Gabe Durham - Fun Camp

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.

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.”

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.

Some kind of gong to bang when a skit’s got to stop.

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.

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.

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.