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 alclass="underline" 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.
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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 half 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.
FRIDAY
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*
Dear Mom,
Let us not fear death. There is too much to do while yet on this earth.
Billy