Deliriously Happy (3 page)

Hawks painted to look like friendly parrots.

Really big snakes.

Community Outreach to reduce the number of stray or annoying cats roaming the neighborhood (see above).

We are under the impression that C. views our ownership of the house as a deviation from the original purpose of our mission here. We'd like to assure you that we do remember what it is. From our perspective, purchase of the house was solely a natural progression of our prolonged stay here. It was a convenient way to solve the housing issue, plus to “do as the Romans do” in a society that values home ownership.

—Accused spies Richard and Cynthia Murphy to their Russian contact, from the federal criminal complaint

Jul 25

Drop-off went according to plan. I've secured a bed in élite Cabin Eight [$50, gratuity] to better observe alpha camper R., as instructed. I am at present in a lower bunk, and will need to gain an upper berth to have access to the high-level talks that occur up there after lights-out.

A tense moment at First Fire. During the recital of Greasy Grimy Gopher Guts, I sang “little dirty birdie feet” instead of the local perversion, “chopped up baby parakeet.” My error was pointed out by E., an overweight boy seeking to deflect negative attention from himself. My response, that E. had not heard me correctly due to the obstruction of his piglike ears with fatty fat, made E. cry, provoking hard laughter amongst the others. The head counselor gave me a demerit for poor sportsmanship, which is sure to put me in good stead with the most important campers.

To the greater glory of Sleeping Bear!

Jul 26

After only one day, I've isolated a crucial factor in Screaming Eagle's continued dominance at All-Lake: the breakfasts are amazing! The eggs are fresh, not powdered military surplus; the bacon crumbles warm and chewy, not chemical pellets. There's at least seven varieties of sweet roll—soft with no discernable insect parts—fresh fruit, and a nearly endless selection of brand-name cereals served with whole, reduced-fat, skim, and even soy milk upon request! If we were to institute such a hearty regimen, I believe our performance at All-Lake would dramatically improve, and there would be fewer swoonings.

After lunch (all-beef burgers with a choice of real cheese!), I was hog-tied on the orders of R. and stowed under my bunk, and thus am unable to report on the afternoon's activities. My fears for the mission were allayed by counselor K., who heard my strategic whimpering and freed me before afternoon snack (pineapple on the husk!). He explained that the bondage and humiliation of new mates is a tradition in Cabin Eight and signifies my initiation into the group. Objective achieved.

To solidify my newfound position, following dinner (chicken cutlets—all white meat!) I treated R. to his choice of ice creams at Canteen [$24, entertainment]. He sampled several, tossing them unfinished to the ground, before settling on a Choco-Taco similar to his first selection. The obese E. watched us with growing fury. He may have to be neutralized.

On a separate but related matter, I wonder whether we might devise a better mode of exchange. It's difficult to find fresh animal scat, especially after dark, and the monies I retrieved from your last drop raised questions at the Canteen. The designated old oak has several hollows and crannies that might equally suffice, I respectfully suggest.

Jul 27

I am under the impression that C. views my stay here as an indulgence, and that I'm being corrupted by bourgeois “treats.” I'd like to assure you that I remain committed to our goal of crushing Camp Screaming Eagle at the next All-Lake, and that I partake of their superior cuisine and comforts merely to not arouse suspicion. I would happily share a single desiccated carob biscuit with my Sleeping Bear brethren than partake in the whole of the Sundae Bar promised us this Thursday.

Now, if we've put that matter to rest, I am pleased to report a small but significant victory. Utilizing the warm-water torture technique from training, I induced L., my bunkmate, to micturate in his sleep. Having previously obtained an extra set of clean sheets [$20, laundry], I traded these and my silence for L.'s superior berth. I'm an Upper!

During archery today it became evident that Screaming Eagle would again take this event, and no wonder: their instructor is Park Sung-Hyun, the three-time Olympic gold medalist! I mean no disrespect to Captain F., our long-serving Survival Arts instructor, but it's surprising how much can be accomplished in an hour session uninterrupted by digressions about ATF agents and former wives who may or may not be ATF agents.

I purchased Northwoods Canvas Utility Pants, Merrell Chameleon Gore-Tex Ventilator Hikers, Barz Cross-Sport Goggles, and an L.L. Bean Neoprene Wet Suit, from the camp's pro shop, on the advice of R. [$289, equipment/camouflage]. These will allow me to move inconspicuously amongst the other campers, some of whom have made note of my attire. At morning roundup, fat E. commented cryptically that I “looked like something the
bear
dragged in.” I was forced to savagely pink-belly him as a diversion.

Jul 28

My infiltration of the upper sleeping echelon is paying dividends, well worth the additional outlay to Counselor K. to overlook bunk seniority regulations [$60, gratuities]. Last night R. regaled us for more than an hour after lights-out, artfully melding terrifying stories with ribald sounds, and then, as we were falling asleep, he quietly revealed the depressing familial circumstances that have resulted in his summer-long stays at Screaming Eagle, which he referred to as his “real home.” Then he farted to great effect.

Jul 29

I do remember why I am here.

Nevertheless, nothing of value was learned today.

In consideration of our previous communication, I only made two trips to the Sundae Bar this evening.

Jul 30

Despite strong reservations, I carried out the attack tonight precisely as directed. I am unable to report success.

While I did manage to replace the one hundred Hershey's bars with Ex-Lax [$500, explosives] before the Great Bonfire, the rigged s'mores were quickly detected by the lardy E., who knows his chocolate. He attempted to blame me, having amassed an impressive dossier, including a murky cell-phone video of me inadvertently singing “Hail, Screaming Bear” at Sundown. (It's the same melody, and I was loopy on tiramisu!) R. rose to my defense and, invoking the smelt-it/dealt-it rule, accused E. of the sabotage, and of being fat. The missing chocolate was found in E.'s footlocker, of course, and he took quite a beating.

Unfortunately, in the end, the Screaming Eagles, rather than being drained and debilitated on the eve of All-Lake, have emerged revitalized and determined to exact vengeance. And so it is with great regret that I must inform you that we're going to totally kick your butts tomorrow.

When I came down for breakfast that morning—Thursday morning—Dad was there in his chair in front of the TV room TV, asleep, or as it turned out, dead I guess. This wasn't what you would call out of the ordinary, I mean him sleeping, except for the fact that the TV was showing some California beach guys playing volleyball, which wasn't one of Dad's sports, though he had been getting a lot less picky these last few months. I remember once I got up to get some juice or Coke to drink—it was pretty late—and Dad was in there in his chair, half awake, watching a woman demonstrate how to turn your old dungarees into high-fashion designer jeans with something called a Gemm Gunn. And we have cable, so it wasn't like it was the only thing on or anything.

Anyway, I turned the TV off on my way out to school, and when I got home it was back on, so the fact that Dad was asleep again wasn't what you would call suspicious. But what was suspicious was that my sister Moll was in there, sitting on Dad's lap, watching
The Ping-Pong and Foamy Show
. That was weird because Dad hates puppets in the first place, and especially weird in the second place because Dad had been pretty much a total grump since his unemployment ran out, and didn't place a high priority on family togetherness like he once did.

—Hey, Roundbaby, you better hope he doesn't wake up, I said to Molly. She put her finger to her lips, like to say
shh
to me, but instead she had her finger turned the wrong way around, like to button her own lip. She grabbed a hold of Dad's old blue robe and cuddled up, pushing her head in close to his chest; then she turned to me and stuck out her tongue. Kind of sick, now that I think about it afterward.

I made Molly and me dinner, and then when Mom came home from work, I asked her if she wanted me to wake Dad up. (Mostly because my favorite show,
Operation: U.S.A
., was about to start and Dad refused to have it on if he was in the room.) But Mom just made that partway smile she sometimes makes.

—Leave your father alone, she said. He's had a hard day.

So I had to watch TV upstairs on the dinky TV, which sucked.

The next morning, which was Friday now, Dad was still asleep in his chair in the TV room, with the TV blasting
Sea Monkeys
cartoons, which even Moll doesn't watch. I was late for soccer practice, though, so I didn't think about it too much until I got back home and Dad was still asleep in the exact same position in the chair, watching
Chia Pet Adventures
, yet with Moll nowhere in sight. I knew then something was wrong. I turned off the TV, and that's when I noticed that Dad wasn't snoring like usual.

—Dad.
Dad
, I said. But Dad didn't say anything.

I went over and shook him. The remote fell out of his hand to the floor, but his fingers stayed in their remote-controller positions.

I told Molly to go to her room when she came in, and when she asked why, I screamed at her and she cried. Mom didn't come home for another two hours, and I spent the whole time standing in the TV room, staring at Dad, hoping he would move or do something.

—Mom, Dad isn't moving, I told Mom when she got home.

—Newsflash, Mom said.

—He hasn't moved since yesterday.

—Oh, for godsakes, my Mom said, stomping out of the kitchen to the TV room. Brian, this has got to, a, you're scaring the children now.

Mom shook Dad, a lot harder than I did, but it didn't change Dad at all. She yanked Dad by his arm, and then she froze.

—Great, great, she said, slapping the back of Dad's hand real hard. She grabbed Dad around the wrist, fumbling with it for a few seconds, before letting Dad fall back into the chair, into his usual position.

Mom stood there, looking at Dad, like I did, for the longest time, without saying anything. And then she started laughing; and then she started crying, still laughing; and then she told me to go get Moll and pack up to go to Grandmom's for the weekend.

When we came back on Sunday night, Dad was still in his chair, which gave me the creeps right off, big-time. Dad was sitting straight up, with his eyes closed and this super calm expression on his face, like back when he used to meditate. He was wearing the velvety red-and-black robe Mom had given him for Father's Day a couple of years ago, which he never wore because he said the one he had, the blue one, was all broken in. In his hand he had a remote control, but not the one from the TV room TV, but from our old TV broken down in the basement. Dad's thumb was hovering right over the channel-changer button. His hair was combed, and it looked like he had a tan.