I’m someday gonna end up buying you soup and hearing your story when I’m taking my Volvo to the collision center in the rough part of town. I was planning to put up a banner at the ranch entrance that said, “The decisions you make now will affect you later,” until a peer pointed out the lettering’s eerie resemblance to “Arbeit Macht Frei.” Speaking of frei, all camper-penned declarations of independence will be shredded unread and all participating revolutionaries are to collect trash in Friday’s first annual Shame Parade. No inter-camper secession, expulsion, exclusion, ostracization, banishment, or eviction, be it based on age, sex, cabin, clique, name, race, size, creed, shirt color, parental income, home square footage, whether or not you’ve done it, number of facial blemishes, point rating on sexiness websites, taste in music, brand of pants, sit or stand, crumple or fold, city or country, bicep circumference, calf circumference, dress size, cup size, shank length, pube count, whether your parents allow R-rated movies, humor development, past prank severity, or any other way a camper might sever the lemon of togetherness we’re attempting to incubate. More rules to come as you invent need for them.
EVERY MAN’S BATTLE
Any dudes out there hoping to do more than stand and arm-groove during tomorrow night’s After-Dinner Digestion Dance? Well Benny Hinkle’s giving a “guys only” lesson on all the witty moves that’ll have Girls Cabin 1 laughing with you all night long. You’ll learn such essentials as the lawnmower, the weed-whacker, the hedge-trimmer, the lasso, the Scorpion, the Sub-Zero, the cliff-jumper, the ladder-climber, the beginner robot, the saucy snake, the Eli Whitney, the beginner Thriller, the beginner moonwalk, the hairstylist, the wax on /wax off, the drop it like it’s good clean fun, the flying buttress, the limbo minus limbo stick, the motorist, the escalator, the prescribing doctor, the textin’ tween, the boy band throwback, the Carlton, the Pulp Fiction, the Romy and Michele, the six-shootin’ showdown, the “remember the Macarena?,” the “remember that dancing baby?,” the Flight of the Hummingbird, the manic-depressive, the grocery cart pusher, and the treat-jumping puppy. If there’s time, Benny will demonstrate ways one might pepper the lag between songs with Chris Tucker quotes from the Rush Hour trilogy. And I know Benny’ll go over this in his session, but pay attention to the pulse of the room. At one point during last year’s dance, I saw three guys doing the motorist mere feet from each other. Not cool, guys. Really not cool.
AL
Listen hard and you won’t even feel the shot, little lady.
“You’ll never know how to win,” people cried to the baseball team. It’s true, thought Al. We lose all the time, sixty, nothing.
“I sure would have fun as a grandmother,” replied Edith.
“I know, Mom,” Al said, “but women love winning.”
The year was 1920. Al practiced viola upstairs. He was on the 4th book and getting better.
Once, on Thursday, Mandy was passing by carrying bread. She heard Al and went up. Al was abused by his father as a boy and got sad. “You don’t know me,” Mandy declared, “but play your sad song, please.” He did, and they ate the hot bread with cheese, and he looked in her deep eyes and saw that baseball was just for fun.
Because of love, does it get any better?
Al called all the team and announced he might quit for personal purposes, and they said they might disband as a group. He did, so they did.
NOT HERE TO FAKE FRIENDS
This place is in serious need of some sheep-goat separation. Is it too late in the week to switch from the Put Up with Goobers model to the Reality Elimination model? Picture it: Each night at campfire, every camper writes the name of the cabinmate he hates most. (In a tiebreaker, the counselor votes too.) The kid from each cabin with the most votes is then dramatically handed a cell phone, and must, in front of everyone, call his mom to have her come pick him up. Only after he confirms that his mom is on the way does the aborted camper get the chance to make a brief speech. Some will plead their fellow campers rethink the decision, others will lash out, others still may try to hurl their rejected bodies on the pyre. Whatever the case, we survivors are then free to tolerate and empathize with and even love the newly-dismissed peer in the light of their numbered-and-counting minutes with us, safe in the knowledge we’re the victors we’d always assumed we were, for once sure we’re surrounded by those who truly care for us and always will.
*
Dear Mom,
Last night, we dined on macaroni and cheese mashed up with beef chili. It was the best thing I’ve eaten in my whole life. What other combinations have you kept from me?
Billy
THE QUIET CABIN
All around in the post-rain everywhere, such rich material for the counselor of letters: Tetherball as metaphor for marriage, flooding lake as the unconscious, the muddy soccer field as the state of our two-party system, camper restlessness as childhood, trees as forest, leaves as trees, tried as true, muddy shoes as nature vs. nurture, grazing deer as splendorous awe, catch as catch can, town candy as contraband, the fact that my campers have informally joined other cabins as history repeating itself, in-cabin dampness as desire, the sight of Sandra running in the rain as desire, thin cotton clinging to Sandra’s chilled tan skin as desire, camp as fun, fun as camp, my exclusion as popularity contest, popularity contest as loneliness, loneliness as crippling loneliness, “as” as projection, projection as a comfort, but less and less, these days.
THE WOMAN AT THE TREE
Yesterday, Tad found me napping in my bunk and asked to borrow a water gun. I unlatched my prank trunk and showed him a good pump-action. He wanted something smaller. I said, “Covert mission, eh?” and gave him my little dollar store pistol. It holds next to nothing, it leaks, and sometimes it fails to squirt. Tad didn’t care.
He let me tag along past the cabins, past the snack shack and it’s winding, waving line, and we traded @ShitMyDadSays tweets. I figured we were headed to the pool, but Tad stopped instead at the Tree of Safety where eight pale kids worked Sudokus and Mad Libs. Tad pointed the water pistol at shy Elaine Schroeder and said, “Okay, Leni,” coining her now-ubiquitous nickname, “where do you want it?”
The dorks erupted. “You can’t, Tad! It’s the Tree of Safety!”
Tad held his hand out for quiet. “I come not to bring safety but danger,” Tad said. “I come not to bring exemption but inclusion.”
Leni leapt up and puffed out her chest. Tad shot once—nothing. Again—a dribble. A third time—and a gorgeous arc of water caught the light from where the leaves part and got Leni right across her—had
we ever noticed before?—enormous rack. She’d never looked so good. “Check it out, Leni: You survived.” Tad said. “Now leave this place. Go have some fun. Go to the pool or something.”
When he left, the dorks plotted to tell on Tad, but Leni would take no part in their schemes. “I’ll deny everything,” she said, and left with me. And of course now she and I are going out.
FUN TREATMENT PEDAGOGIES
Threat: “Next time you waste my time like that, Peter, I’m gonna rub your face across the diving board.”
Physical: Rub Peter’s face across the diving board. Remind him of previous warning(s).
Gesture of Goodwill: “Peter, you can borrow my copy of The Seven Habits of Highly Hilarious Campers until you’re able to buy your own. But I expect you to read it.”
Post-Gesture Quiz: “Now Peter, if you were to rip on Richard right now, with Chapter 4 of Seven Habits in mind, which of his weaknesses might you isolate?” […] “Good—and what might you say about his gargantuan freak ears to drive the joke home?” […] “No, I would not call out, ‘Hey, Big-Ears, your ears are like elephant ears.’ Don’t apologize, just try again.”
Intervention: Gather all the campers whose time the unfun camper has wasted. Each reads from a letter outlining how he’s been annoyed or inconvenienced. Repeatedly assure the camper your actions are coming from a place of love (even if they aren’t).
Use of Recall: “Remember when I rubbed your face against the diving board, Peter? Next time it’ll be poison oak.”
REMEMBER TO BREATHE
What if I told you everyone at camp was secretly much happier than they looked? And if I said their happiness stemmed from the fact that they thought of you much more than you‘d expect them to? That it embarrassed them how much they thought of you? That they know, too, that you’d probably love to hear that you are remembered when you’re not around, but that they find it hard enough to talk to you as it is, the way their words fail? What if I spoke of a commanding presence and an it that people know when they see it? If I told you that everyone assumed that you aren’t famous only because you chose something richer for your life? If I explained that any hostility you sense in others is never anything but petty jealousy, and that in their—our—better moments, we’re kicking ourselves? That we’d take a bullet for you onstage at a hot summer stump speech? That it confuses our hearts the way God tells each of us that you’re the one, but that mine is the heart most confused? You might be compared to a summer’s day if you or I knew anyone who talked like that.
SUGGESTION
Some kind of gong to bang when a skit’s got to stop.
HOP IN
Human restlessness is such that I could slide open the door to the church Econoline, shout, “Who wants to drive around with busted AC looking for a no-ethanol gas station?” or “Who wants to go get free examinations from the unlicensed proctologist?” or “Who’s ready to try that burger place in town that replaces the buns with chunky peanut butter?” and still I’d fill the van and leave a hoard of angry dust-kickers in my wake. Why? Because everybody knows the best camp activities are those rich with mnemonic potential, and memories remain longest when attached to changes of scenery. As in, “One time we piled into a van and . . . what did we? Oh! It was the day Greg taught us the game of licking Big Red wrappers to see who can keep one slapped to his forehead the longest. And I won! I can still feel the spice searing my skin.” Pain’s the second trick. Frothy fun is nice in the moment but some hurt sure helps a memory to stick. Each winter, my right ring finger starts to throb and I think, Oh yeah, summer of oh-four, finger caught in the van door’s line of fire just after Mary Charles turned down my invitation to go on the Midnight Hike together. I was after a conciliatory half-cherry half-cola Slurpee and despite injuries sustained, I got one.
LIKE THE SALMONELLA & BROWNIE BATTER THING
I agree it’s unfair that some kid somewhere choked—a precocious little weed cut short before et cetera, but the greater loss is that she took Chubby Bunny to the grave with her. Every six minutes a kid drowns in the kidney pool that made his family suddenly popular, and yet I swam for two hours today, played Chicken Fight most of that time, and if I’d died, you wouldn’t’ve see mine or anybody else’s parents calling up to get the pool slabbed over in my memory. But one kid—one kid—chokes on a mouthful of mallow and the mollycoddlers get a beloved tradition banned for life, one where the risk was part of the excitement in the first place. Listen to these rules pretending you’ve never heard them before: Each player puts a big marshmallow in his mouth, does not swallow, says “chubby bunny,” adds another big marshmallow, says “chucky bucky,” adds another, tries not to choke, says “chuh-ee uh-ee,” and stuffs in another one or five or thirteen until one player is left standing. Remind you of any other games with the word Chicken in the title? Players worried about asphyxiation turn back early, spit their goo into a bucket, and hit the water fountain. Those who want to win proceed. Without the risk, Chuh-ee Uh-ee would be nothing at all: kid stuff.
SANDRA EXEGETES
This is the first year, girls, I’ve had to explain to my cabin that “be real” does not mean sulk around in your sighberry eyeliner. We’re all tired. We’re supposed to be tired. After a half-hour of in-bunk flashlight tag, sticking a couple of hands in a warm water bowl, and a spooky forbidden round of Light as a Feather, Stiff as a Board, we’re looking at a low 5.5 hours per night. Good luck finding a way around it. A woman’s greatest knack is how well she can hide how much sleep she’s been missing. There’s a little tally board inside each of us labeled, “Number of days since someone has told me I look tired” that resets itself whenever we make the mistake of looking like we feel. And the alternative? Even if you fulfill obligations, party like you mean it, and somehow get your sleep, your decisions will be too well-informed to be spontaneous. You’ll never be susceptible to life. And that goes double for this week, divas. We don’t need your gears shifting at full speed, we need you able to hold your foot behind your head.
COMPLAINT
Every time I love someone, you set them free.
ALL THE ARMIES OF MY BOOT
Nobody blames you, demon. You show a deep passion. You work long hours. But you must’ve had an inkling: How many pentagrams did you think we’d allow on one girl’s bedpost? On how many summer days did you think gloves would hide your sloppy stigmatas before a staff member figured out something was up? Hey now. Let’s not make this into a thing. Tears aren’t evil. Show your grit with a stoic exit. You can give Susie a last shiver if you want, take a last look through her tiny windows, whisper a final corrosive in her ear. She will miss you at times. Back-talking will sting when she sees whom she’s hurting. Whipped cream on steak will lose appeal. Flirting with rebels will still an entirely different set of voices. I was thinking I’d let you cast yourself out—there’s dignity in that—but get yourself gone by the end of the workday. I’d let you finish out the week but we need her bubbly for tomorrow’s relay. Hold up your head when you get back home—the other demons are in your same sad boat. They wouldn’t be in Hell if they hadn’t done something wrong. Nobody there wasn’t caught failing.
*
Dear Mom,
It’s dawning on me, the disadvantage I’m at not having been raised in a bilingual household.
Billy
TWO DAYS, FOURTEEN HOURS
All it takes is a glance out the craft hut window to imagine the real party that must be happening up in the cold, I’m talking cold, mesosphere right now, daily burning through meteors like 30-packs of Keystone, and to picture how unconvincing our in-the-moment expressions must seem from up there. But down here, the alternative is dim and bratty and nothing I want to look at. Had this one kid who kept trying to hide up in his bunk before activities, lying real still like I wouldn’t notice, offering bribes when I collected him by force and sat him beside me. Then a switch flipped. He had this great night at skits, laughing louder than anybody, and became self-sufficient for hal
f a day. Now every time I see him, he makes this bittersweet face and tells me how many days and hours of camp are left cause he doesn’t want to go home. I can empathize, the way trying to live in the moment is like trying to find the button that turns off the reverb on the karaoke machine. I had a couple of his cabinmates heave that kid in the pool with his clothes on, but there’s only so much one counselor can do to drown out a kid’s brain’s wants.
PASS ME THAT FLASHLIGHT
A woman was killed in a wreck at the tunnel five years ago tonight. She died in the snow from the fire, drowned, her spirit condemned to wander the waterways, weeping and searching for her children until the end of time. After what seemed like hours, she heard a far off bugle blast, and then silence. Her baby was still alive. Was he looking for his head? She went home and collapsed into bed, wondering what happened to the man on the motorcycle. The next morning, she went to the bathroom, and there, scrawled on the mirror in blood: I am the viper. I’m on the fifth floor. She realized then that the old man at the gas station had been trying to warn her. To this day, the light of her torch still can be seen on stormy nights. To this day, the fathers of the village wear scars as a reminder. To this day, La Malhora appears at the crossroads whenever someone is going to die. That baby was my daughter. That psycho was me.