Gabe Durham: Fun Camp

Hear the whirr seeming to come from that vent there? It’s the sound of the indoors sucking away at the soul of your childhood. The expedition’s leaving in five and you’re coming with us. You too, shoulder-slumper, outside this instant. Free time’s only free when you use it to staff satisfaction. Open those mouths and inhale deep. Exhale if you must. Let the UVs raise your social stock a little. Remark on the sun. Name the clouds. Learn something from nature trail tree plaques. The breeze’s touch isn’t unseemly if your heart’s cockles say yes . Bring your inhaler if you think it really does something, or just trust my know-how to keep your respiratory in check. You may not have heard, but I’m versed in pastoral instruction: Leaves of three? Let me see. A hairy vine is a friend of mine. Berries white are a rare delight. A raggy rope is nature’s soap. Red leaves in spring are a glorious thing. Side leaves like mittens? Pet them like kittens. If a butterfly lands there, put both your hands there. Doesn’t this feel great? Couldn’t you just die, how pretty all this is? The trick is to tap into the you that already loves all this. To let the bones of your spirit break free.

Direct: “I’m trying to pay attention to your story, Peter, but your subject is boring and your delivery uninspired.”

Comparison: “Richard, that’s much more interesting than what Peter was just saying.”

Olfactory (All-Male Company Only): “Interesting point, Peter.” Then rip a huge fart to communicate it was not actually an interesting point.

Ethical Appeal: “Peter, your current personality taints the week of everyone you encounter. How do you live with yourself? That is, how do you wake each morning the same Peter when yesterday’s Peter was so unsuccessful?”

Cry for Help: “I’m not ignoring you, Peter, just scouting the oaks for sturdy limbs because the strangled cat timbre of your voice makes me want to hang myself.”

Good Cop: “Let’s call it a day, Peter. Remember — I wouldn’t be putting in the time to mentor you if there wasn’t potential in you somewhere, a flaccid brain muscle begging to get flexed.”

Maybe some rule where everybody has to be nice and talk to you and not move away when you sit by them since it is hard and I am trying.

Meet up in the mess hall. Put your on mask first. Pump your brakes and turn with the spin. Plan ahead where you’ll land the plane, then land it there. Build levies to hold then assume they won’t. Watch, in a windstorm, for cracking branches. When burdened, cut corners. Offer to strip for a search before they can threaten you with one. Consider that ticking bombs are slated to come back in style any season now. Escort the townsfolk one by one into the bomb shelter and turn the wheel until you hear a click. Plant your boots firm in the earth and let the tornado know who’s in control. Dive into the tsunami and swim like hell. In a doorway mid-earthquake, pretend it’s your might shaking everything, your mercy sparing what remains. Pretend to negotiate, then don’t. In peace times, look busy. In drought times, spit like you can spare it. In a fire, retreat deep within yourself. Find me there. I will be the one married to you.

If you let your TV screen get dusty then make a handprint on it, every sitcom bears your mark. The more decals on the frame, the less likely it is that there’s another out there like yours. On our old remote, you could peel off the buttons to reveal uglier buttons, then put the outer buttons back on upside down or out of order, turn the remote into a rune. Dad hated it: He didn’t have the same memory for location I did, wasn’t thrilled by the challenge of the puzzle. If he wanted Channel 8, he pressed the 8 button. I get some grief around here for missing the shows I’m missing — it keeps me from surrendering myself to the fun, I’m told — but the TV is the most fun person I know. Every TV personality who gets ripped on is famous and not me and asking for it. Camp jokes are too literal, too physical, too sticky for my taste. Like anything that doesn’t send you to the showers isn’t worth laughing at. And I know what you’re about to say, so don’t bother. All anybody here tells me is that soon I won’t even miss the ole boob tube, the shocks box, the mean screen. As if that’s not the ultimate tragedy.

You’re a brave gal, so focus not on the alcohol swab, but instead on a story that goes like this:

“You, slave, back to work.”

“I’m so tired.”

“That doesn’t matter for me.” He whipped him so hard.

Richard lived in Ancient Egypt as a slave all his life. That night, Betty said, “Richard you’ve got to stop getting whipped. You’ve got to work hard.”

“I hate being a slave,” Richard cried, in a tent.

Richard went out in the night. Can you imagine his life and the suffering? He found the guard. He speared him. Richard never met his own parents. He looked out and upon the full moon, the pyramids in the horizon.

Betty said, “You’ve gone and done it now.” Richard nodded.

They got on a boat and sailed for the Americas. They hoped for freedom and many new opportunities. They got them.

*

Dear Mom,

What do you call everyone who isn’t at Fun Camp right now?

Retarded!

Love,

Billy

Where were you coming from? Is this part of your normal route? How soon before the prank did you notice the prankster? At what point did you realize you were going to be drenched? What do you think drew the prankster’s attention to you? What did the prankster say? What was your response? Were any props displayed? Did you get a good look at him? Did he have any scars, tattoos, or otherwise appealing characteristics? Did he appear to be a boxer, martial artist, magician, or in any other way more dangerous than a normal prankster? Did the prank seem good-natured in nature? Could you see how it’d be funny had it happened to anybody else but you? Do you think the prankster knew the pig’s blood was pig’s blood? What’ve you been scheming up for the ultimate payback? Do you want to go shower off first or come visit the prank trunk now? I’ve got whoopee cushions, itching powder, diuretics, laxatives, Vagasil, fake knives, fake guns, paintguns, stink bombs. I’d offer you some pig’s blood but a kid nabbed up the last of it this afternoon. Take whatever you need, ma’am, and consider me a resource. This is what I do. My role is to make sure rivalries escalate responsibly. And god — seeing you like this, all nasty, coagulating before me — damned if it doesn’t feel like a vocation.

Close your eyes and imagine. You’re at school. Remember school? You’ve been struggling through Math class all semester and now it’s the midterm. You studied last night until you passed out from the whiskey. Friday night is the big party. Your mom wants you to go to Notre Dame like her friend did. Your locker is full of love letters from the assistant principal. You sit down with the test, get through the first two problems alright — then you hit a stumper. In front of you sits your best friend, Tina, who has an eating disorder so you can see over her bony shoulders just fine. Three of your Craigslist boyfriends are doing hard time and you haven’t brought yourself to write. Each time you try to focus on the stumper, you think of the pitiful cries of the man you drugged and locked in your bathroom. He’s losing weight and misses his family terribly. He tried to escape and you had to cut him. You used to be such a nice girl, and now here you are, knocked up, addicted to paint thinner, about to sell out your integrity to get a “B” on a math test. I know I’m supposed to come up with a question, but I am so angry with you, I could not possibly.