Fun Camp Read online

  PUBLISHING GENIUS PRESS

  Baltimore, Maryland

  www.publishinggenius.com

  Copyright © 2013 Gabe Durham

  All rights reserved. This book is made up of original content from the author and is not representational of any actual people or occurrences. I think we’re just stuck in this arrangement with the bees.

  ISBN 13: 978-0-9887503-5-7

  First printing: 2013

  Book design by Adam Robinson

  Forest collage by Stephanie Barber

  Editorial consideration by J.A. Tyler

  see also: www.gatherroundchildren.com

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Thank you to the editors of these fine journals for publishing parts of this book: The2ndHand, A cappella Zoo, American Short Fiction, Big Lucks, Corium, Dark Sky Magazine, decomP, Dogzplot, Everyday Genius, FriGG, Gargoyle, Heavy Feather Review, Hobart, The Lifted Brow, Monkeybicycle, Nano Fiction, NOÖ Journal, notnostrums, PANK, Pear Noir!, Puerto del Sol, Route 9, Saltgrass, Western Humanities Review, and Wigleaf.

  Many thanks to Chris Bachelder, Jensen Beach, Sarah Boyer, Jack Christian, Adam Cogbill, Christy Crutchfield, Todd Dills, Sasha Fletcher, Brian Foley, Peter Gizzi, Rachel B. Glaser, Lauren Foss Goodman, James Hoag, Noy Holland, Abigail Holstein, Ben Kopel, Jason Larson, Kelin Loe, Brent Lowry, Brian Mihok, Hilary Plum, Adam Robinson, Matt Suss, J.A. Tyler, Mike Young, and all who loom large in my memories of Teen Camp, King’s Kamp, and Camp Wamava.

  FOR ELIZABETH

  MONDAY

  NO MOMS FOR MILES

  Best to think of the “rules” as opportunities. No coffee. No energy drinks. No unprescribed speed. No sharing prescribed speed. No unprescribed cola. No bowls, bongs, spliffs, one-hitters, some-hitters, kooks, ludes, spanks, syringes, or nards. No paraphernalia except in skits. No peanut butter within thirty feet of the following campers: Piper, Caden, Braden, Persephone, Big John, Little Jack, Tall Eddie, and all three Britneys. No flasks. No flask pockets. No trench coats. No unregistered firearms. No colors that have been gang colors. No gangs. No unprovoked limping. No weakness. No allergies. No glasses. No thinking of pulling the Prank of the Century and then not doing it. No heat strokes during afternoon rec hour. No exemptions from afternoon rec hour. No boys in girls’ cabins. Leave room for the Spirit on the slow dance. Dance with everybody, especially the kitchen staff, especially poor, poor Puddy. In the event of confusing arousal, play some basketball. If that doesn’t help, Nurse Nadine’s muscle relaxants taste like Jolly Ranchers. If someone mocks you, laugh with them. During small groups, open up. During one-on-ones, be real. During quiet times, emote. No not singing. No unfun thoughts. No holding back. Half a forest got burned down for you to live it up.

  SUMMER AFTER SUMMER OF LOVE

  I’m even a little surprised at how good it is to see you. It’s silly how we didn’t keep in touch all year like we said we would. And a lot of the blame falls in my court, considering you sent me that sweet letter in August and then those less sweet letters September through November. Notes I deserved, sure, but the issue being that while I was still obsessing over my reply to that first letter, trying to put to words exactly what I wanted to say, I got that second letter, which really froze me up. I had to shred the obsolete one and start all over. It might’ve been wise to exchange phone numbers and emails, but we’d bonded so much over Luddite anti-tech stuff, it felt so romantic to just . . . And when your third note arrived right as I was finishing my second, which was getting really long and indulgent anyway, I had to just throw the whole thing out. After that, the school year got a hold of me, the upright bass, soccer season, and I looked up and it was June. But on the van ride over here, I started wondering if I’d see you, and I had all these positive thoughts about you and about the talks we had and about that last night of camp we shared and the rashes we were so sure we’d get since we couldn’t see a damn thing so deep in the woods, and about those sweet young promises we made to each other. Now here we are, smiling, all that stuff behind us, slates clean, fresh air, ready to laugh over new jokes. You’ve got to tell me what’s been going on with you, but hey, first, I want you to meet my girlfriend.

  THANK YOU BROTHER DAVE FOR THE KIND INTRODUCTION

  Now heed. There was once a young man whose convictions led him to vegetarianism. At every feast he attended, even in the presence of potent men, he eschewed meat. What I’m getting at is: Are you daring to boldly go? Are you being spoon-fed, physically, in the spiritual sense? If you don’t have anything you would die for, where then emotionally do you make your bed? Was it not the One Who Was who said, “You give them something to eat”? That abstinent young man’s name, by the way, was Hitler, but maybe we all could take a page—and hit the Devil with it. What’s your kampf? I mean that as a metaphor for struggle. You’re all at stake here, and I don’t mean Sizzler, Billy—I see Billy getting hungry over here; don’t worry Billy not much longer. If you taste the voice of the Lord on your heart in this day or could just use someone to smack your lips at, won’t you come forward as we stand. And as we sing.

  YOU GOT TO GIVE TO GET

  Across the deck outside the mess hall is a clothesline for pinning warm fuzzies, little notes to make co-campers’ chests flutter with camaraderie. For example, a camper might write to me, “Dear Dave, Fun Camp is so great. I’m having the best time. Thank you for putting in so much work to make this a rewarding experience.” To which I’d reply, “Dear Madeline, Quit sucking up to the staff and write a note to someone your own age. I don’t need your validation, and neither does Fun Camp. It was here before you were born and will remain long after we’re both dead.” And now, look, we know each other better! All necessary paper, markers, glitter, and the whole bit await your creative destruction in the craft hut. Don’t be that mopey kid going, “Still no warm fuzzies,” and then when I ask how many you’ve given, you say, “Well…” Likewise, standing by the clothesline shouting “refresh inbox!” wastes lungs and connotes desperation. Remember, you campers with less personality, it really is a numbers game—if you write enough notes, you’re gonna get a reply. Even telemarketers make a sale now and then.

  ICE-BREAKER

  You’re riding an elevator with a vacantly beautiful woman who pulls a wad of cash from her purse and says to you, “I’m going to use this to purchase a goat, which I will sacrifice to Satan.” Then she gets off the elevator and leaves the purse behind. Do you call out to her and return the purse? Do you remove the “goat money” and then return the purse? Do you keep the purse and the money, then run up her credit cards to be sure and disable her powers as a conduit of darkness? If so, would you only spend the money on donations to worthy charities or might you take a small portion of the money and buy a sandwich? And if that sandwich is a goat sandwich, are you really any better than the Satanist?

  THE UNFUN AMONG US

  I know you all like hanging with the cool kids, and why not? Cool is cool. But the cool are autonomous. All they need is a pat on the back and a “keep doing what you’re doing.” Make no mistake, counselors—the losers are our projects here, and we don’t have much time. What makes this mentorship such a good deed is that the losers aren’t going to like getting molded any more than you’re gonna like molding. Unfun campers will absent themselves from contact with the staff any way they can think to: daydreams, fantasies, self-seclusion, negativism, loner-loitering, convulsive seizures, chronic sleepiness, and non-participation in activities such as skits, archery, rec hour, and Pranks of the Century. In our experience, persistent avoidance sends the message, “By absenting myself from fun, I will provoke you to retaliate. Your stern retribution will prove that you counselors are not as fun as you profess to be. Hence, you cannot help me.” Bullhonkey. What the child really fears are his own boring impulses.
And they will be broken.

  *

  Dear Mom,

  I miss you. And Dad. And our house. And Johannes. Please show him pictures of me while feeding him treats. Please keep Deirdre out of my room and punish her if you catch her in there. I’m having some fun already but I don’t know how I’ll make it a whole week. A girl stole my hat but I got it back.

  Love,

  Billy

  LET’S HEAR IT FOR THE PERMA-STAFF

  These guys were here for the Jews the week before us, they’re here for Fun Camp, and they’ll be here next week, when we’ve all gone home to caption camp scrapbooks and the Junior Achievers show up to swap business cards, practice faking shame over international foibles, and generally treat this ranch like a convention center. So, briefly: Nurse Nadine here’ll fix you up like a pro while honoring her belief in the Healing Power of Improvisational Storytelling. No examples just now please, Nadine. Save it for the wounded with no place to go. Chefs Grogg, Puddy, and Marimba will be dishing up all your high-protein fun fuel this week. Be sure and thank them—food staff have powers you just hope to God you’re nice enough to keep them from using. That said, Grogg’s a talker, so engage at your own risk. Same goes for Ole Sammy here, on paper a groundskeeper but in practice a cool drink-sipper who perches in the shade dispensing salty wisdom. This guy’s sage as hell and has maybe even been in some wars? Sam? Sam’s shaking his head. But just know, the perma-staff’s got their own thing going. They won’t be on-message like myself, Dave, Bernadette, and your counselors, so when they speak, be respectful and polite but be prepared to dismiss whatever they advocate as apocryphal. Likewise, they’ve asked that we not try to convert them this year, even while smiling, even when they could sorely use our message. We’ll soon find out if they mean it.

  THERE ARE LIMITS

  Were you there when he got out of the lake, shimmering, holding a mackerel he caught by hand? Out of that dumpy muck somehow smelling better than ever, like melted butter with lemon? I am planning on waiting. He’s only looked at me four times in two years. I’m simply saying that if Tad Gunnick took me on a nature stroll and pointed out various floras and faunas and told me that, frankly, clothes have always been a pet peeve of his, I’d do what I could not to bother him. And if that felt as good as he promised, and he laid out a soft velvet blanket like a gentleman and served me up a wine cooler, we would take it from there. There are limits to what a deft urbanite woman can barricade in the name of godly repute, is my point. Boy here likes you, he throws you in a pool. Boy here really likes you, God hums your name in his ear just as his dreams start to boil, then he approaches you somber at Quiet Time with big news he implies you can’t decline. Back when I was in Girls Cabin 3, I got off on that just fine. But God must love a beauty in a spaghetti-string tank top cause my dream card filled up quick.

  FREE TIME

  You can get less than eight hours of sleep or more than eight hours of sleep or eight hours of sleep.

  You can die alone or die addicted or go out to the bar tonight.

  You can get diabetes or let fame make you boring or shoot hoops shirtless.

  You can smile more or smile less or appear to be self-monitoring enough already.

  You can tap on a wall or buy something that beeps or store your paintings on the hallway floor.

  You can look up words you don’t know or use context clues or you can read a book tonight.

  You can say a prayer or sing a prayer or eat while it’s hot.

  You can pay one dollar for one donut or four dollars for six donuts or you can approach the dinner table with a clean conscience.

  You can eat wax or be a hero or eat glue.

  You can use me or define me or ask for my place of origin.

  You can arrive early or arrive rested or you can think of yourself more as a searcher.

  You can’t or you won’t, or in a more formal setting, you cannot or will not.

  You can put down the dog or take her for a walk or finally name her.

  You can replace the light bulb or live rustic or you can move away forever.

  You can do a dance or wait to get thrown out or you can put your pants back on.

  You can shuck, husk, or befriend.

  You can shell, scale, or frown over.

  You can bore, marry, or kill.

  You can enjoy entertainments, enjoy a mercurial rise, or you can never stop putting bunny ears on loved ones in photos.

  You’re with us or you’re against us or you made other plans but wish us the best.

  Rap music is too something or not something enough, which is why some people feel a way about it.

  I laid out a tarp in the field behind Girls Cabin 2 and sat in the center, waiting for what.

  QUESTION

  What’s the rule on campers soliciting curly locks from loved counselors?

  SPEAK UP FOR A TREAT

  If you campers want fuss, I know a country where waiters will sing at you. If you come to this one place, it’s me and Dan and Danny and Pat and Dee and Allie who will sing. Then we applaud cause you made it, breathing and beating like you’re told to. Fitness helped, quenching helped, other deeds, and now you’re here. How good are you at happy? Or, I mean, how adaptable? Cause one year it’s all about graciousness—don’t fumble the bounty—and the next fourteen it’s about stride—don’t hold your hands out like that. We don’t card so you might be faking and we’re pretty sure you are and you’ll never know we know, us being professionals. Singing away while presenting a flickering sundae with long shallow spoons to diffuse the pleasure to all your little co-conspirators. How we can tell is: real birthdayers emit a certain glow you don’t have. It’s their day, annexed for them. We could use a day—and believe me—we’d know what to do with it, the way our cheeks ache, the support our backs require.

  THE LAST NIGHT OF CAMP

  is the Midnight Hike, which begins promptly at 8:30 on the mess hall steps and ends on a nearby mountaintop. We’ll corral our best songs, the stars and moon, and my most affected—public—speaking voice, all for the good of the Powerful Communal Experience. Some years ago, kids got it in their heads to make the evening a date night as well, just because of all the darkness and blankets and huddling together for warmth, and for how hard it is for the staff to round up campers who feel like sneaking off to do stuff in the mountain’s many cozy alcoves. You don’t need to get a date—the week isn’t about that—but I’d be remiss not to mention it, since, historically, all the kids who’ve got it going on tend to find dates. If you want to cut your losses early though and “just have fun with your friends this year,” that’s permissible, but don’t be surprised when your hot companion drops your understanding butt the minute some Tad Gunnick type likes her jeans.

  GROGG CORNERS A CAMPER

  If it was officious, I’d tell you how was what, but the spit of it is: You’re lathering up with the wrong Pam. The six-platter lunch about sputtery dudes like you is that the seams are sweet, so the populace turns its neck portside, takes aim at treefrog counts, buzz to bee ratios, and other nummy but ultimately poodling non-factuations. In this lawnscape, Budder, there are gnomes and there are flamingoes. And when something with a beak’s got a hat on, the Book of What-All is gonna have somesuch to speak around it. You samba down here in my bunker like your flesh ain’t bubble wrap and tell me where to braise my Schnauzer, you gray-ladeling son? I got half an eye to kick your arm.

  EVERYTHING I KNOW ABOUT MUSIC

  When you’re improvising and you hit a bad note, hit it again a few times. Own the note, shine your brights on it, let everyone know you are up to something. The Law of Facial Control holds that 90% of the audience is evaluating your performance with the wrong organs anyway. Dilute and mask, not for your comfort but for theirs. Everybody wants to be lied to sometimes, which is to say, cared for. Other times, well. My lover: If I smile naturally, suspect I’m up to something. My friends: If I ever kiss all of you, you’ll know I’ve just made a terrible mistake.
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br />   EVERY EVENING, SKITS

  Keep them clean, kids. Act well, using method techniques like drawing from memories of some of the more intense emotional experiences you had in the last hour. Try to be complex and cathartic and redemptive. Gross-outs welcome. Have a spiritual message, though don’t go out and say it. There’s a nest of baby birds out the window behind the stage. This arresting scene is your competition. Are your acts more entertaining than their chirps? Appraise, then sign up, or don’t. No dressing in drag because of what’s-this-I-hear calls from parents. Closed-toed shoes preclude splinters. Do that drinking the toothpaste skit. Better still, do that Japanese submarine skit with the dumb guy who, after every command, goes, “How you do that?” When they twice fire torpedoes and both times miss their target and feel shame for having dishonored their ancestors and the whole gang commits honorable hari-kari, the guy turns to the audience, bloody sword in hand, and delivers his signature line, “How you do that?” The crowd, invited to consider that the idiot’s suffocation is just as inescapable as his comrades’ suicides, just loses it. Your rivals will peep with shame.

  TUESDAY

  ULTERIOR ROUNDUP

  One camper’s here just to climb trees. One’s here to burn trees. One’s here to burn off some weight. One’s here to hone her stand-up routine. One’s an incognito child star researching for a role. One takes candid telephotos of the child star. One’s a little cop chasing a lead in a missing persons case. One’s a Russian spy boning up on vernacular. One’s an Iranian propagandist spreading misinformation about homosexuals. Two are promoters for a college downstate. One’s an angel-faced twenty-two-year-old writing up a Fast Times at Fun Camp expose. One beat him to it—thinks we don’t know about his tell-all scandal feed, @TheCandidCamper. One pot dealer. Four pot enthusiasts. Sixty are dying for someone to kiss this week. One’s two babies in a toddler trench coat. One’s a lonely dwarf. One’s at the wrong camp and thinks her peers are terminally ill like her. One’s a furtive little robot getting to the bottom of what love is. Me? I had my app for a weeklong can’t-talk meditation retreat three-quarters filled out before I saw you had to be eighteen to enroll, so I found a runner-up where at least the leaves still rustle. You? Judging by the wad of toilet paper that fell out of your bra in today’s sack race, I’d say you’re one of the sixty.