Dave and Holly tolerate being mocked.
FLIGHT OF THE BORING
Illegal elopement from the campsite constitutes the unfun child’s most drastic method of resisting our intensive treatment structure. Often times, the flight constitutes a last-ditch attempt at hanging on to what our little renegade deems his best self. As if he’s in an objective position to appraise his own personality! Four out of five times you’ll find him hiding out in that old bunker the kids think we don’t know about. You yell at him, freak him out, tell him about the Malhara that stalks these woods, or the Jackal looking to make a ritual sacrifice, or the peeved natives looking to re-gift disease blankets to the chilled ancestors of crafty pioneers — just wing it, really, get him crying. Drive slow on the way home so he calms down, then switch to Good Cop. Here’s where the camper will complain that the leaders of Fun Camp “just don’t get my sense of humor,” or he’ll fumble around with the idea that fun is neither an absolute nor a choice. The child’s views should be applauded for their well-intendedness, then refuted. A counselor’s greatest joy is when, in a Come to Fun Camp moment such as this, the boring child expresses true contrition, and repeats with you the three tenets of surrender: I suck but I know it. I’m bland but I’m working on it. I am hated by those who will someday revere me, for as their self-awareness slackens, my power grows.
SATURDAY
LADS OF THEIR NUMBER
Who here can tell me how many bears came out of the woods and mauled the forty-two youths who called Elisha a baldhead? Who can tell me what God did to Uzzah when he steadied an ark he had no business steadying? Here’s a hint: The answer isn’t, “Normally, I could look it up.” Who can tell me what slithery creatures venomed the Israelites to death when they got to whining about their rustic living conditions? Anybody? This is bad news, children. I should’ve known the anti-memorization generation isn’t gonna make an exception for sanctified texts. You got the Word called up on your Ken-Doll right beside Vampire Angst Academy, ready to go, like your pocket is your brain. It’s not your fault, you poor damaged darlings, you one nation underdogs, you bushel-covered lights of mine. Your bankrupt public schools won’t even let you heed commandments in nice round numbers, rail on Darwin in a written-portion-of-the-Chem-test pinch, pray through first period in sleepy reverence, or perform any of the tricks that allowed me to clock in at school without absorbing their slop. If you haven’t heard it from anyone, you’re hearing it from me: You are what you memorize. Should we stand? Should we sing? You’d like that, but no. Instead, repeat after me: Then two bears came out of the woods and mauled forty-two of the youths. Then two bears came out of the woods and mauled forty-two of the youths. Then two bears came out of the woods and mauled forty-two of the youths. Stop laughing.
LISTEN TO ME
Because you are children and I am a man, and thus I’ve had more opportunities to notice patterns than you have.
Because even as I stuff myself stupid at lunch, a controlling interest in me understands I’ll be starving by dinner.
Because everything that makes me irrational has been tidily wrapped up in sex.
Because a lady I knew would’ve signed on to pair up with me for the long haul if I’d asked her.
Because my biggest gripes are with soft men I’ll never meet.
Because I own my own house.
Because I’ve cajoled barroom stories from mirthy Jacks who’ll up and leave a bar at the sound of the German language.
Because I could tell you about Kansas and Kant, Ken Starr and cover letters.
Because I know tricks for keeping myself from crying.
Because I’d kick each of your asses at The Price is Right.
Because I memorized the verbal fallacies and blow this whistle whenever I hear one.
Because I’ve raised brows by wit alone.
Because I can tell you why certain movies are good with words you’d use wrong.
Because I registered your sense of wonder and factored it into the way I regard you.
Because I could trick even the savviest among you, and have already. And will.
Because the sting of failure has humbled me without my say so.
Because I annually get worse at lying to myself and better at avoiding bare truths.
Because the worry my birthday causes me points to a big fact I’m beginning to allow myself to acknowledge.
Because I’d do alright in the wild for a time.
Because I could kill each of you with both arms bound.
Because I know just when to kill a joke.
I KNOW WE’RE TRAMPLING HISTORY BUT
If you think back far enough, what wasn’t built on an Indian burial ground? Was I the ghost of a native, I bet I’d be pretty understanding about where my conquerors build their resorts. The sacred’s got a clock like anything. Me, I’d like my grave marked and mowed for a solid century, long enough for everyone who could’ve ever loved me to join me. After that, they’re free to erect a fresh Dillard’s on my once-marked bones. I owe a shot at discounts to the not yet dead.
GROGG CORNERS A CAMPER
Feel this knot. Yes, touch it. Post-veto, I was told my back would’ve been practed and kneeded had I narrated that my paindaggers had come on sudden in the a.m. Gander at a man’s leased camp shack, then ask me how long I’ll keep up the ole wince-and-grit for. Death, to thems, is the pickle you ask for none of, please. You might still get served a briny cuke in and on and beside your tray — it may yes happen — but some pimply shluck is gonna get the shitcan for it. That there is some blood-weary optimism in my spectation. Surprised for me, colt? This is worth leaping a parisian fence for, kiddo, unless your constituency cuts his own checks. A prior history is a costly flopping redundancy. My nightly prayers, in order of downward likeness: one is for said-mentioned outfromers to pod me in for a medicinal autotuning, two is for a blonde-bosomed young Montrealite staffer to arrive one summer, burned and beautiful, who’ll hitch me to her wagon and socialize me. Scram in case of either.
WE LOVE FUN CAMP, YES WE DO
Damned if those kids don’t take some of the cock out of my walk, though. Delightful isolated moments, you bet, but after morning counselor meetings I get that pit-level dread, mouthing soundless expletives. Dread where the heart beats faster and the body deflates. Dread where they can smell that you don’t want to say hey or lead line-up cheers louder than the other cabins. They pick up on more than you think, yet they never pick up on that particular thing you’re so sure they know. Once-over a she-counselor and you feel a guilt the Catholics keep trying to claim for themselves, a guilt that goes, “If my kids only knew this heart, hoo-boy.” And if they did? They’re all spies ready to sell you out for an attaboy, new zeal smoothing their faces to bland mush. By the end of the week, I can’t tell my own boys apart. I cover it, addressing each of them with a “Cabin 3, what,” which they’ve come to respond to more than their own names anyway.
THE MAGIC OF SUMMER
I want us all to do an experiment together. Ready? [Pause ten seconds.] In the last ten seconds, each of you has forgotten just a tiny fraction of the math skills you picked up in school last year. Isn’t that wonderful? They can learn you up with whatever they want mid-August through early June, but in the interim, if you choose not to use it? [Clap hands free of unwanted math.] Gone for months. And that’s adulthood, kids: an endless string of summers full of sweet choice. It’s as fun as it sounds, and it’s never terrifying, not if you’re smart about it.