Free Fun Camp by Gabe Durham Page A

saw fit: streakings, prankings, water balloon raids, bra-stealing bonanzas. And now, with Holly at my side, the revisions made to the handbook that reflect each promise I ever made to myself. I never loved playing Steal the Bacon with ten-pound sacks of flour. I never loved Greased Watermelon Relay. Oh Fun Camp, when did my brain invert my face? When I at last remember how to lower the edges of my mouth, it’s already bedtime.

THE CREATIVE USE OF MEAL TIME
    I read a gorgeous review in the Daily Camper of yesterday’s morning scramble. Not without complaints, but there’s a bit in there about consistency— poetry . These are savory times, Grogg! This summer is sure to go down in history as the one in which Grogg learned to differentiate between pepper and cumin. As you know, Dave and I don’t like to come down hard on the kids—it’s not Discipline Camp after all. We’re more into the punishment that works its way in through the skin and coats the heart anonymously. This here is a list of all campers, for you and Puddy and Marimba to share. Beside each camper’s name is a number. 100 is 100 percent, meaning they get a full portion at dinner. A few campers have earned 110’s or even 115’s, but more important are the dips: some 90’s—those who lost the tug-o-war—some 80’s—the Cabin 2 girls who’ve been whoring their lips out to lonely tots for Canteen Bucks—and even a few 75’s—the boring, the homesick. God, they irk. I’m like: It’s a week, kids. You didn’t sign a lease . Any lower than 75 and the campers would catch on. Our portion shifts are just dynamic enough that the punished will feel guilty without understanding why. We break them down only to rebuild them in our own image—hilarious, kooky, deferential.

GIRLS STAY HERE, BOYS FOLLOW ME
    For those who know what I’m about to be getting at, don’t say it and don’t do it. For those who don’t know, you will, and don’t do it when you do. You who are do’s, don’t tell the don’ts what it is, for knowledge increases temptation. Don’t tell tips or lend lotions. You don’ts, don’t ask. Don’t want to ask. Golly, this is dicey, trying to avoid inflaming the imagination. People didn’t have these problems pre-Gutenberg, but once printing got going, Olde Britain was overrun with pamphlet after pamphlet of suggestions to allegedly help a woman conceive: Don’t pull out early. Don’t move after. You might not get that holy blessing you so fervently desire if you were to stand, dress, and make your way expediently to the outhouse. Now look where we’re at: hell in a ham garden. But not you boys, right? Tidy the homes of your minds. Avoid complete dictionaries. Never agree you’re eighteen. If a do starts to tell you don’ts, leave the do. I’m a do who wants to be a don’t, but once the apple’s bit, as they say. The girls? Off with Bernadette talking menstruation. They bleed out themselves. Don’t dwell on it.

BASICS
    I thought up a game where the players all die but you did too so what’s the point. But then there’s this other game called The Game You Are Playing Whether You Say So or Not where we raise our arms and shout, “We win! We win! We win!” Everybody shouting wins, but the biggest winner is the one most convinced that we win. Easy to pick up, and yet each time the game is played there are over 7 billion losers, many of whom don’t even know to feel bad for it. Which if that doesn’t piss you off now, it will. After a real close game, we tailgate awhile and head into town in the truck bed, flashing honkers, then park in the street and play teeball with the neighborhood’s decorative mailboxes. It’s not a perfect system but it carries a message. Truthfully? We wouldn’t let the locals play even if they wanted to. Any of them tried to raise an arm—buddy, they’d lose it.

FUTURE ARM-CROSSER
    Question, Dave. At what age is it appropriate to stop dreaming of the year I sweep the Nobels, and really