Camping
    James Kincaid

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“It’s a little coolish for camping, don’t you think, Ben?”

            “Coolish?”

            “Yeah.  Not ideal for enjoying the outdoors, which you never seem to do anyhow – even when they’re fit to be enjoyed.”

            “So?”

            “May a mere parent ask why you’re choosing such a personally ill-suited activity to pursue at such an extraordinarily ill-suited time?”

            “Why do you talk like such a pussy?  Ill-suited!”

            “So why, fuckface, are you doing such a dweeb thing in the middle of fucking winter?”

            “To perplex and exasperate you, Daddy, put some distance between what I’m doing and your range of expectation, to lay waste to your idea of what is predictable---for me or anyone else.  And nobody says ‘dweeb’ these days.”

            “OK.  That makes sense.  And I find ‘dweeb’ an apt term for my needs in this case.  If you say it makes sense within your range and that range is hidden from your father, I’ll be content with that, yes I will.  I’ll agree it makes sense.”

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            Only it made no sense at all.  It was February, in the midst of a really cold spell, he hated the outdoors generally and camping in particular, and he disliked the boys who had talked him into this.

            So?

            He honestly didn’t know.  Was he really doing all this to befuddle his parents?  Probably not.  To establish his manhood?  Probably a little.  To make a few friends, even among those he despised?  UGH—but maybe.  To journey into the unexpected, find ways to navigate in strange waters, with equipment never tested and perhaps not even in his possession?  That sounded most respectable, so he attached himself to it, knowing all along it was pure bullshit.

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            “Ben, hi!  This is Murray.  You need a ride?”

            “Hi, Murray.  Glad you called.  Nobody told me – I guess I neglected to ask – what time we were leaving, where we were going, what I needed to bring.”

            “Really?  Those assholes.  You should have asked me.”

            “I’m asking now.”

            “We’ll pick you up – my Dad will – in half hour.  So you don’t need to worry about a thing.”

            “Half hour!  Fuck, man, I’m not packed or anything.  I got a tent, but. . . .”

            “You’re our guest, Ben.  This is in your honor.  We supply food, games, everything.  Transportation, too.  I forgot to add that.”

            “So--------.”

            “Sorry, Ben.  I heard you mention a tent.  Good you got one, but you don’t need it.  Terry’s bringing one for you.  We each got private tents, you see, so you don’t need to worry about somebody going for your dick in the middle of the night, anything like that – just kidding.”

            “Damn.  I agreed to go on this outing just so I could put my dick at the disposal of any dick-seekers, which I figured you all were.”

            Silence.

            “Just kidding.”

            “Sure.  So, be ready in half an hour.  We even got blankets and stuff for you.  Just wear your long johns, you know.  It’s a little cold out there.”

            “Just a tad coolish, I’d say.”

            “Huh?”

            “No, Murray, I got you.”

            “OK, see you.  Wait.  You got asthma, right?”

            “No.  I got pulmonary. . . .  Never mind.”

            “OK.  I’ll call it asthma.”

            “You do that.”

            “Half an hour.  Remember.  Just bring your body.”

            Why was he Murray interested in his health?  Why were these guys doing all this for him?  Why in Jesus’ name was he doing it?

            Just bring his body?  What the hell?  He did find an old backpack (his Dad’s) and decided to load it with stuff he might find useful---and Murray would never think to bring---a good book, snacks (cashews), a strong flashlight with fresh batteries, a blow-up pillow, a spare inhaler (Murray had been right), something that looked like insect repellant (but turned out later to be suntan lotion), an outsized knife (useful for blazing trails), and jammies.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------                         Two hours later, he was no closer to solving any of the central mysteries.  Murray’s dad had indeed picked him up at 6:25, right on schedule, and entertained him, too, with a running account of Murray’s deficiencies, lasting all the way up the mountain, a good hour’s drive.  Almost enough to make him pity Murray.

            Almost.

            Once there, he had been ushered to a lawn chair, a ratty one but a chair, and told to rest and watch while the others, his good buddies, put up and arranged the tents, built the fire, scouted the area for dangerous wildlife, forked the hotdogs, and unbottled the illegal beer.

            “You see, Ben, we put your tent in the best spot, away from the woods, you see, Ben.”

            “I do see.”

            “That way, any bears will come to all of us first, eat us, be full and not interested in more food by the time they get to you.”

            “Thanks.  It’s also very picturesque, located right on the edge of the hill – the cliff.”

            “That’s why we put you there, knowing how you liked picturesque.  We can move your tent back some if you’re worried about the hill.  It’s not really a cliff, is it?”

            It was, in fact, a cliff:  high up and straight down.

            “OK, then, time for games.”

            And it was:  games fitting a Cub Scout outing, maybe, or ten-year-olds in somebody’s backyard, but hardly these teens, early but remarkably mature teens, one might say.  One might.

            Well, one would hardly say that, exactly, but they were teens, which made it seem odd (to Ben) that they’d be happy with unsophisticated variations on hide-and-seek.

This turned into the even-more-juvenile pastime of ghost-story-telling, which finally yielded to talk about which girls in the seventh grade (their common class of choice) had been plowed or were, almost certainly, plowable.

            Ben tried not to make himself conspicuous by his indifference or contempt, managed to mask those responses so well, in fact, that they disappeared and he found himself becoming easy.  Was this what it was to be happy?

            “I think Sarah.  You know, Sarah Jenkins?”

            “Really, Ben?  You done her?”

            “Not yet, but. . . .”

            “Wow, Ben.  You’re awesome!”

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            This all seemed too good to be true.

            Was.

            Along about 2 in the a.m., they all, without anyone announcing anything about bedtime, began to drift toward their separate tents.  It seemed so much like spontaneous agreement, like a perfectly-forged oneness that Ben didn’t question the move.

            He had been included in something strange and wondrous, something he didn’t want to question.  He wouldn’t have raised questions, even if an outsider, maybe his dad, had urged him to ask himself what really was going on.  That would have been sensible, maybe, but he didn’t want to know what really was going on. 

            Not at all, so he did what the group (his group) was doing:  went off to his tent, his cliff-top tent, trying hard to suspect nothing.

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            You’re way ahead of me, though I think there’s nothing so remarkable in your figuring out that Ben was being set up.  Hell, I’ve dropped 113 clues, big loud ones too, telling you as much.

            But let’s get to it, see how much you really do have figured out.

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            At 4:10 exactly – Ben looked at his watch, of course—he was awakened by scratching noises and grrrrring sounds, not right outside his tent but not far away either.

            He was instantly petrified.  No he wasn’t.  He was instantly enlightened.  The rotten scheme he had fallen for was at once clear, top to bottom:  the set-up, the let’s-fuck-up-Ben game he had mistaken for joy and friendship.  No longer.

            He knew they would lure him out of the tent and then ditch him in the dark---a version of the old snipe hunt trick his grandpa had told him about.  Of course his grandpa had never been the hunter, not in his recounting, only one of the clever tricksters.  Sure.

            Still, Ben knew the only ammunition his tormentors possessed would be drawn from his being stupid – knowing, guessing nothing.  Ha!

            He knew if he stayed put – and silent – they’d come drifting back.  So he did just that, staying put not exactly at the exact spot, not inside his tent, but slightly to the left, in the shelter of the trees.  There he established his own lair, and waited.

            His enemies were, and he knew this, stupid, so stupid they violated the first rule of successful tormenting – stick the fuck together. 

            It wasn’t Murray who first appeared, clearly visible through the branches, but a kid whose name was either Jason or Justin, not that it mattered a damn.  Ben watched as Jason (let’s call him that) looked all around the campsite before he approached Ben’s tent, tapped on it (why?), then  (why?) sank to his hands and knees outside the rear of the tent and carefully crawled to the front, delicately opening the flap and inserting himself inside the tent, all the way in.

            Ben could see nothing, but after twenty-one seconds (he timed), screaming shouts emerged:  “Holy Shit!”  Then, “Beeeeeeaaaaayyyyyuuuuunnnn!”

            Ben considered for only a few seconds.  After all, his plan had been clear all along.  An idiot could have figured it out, even you.

            When nobody responded to Jason’s howl, Ben moved stealthily through the trees over to the cliff edge and stage-whispered, “Over here.”

            “Ah shit, Ben.  I’m so glad. . . .  Over where?”

            Ben took out his flashlight to shine in Jason’s eyes when he drew within range, blinding him, only temporarily but long enough.  As Jason drew nearer, within range, Ben drew out the big knife, just in case.  Just in case.  I mean, why take any chances?  Games were games.  Take them seriously or don’t play at all.  Ben had learned a lot on this trip, was now glad he had come.  He might even tell his dad, who would be proud of his resourceful, two-fisted son.