Summer Camp, chapter four: Sights and Kachina Dolls
summer_camp_4_enhanced
summer-camp-4-enhanced
Summer Camp
chapter four: Sights and Kachina Dolls
Sonny is still raw from the shave yesterday so he skips it today.
When I meet with my mentor, Mister Caswell, he takes me to the office. I figure that my asinine behavior of the day before is the cause. One day in camp and I am already being thrown out. This is not high school where I keep my head down and stay out of trouble.
Fubar: (pointing to the pacifist) “He turned himself in. He says that he punched you in the stomach. So we have no choice but to drop him as an instructor and kick him out of camp.”
The pacifist was the only teen-aged instructor at Camp Shockenawe. The rest were adults. It is a point of honor. Us adolescents versus them evil adults.
“You fire him over my dead body.” I respond.
“Bantling, you’ll have to do better than that. Give me solid reasons why I shouldn’t drop him from the staff and throw him out of camp.”
The pacifist is suppressing a smile. He is well aware that I could ruin his life but he seems philosophical about the matter. I have never had Zen training but I figure that this is some sort of test and I won’t let these people get the better of me. If my overprotective sister learns of this, she will kill the guy. My mother might do something crazy or she might sue the boy’s parents or, worst of all, yank me out of summer camp and I will not have this experience taken away from me.
“Yes sir, Mister Fubar. You should be punishing me not him. I deliberately provoked him by calling him a coward in front of the whole class. If he was angry, then he had a right to be. If he was not angry, then he was trying to teach me a lesson which I learned. We are now friends. He offered to give me some pointers on martial arts. If I had been permanently injured or killed, I could understand these proceedings but no harm done. I would have reported him if I had thought it proper. Not only do I refuse to cooperate in his removal but I will sign any waiver or release to exculpate him. Please do not pursue this course of action or I will have to organize the kids in camp to protest–”
My mentor, Mister Caswell, touched my arm and whispered in my ear: “Don’t overplay your hand Phil.”
I was about to threaten legal action and raise money for a legal defense fund if a protest didn’t work before my mentor cautioned me.
“I retract the remark about demonstrations. I apologize to my friend for insulting him and I will gladly repeat that apology in front of the whole class if he asks. My statement ends with my offer to sign any forms you need signed. Since I am a minor, my uncle, who is my legal guardian, can back me up.” I hook my thumb over my shoulder to indicate my uncle. I could smell his aftershave so I knew he had quietly entered the room.
It was Derek’s turn to suppress a smile.
The adults dissected my speech in front of me. For a reason. Normally, the child is dismissed from the room while the adults talk about them.
“Fairly well-reasoned logic.”
“Good conflict resolution.”
“Exhibits an understanding of the legal issues.”
“Bad start with that over my dead body remark but good recovery with polite manners and courtesy.”
“I disagree. It shows backbone to start out ready to fight for another, even more so for someone he might not like.”
“He’s planning a military career. He might someday have to cross a minefield to save the life of someone he personally hates but is in his unit.”
They all turn and look at me.
“How do you grade yourself Bantling?”
I was right. This is some sort of Zen thing.
“F minus.” I instantly reply. I don’t need to think about that one.
“So modest.” says Mister Caswell.
“We really would have tossed him out on your say.” says Mister Fubar.
“I realize that sir. It would have been irresponsible of me to let that happen.” I reply.
My mentor releases me to go to my next activity which is conflict resolution. An activity that I am dreading.
I came within a hairsbreadth of saying that I would lie to protect the pacifist. That would have called into question my ethics and moral philosophy. Lie like a gentleman? What values or lack of values did I have? The adults were pushovers. If they only knew the truth. I deserved a grade lower than F minus.
Mr. Fubar pulled Mr. Caswell aside.
Fubar: “I’m told that his uncle and mother are preparing him for a military career. The kid has enough sense to know that it’s more than guns and high technology. So he got his schedule changed.”
Caswell: “He needs to understand organization. His one weakness is cross-cultural training.”
Fubar: “What is he? A racist or something?”
Caswell: “No. I can’t quite put my finger on it.”
Fubar: “Well figure it out. It could save his life someday.” He leaves.
Caswell to himself: “Might save all our lives.”
The aloof and brooding Dolly Wiener is in the First American Culture program for several two-day trips to reservations. Cameron gets a one-day opening when one camper cannot go one day. She takes some polished stones that a rock hound (amateur geologist) gave her.
She is initiated into the turtle clan for the women and gives them a present of the stones.
A sand painting is done for Cameron only. They don’t do it for anyone else. With me for a brother, she needs healing.
Dolly and Cameron witness a rain dance for the crops. The dancers wear elaborate masks. The Barbie doll-like Dolly meets her match: a kachina doll.
When they return, Cam gives her kachina to me since I didn’t get to go and tells me about everything except the turtle clan and the sand painting.
“The turtle clan is for women. I’ll only discuss it with mom. I won’t talk about the sand painting because it will hurt your feelings.”
“What did the shaman tell you? That I was a monster or an A-hole? The whole camp knows that already.”
“I can’t discuss it.”
She pats me on the hand and walks off. Obviously Indians are bad people. Either that or I am jealous that Cameron got to go and I didn’t. Lacking the ability to self-analyze, I decide that Indians are bad.
Missy Lamb is “my project” in Motivation. If she fails, then I fail. Since the office is near the infirmary, I stop and ask for advice since the public service announcements always talk about “before starting any exercise or weight loss program, consult a doctor.” They tell me to find out her doctor’s orders, if any, and make sure she takes her medication, if any.
On my way out, I hear a high pitched voice so I stick my nose where it doesn’t belong and stick my head through a curtain. It’s Bud on the rack. I walk in and sit down.
“Bud, I haven’t seen you around.”
“Growing pains Phil.”
The nurse returns, stabs Bud with a hypodermic, disposes of the needle, and then begins adjusting the medieval torture device.
“Can I help?” I plead. Other than Cameron, I have never tortured anyone else.
“Sure.” She points: “That one, half a turn clockwise.”
Bud: “You’re supposed to have a gleeful look on your face. A hunchback like Igor is also recommended. Don’t you know anything about torture?”
“I know that the US government subcontracts its torture out to Camp Shockenawe.” To the nurse: “How come he’s not screaming like a baby?”
The nurse rolls her eyes at my puerile humor and leaves. I sit back down.
“So why are you being tortured? And does the complete kit come with a cattle prod, blow torch, sulfuric acid, and rusty scalpel?”
“Traction and growth hormone.”
“Are you in here all day long?”
“Just half an hour session, once a day. I keep a full schedule in camp like everybody else. Next week I’ll be sleeping overnight in traction and won’t have to bother with this during the day.”
Bud is the shortest one in his family. The runt of the litter. His sister Babe looks way younger than the fifteen she is. As Babe’s underage younger brother, underdeveloped Bud is a year younger than the rest of us at fourteen (going on fifteen) though he looks even younger. Words like kindergarten, preschool and nursery come to mind.
Fortunately, Missy has no heart problems or diabetes (which is amazing) or kidney problems or other serious health issues but her doctor has ordered her to lose weight or risk all of that and more. She is not on any medication (which is also amazing) but if she ignores her doctor’s advice she’ll be on the needle and on dialysis and a drawer full of pills. I am no fool. I tell Missy to write down a list of things I must not say and things I should say. Again, it is amazing but words like fat don’t faze her. She warns me not to use euphemisms or risk punishment unknown. So I can’t say “weight-challenged” or some such politically correct verbiage.
In between my other activities, I observe her in gymnastics, aerobics, and yoga. She is embarrassing herself in gymnastics amongst all those skinny girls but she refuses to admit defeat. Courage comes in all forms I guess. In aerobics, there are girls more obese than her and she seems able to keep up with the instructor. In yoga, it is humiliating for me to watch but I guess that’s my problem not hers. She is far more flexible than I would have guessed. After a while, I figure that she is doing okay in yoga. Where I can make a difference is spotting her in gymnastics, provided that she does not fall on me and kill me.
I go back to my activities and on my next break between them, I find out who her bunkmates are: Cameron, May Green, Dolly Weiner, Babe Farrow, and another girl. A successful weight loss program, according to a book in the camp library, includes adequate sleep. She is already exercising and the other girls tell me that she is on a zero-carb diet. So I enlist them in the effort to make sure that she goes to sleep first in her bunkhouse and doesn’t sneak snacks.
May: “I’ll conk her over the head at taps.”
Me: “I don’t think brain damage is part of a smart weight loss program.”
May: “I was joking Phil.”
Me: “So was I.”
May always looks so fresh despite running and climbing all the time. She is in the less advanced mountaineering program. Maybe that’s why she never breaks a sweat. Her doe eyes look dewy like a young Jessica Alba or fashion model.
Me: “May, do me a favor and take Missy with you on your morning runs.”
May: “She’ll slow me down and get me off pace.”
Me: “If I get her conditioned and up to your speed, will you reconsider?”
May: “If you do me a favor.”
Me: “Sure. Anything.”
May: “Get your uncle off my back. He’s always asking me to spy on you. Asking what you’re doing. Like I’m supposed to know.”
Me: “I’ll talk to him. And you tell him that we’re friends and that he’s putting you in an awkward position. And if that doesn’t work just say no. But then he might find a spy I don’t know about. I’d be better off turning you into a double agent for me, feeding him misleading disinformation.”
I have made a muddle of this. May is tender and I am too rough. I just want an excuse to spend time with May. I’m in love with her. At some point this summer, I will have to tell her.
May: “What sort of disinformation?”
Me: “I don’t know. Telling him that I was planning on blowing up the camp wouldn’t work. He’d know that I had found him out and was jerking him around. It would have to be something believable. Something sneaky.”
May: “Devious is not my strong suit. Why don’t you ask your sister?”
Me: “Oh please. My uncle can make her jump just by looking at her. She knows devious but not the kind that could fool him. Let’s see. My uncle expects me to do something completely halfcocked. And I have established a reputation in the camp as an A-hole.”
May: “Well deserved I’m sure.”
That hurt. May laughed.
May: “Always so serious. Even about a practical joke.”
Me: “That’s why they call them practical.”
May: “As a trustee, I should warn you that starting a food fight will get you kicked out and you can’t talk your way out of it. We have people here from famine-stricken countries whose families are literally starving to death. It would be in bad taste. No pun intended. A food fight would cause an international incident.”
Me: “So you’re telling me to start a food fight?”
May: “I’m telling you not to.”
Me: “Then why did you bring it up and spend so much time talking about it?”
May was silent.
I think for a few seconds.
Me: “First of all, I’m not a jerk. Back at my high school, I blend in like wallpaper. I’m the quietest student there.”
May: “I know that. You’re like Babe. Using summer camp to breathe some air before going back to a stuffy routine. She’s really shy too.”
Me: “So I take advantage of my bad reputation at camp. The only person I confide in is my sister. I will tell her that something will happen at dinner in two days. I won’t tell her what it is. At the appointed time, she will look nervous because she will have figured out that a food fight is supposed to happen. My uncle will have a heart attack. And then I will cue the foreign exchange students to point at my uncle and laugh their heads off at the nonevent, when nothing happens. Because you told me not to start a food fight and I don’t start a food fight, Mister Fubar can’t kick me out for something that didn’t happen. And I’ll never tell on you because it’s teens versus adults, because I’m not a tattletale, because you’re a trustee, and because I love you May Green. Not a bad plan, eh?”
May: “I like it. Good plan. What did you say?”
Me: “I’m late. Gotta go.”
Did she hear me? I’ll find out soon enough.
I am with Missy. Her curly whitish yellow hair looks even whiter in the bright sun. There is a program at Camp Shockenawe for cheer leading and glee club. Cheerleaders are easy to identify even in regular clothes because they are buxom girls who are always blithe, sparkling, laughing, carefree, pert, chipper, sprightly, perky, and exuberant. You can even smell the Zest soap on them.
I goad Missy into standing behind the cheerleaders and mocking them. We skinny people laugh at the expense of fat people so why shouldn’t fat people have the opportunity to laugh at our expense? I sit on the hill and watch. As the cheerleaders go through their routines, Missy imitates them. She is good. Better than good. She can do splits they can’t do. She is a lot more flexible. Soon they invite her over. I realize what is happening and run down the hill. They want her to be their mascot.
“Heck no. You want to put her in some stupid costume and she might faint with heatstroke in this hot sun.”
“She doesn’t have to wear a costume. Not in summer camp anyway.”
“You want to make fun of her.”
“Why would we want to make fun of our mascot?”
“You okay with this Missy? It sounds pretty fishy to me.” Their team mascot was the fighting fish.
“It’s good exercise.
I grumble. Another one of my bright ideas gone bad.
Uncle Derek’s idea of an appropriate schedule for me is gun practice and learning about robots and artificial intelligence (AI). My mother taught me about guns. I can cut open my sister if I want to learn about robots. As for AI, my sister is always hinting that I could be more humane. To heck with that. I didn’t ask for my life to be hijacked. If I had any choice and if there was no Skynet or Judgment Day, then I would become a computer programmer, marry some nice girl, have kids, and lead a quiet life. Since that choice has been taken from me, the human race has no right to expect mercy or kindness from me. My job is to save human lives. Don’t expect me to care about people’s feelings or souls. Get a teddy bear or a priest if you want that.
Uncle Derek was obviously not much higher than a sergeant in Tech-Comm. If I am to be a world leader and command generals and admirals, then I need leadership skills and emotional skills that Mom is not teaching me. Uncle Derek might teach me if Mom didn’t bully him. He did not command thousands but he did command a squad. That’s five more people than I have ever commanded.
In the parcels of time left over from my schedule, I go over to robotics, grab a remote control and have two robots tear each other apart like gladiators in some bloody fight to the death. Almost as much sadistic fun as watching Cameron get ripped up by a terminator as she protects me. Cameron’s right: I really am a S.O. ., the son of a world-class one. I love mom but sometimes . . . .
I wonder if she set out to create the antichrist, the beast and the false prophet all rolled into one? Me. Do I watch as my mother lets the world burn or causes it to burn so that I rule in hell? She talks about stopping Judgment Day but I think that is pro forma, just something to say. She means it about as much as Christians mean it when they say that they are pro-life. My mom, the satanic atheist, wants mega-death as much as Christians want mega-death. Mom wants the world to burn to pay for what they did to her. Christians want the world to burn because it is full of Christians who want to go to heaven and full of wicked unbelievers who need to burn for their sin in this life and the next. Mom doesn’t really want to stop Skynet because he is my John the Baptist preparing the way. If none of this came to pass, then the son of Sarah Connor would end up flipping burgers in the same diner she works in because I am not college-bound and I have no marketable skills other than the ability to build terminators and artificial intelligence software like Skynet. Perhaps I can get a job at Cyberdyne. If you can’t beat’em, join’em.
Destruction. That’s where the money is. Or I could go into biotechnology and design a Cameron that doesn’t have a metal skeleton. Make her all human. Bad idea. She might like that.
I am an illegitimate misbegotten miscreated base-born out of wedlock bar sinister b without benefit of clergy. That’s what my cover name, Bantling, means. Typical Connor humor. However, my mom calling Cameron “Tin Miss” in reference to the Tin Man in The Wizard of Oz strikes even a heartless bantling like me as cruel.
Having caused enough damage in the robotics workshop, I offer my services as design consultant and beta tester. Before they can throw me out as the camp A-hole, I blurt out enough sensible advice that they stop shoving me toward the door and start listening. Most robot Demolition Derbies have robot designs that Skynet would laugh at. I tell them where to harden and where to focus on balance and even use bipedal tanks instead of tracked vehicles. I get the benefit of the robotics program without having to spend more than a few minutes a day there. Uncle Derek is happy.
I am inspired to go over to the AI workshop and let the participants model a Max Headroom-type program based on my personality (or lack thereof). Mom would be horrified. The AI could evolve into Skynet. Skynet could be me. This is better than getting drunk if the purpose of getting drunk is to give you an excuse for behavior you wouldn’t otherwise dare indulge.
Finally, I go over to the gun range, put on the earmuffs, put a bullet in the dead center of the bull’s-eye, and repeat the feat three times. Then I start doing Annie Oakley trick shots like throwing a dime into the air and putting a neat hole in it. Uncle Derek walks up, snatches the gun out of my hand, and whispers in my ear:
“Are you drinking? I don’t smell any alcohol on your breath.”
“No sir. I don’t drink.”
“Then go back to your leadership program and pay attention in Emotional Education.”
It is like having ice water thrown in my face. I finally understand why Cameron, a terminator, respects and loves Uncle Derek. I leave the gun range, go into the woods to be alone, and cry my eyes out. By showing off, I hurt my uncle.
It is not enough to pass tests. I can ace any test. It is what you learn. I go back to the AI workshop and ask them to erase my artificial intelligence. I laugh when they say it crashed but worry about the way they disposed of it:
“We sent it off to some company. Maybe they can do something with it.”
“What company?”
It’s not Cyberdyne. Just some toy and games maker for children. A subsidiary of Kaliba Group. What a relief!
I don’t worry too much about the robotics workshop. Nothing I suggest or design there will ever result in a horrible monster like Cameron.
Cameron gets to fill an opening in the biotechnology program. On an activity bus, the group visits a biotech company that does tissue engineering and growth of human organs and bones. Cameron tells me later about the tour but does not share her thoughts about biotechnology that is more than skin deep.
Junior comes into the gun range from wherever he has been, witnesses Phil’s skill with a gun and doesn’t understand what Phil was doing wrong since he doesn’t understand that Connors are supposed to live inconspicuous lives. Junior comes from a fairly rich family that lives inconspicuously also but for reasons of socioeconomic class, tradition, and practicality. Rich people get kidnapped for ransom. Gun manufacturers are seen as merchants of death in some circles and attract bad publicity and lawsuits from the families of the victims of shootings.
Despite things in common, or perhaps because of them, Junior is the only one in camp who doesn’t think Phil is an A-hole. Junior is a skinny weakling physically but he has forgotten more about guns than most experts will ever know. Those were some really cool shots. Especially splitting the playing card. Edge on.
Phil goes to his mentor and asks him how to rehabilitate his bad reputation in camp. Being John Connor is starting to look better and better by comparison.
