Canvas Hell - 2. Evaluation Day

I awoke the next morning in the following condition: Hot, sweaty, sticky (a brain cell named "!!!" awoke and checked: thank god, not *that* kind of sticky), confused (my room is not green canvas), hard as a rock and desperate for a piss. I peeled away the sopping sleeping bag (brain cell "?!?" awoke for that one; oh, lord, thank you! Not *that* kind of wet) and decided to sleep on top of it tomorrow. I started to stumble out of the cot when I realised I was not alone in the tent (return of "!!!" cell). Soft burbling noises were coming from my left. A few more neurons came online and the word Karl dropped into my head, along with Camp Sin, Hygiene Hut, Buggerfur and PISS NOW!

I tried to make as little noise as possible. Do you *know* how hard it is to extricate yourself from a sodden, cotton (it was the 70s) sleep-sack when your boner is sticking out of your equally-damp Y-fronts? If you're going for 'quiet', double that. Karl's breathing changed just as I tugged on my previous-day's jeans and (naturally) fell flat on my face after tripping on the tent brace. I jumped up, brushed off what I could and thought of a desperate dash to the Hygiene Hut. Since a lot more brain cells were now mobilised, the fact that I was a boy came to the fore, alongside the words bushes, zip-fly and tree-trunk.

I didn't know it at the time, but I have a rare gift. I have always been able to piss through a hard on. Admittedly, the piss emerged in a vertical stream, but the tree didn't seem to care and a deep and satisfied sigh escaped me. About two minutes in, I heard a similar sigh accompanied by a hefty splash on the other side of the tent and smiled.

The 6 o'clock clamour of triangle, birds and bellowing erupted below, announcing the day to a bunch of sleepy and recalcitrant boys. It seemed both Karl and I were early birds. We apparently both finished at the same time and rounded the tent-corner simultaneously. We both froze.

It was the I Love Lucy Groucho Marks mirror scene. We both gaped with fear/guilt/defiance/fear, mouths slightly open and each with a foot not-quite-touching the ground. The poses were identical. The differences were extreme -- physique, colouring, hairiness, etc. -- but the one that smacked me in the face was the slightly-gapped boxers. There appeared to be a LOT more to Karl than I had realised. BAD PATRICK! No cookie! I wrenched my eyes back up and coughed, breaking the tableau.

"I..."

"I'm..."

"You first..."

"You first..."

"I mean..."

"So I..."

"You first..."

"You first..."

"Shit!"

"Fuck!"

We both broke into giggles at that point. I recovered quickly enough to say, "I'm sorry we didn't click yesterday. Can we start over? I'm Patrick and I'd really like to spend the next four weeks with a friend in my tent." I know that I was blushing into the vermillion range and didn't care. I also pretended that I didn't see the flinch of pain flash across Karl's face.

"I'd like that. If you agree not to hate me, I'll agree not to be a jerk. Fair?"

I laughed and reached out to shake his hand. He responded. We were both understandably wary; we'd both hurt the other the day before. I was a bit self-righteous in that I'd never intended to hurt him and he had clearly wanted to wound me with the McJackOff quip, but I did my best to strangle that ugly thought. "It sounds like we both watered the trees. Want to start at the mess hall or the Hygiene Hut?"

He said, "Food!" at precisely the moment that my stomach roared its vote. Karl snagged his grubby painter's pants and shirt while I dragged on the sweat-free over-shirt from yesterday (it had become a reverse-apron about ten minutes into my hike, so it could take another day's wear under the not-very-strenuous standards of teen males). We got to the mess hall significantly ahead of the crush. All the adults and those leaders not engaged in malicious awakening were finishing a meeting and sipping coffee. Karl and I grabbed trays. I was shocked and offended to find that both coffee and tea were adults-only options. They wanted me to start a day without caffeine?!? What kind of monsters ran this hell hole?

The master chef in residence had produced a truly-impressive spread. Scrambled "eggs" from a dubious powder, runny oatmeal, biscuits that could only be the Tolkien 'cram' ("more of a chewing exercise than a foodstuff") alongside a grey, lumpy gravy with undefined gristly chunks that might, MIGHT have been related to sausage. We would come to call the latter "grey-vee". The only really edible things were those the cook could not ruin: bananas, apples, oranges, corn-flake cereal and milk. Even the libellously-named "orange" juice was vile. It had a duck on the front and we decided that the undeniable orange *colour* allowed the manufacturer to evade false advertising suits.

We finished our grand repast before most of the tousle-headed boys even stumbled in. Karl and I cleared our mess and made for Tent Canvas Hell. We gathered supplies for the morning ablutions. There wasn't much. The preparatory materials had been very clear that soap, shampoo, towels, toothpaste and such were provided. All we really needed were clean clothes and toothbrushes. Have you ever noticed that "preparatory materials" is simply a synonym for "bald-faced lies"?

We arrived at the Hygiene Hut to find that there were two dispensers next to each sink. One had a picture of a hand, the other of a tooth. The pale goo that erupted from each was indistinguishable. It felt and tasted like school paste and took days to wash off. The showers (a euphemism for pipes with periodic leaky parts) were no better. Each boy found a spot that seemed to leak more hot than cold and pretended to forget anyone else was there. The dispensers for "body wash" and for "shampoo" were equally-interchangeable. Both smelled like a poorly-maintained emergency room and felt like the Grey Oozes of the Dungeons and Dragons franchise. You could easily imagine scalp and skin melting as the goop drained hit points and dissolved the unsuspecting Elvish Druid you'd just managed to get to level 6.

The bright spot was the linen situation. A bin just outside the shower room held a large quantity of hand-cloths. We found when we exited that, no, those postage-sized rags were the *towels*. It took an average boy about twelve of them to get dry enough to don clothing. We found later that those who arrived late would find none available. Your choice was to "reuse" the least-sopping ones from early birds or just sit and air-dry while everyone looked askance as if you were delaying solely to perv on the other boys.

The activities pavilion, though, was the antithesis of the Hygiene Hut. Both the adult supervisors and the late-teen leaders were helpful, enthusiastic and fun. The equipment was top-shelf and well-maintained. Day Two, that day, was devoted to two things: ability tests and activity sign-ups. The two adults (we nicknamed them Land and Sea; to this day I don't know if they had any other name than "sir" as in "SIR! Bobby's drowning again!") roved the crowd directing boys to tables that they would likely have ignored.

I had always been at home in the water, so I immediately signed up for swimming, canoeing and fishing. Mr. Land steered me to archery, which I had been dubious of but really kind of liked, and leatherworking which I never would have considered. I love detail and close-work, so it looked like something I might like, and I added woodworking as well. As chance would have it, Karl loved fishing but was not confident swimming. He signed up for canoeing, fishing, tracking, wilderness survival, archery and woodworking. We shared three subjects and chattered like magpies about the fact as lunch approached. Everyone had mandatory swimming and safety evaluations in the afternoon, so we went to lunch filled with energy and optimism.

A metaphoric bucket of ice water descended upon me when we entered the mess hall. Buggers 2, 3 and 4 were there to greet Karl (reverting to the Buggerfur persona) and started in on raucous and ribald comments about the adults, leaders, activities and camp. I was instantly relegated to background. I honestly didn't mind (much) as I really loathed those three boys. I headed to the chow line.

Lunch was a train wreck of salad (edible if you avoided the dressing), chili-mac (think bad sloppy Joes mixed with macaroni), hot dogs (stewed into submission but otherwise edible) and a variety of unidentifiable vegetables. The pale, washed-out, depressing palate matched my mood. I saw Karl make a half-hearted (could it be apologetic) move in my direction before the Bugger 3, the one composed of a single giant eyebrow and six-foot-long arms, dragged him off to where they'd set up their Lunch Command Centre.

I kept a surreptitious watch and was fascinated by the pattern I saw as I forced the abominable gruel down. The tables around the LCC remained empty. Boys in twos and threes would sit down, but you could see B2, B3 and B4 direct their fire at the newcomers who quickly moved to another part of the mess hall. Those three seemed to take great satisfaction that these triumphs, but I saw Karl acting more and more despondent as any hope of finding a friend outside the Buggers faded steadily.

Karl seemed uniquely depressed as lunch ended and we went to the mandatory safety training. As it happened, he and I were in the first swimming proficiency group and the other Buggers were off to either the General Fitness course or the Camp Skills test. Sea was putting us into sets; Karl and I were a couple of the first partnered in sets of four. To this day, I don't know where I got the courage, but I turned to him in a way that the other two could not hear.

Why do you let them do that to you, Karl?"

He flared and started to bluster then suddenly deflated and started breathing in short gasps. I looked round and saw that none were paying the least attention. I dragged Karl by his shoulder behind the tree nearest.

"STOP IT! I think you are really a great guy inside. Why let them alienate the entire camp? Don't you WANT better friends?"

Karl's head snapped up, then fell and I saw his shoulders shake.

"You can't understand. They are the only ones who'll put up with me. The only chance I have is to be tougher than everyone else. If I'm not, If, if, If I..." and he burbled off into incoherence. I knew we had scant moments.

"How many people have you killed so far, Karl?"

His head popped up in utter confusion. "How WHAT?"

"Did you use an axe or gut people with a fish knife?"

"Did I WHAT?"

"Can I expect you to kill me tonight in my sleep?"

"NO! What the hell?"

"Then I don't CARE who or what you are. If you aren't gonna kill me or beat me up... you aren't, are you?"

"NO!"

"Then we're good. Fuck them. You have a friend until you take that fish knife to me. I LIKE you, or at least I want to. Now let's go swim and to hell with the Buggers."

"Who are the buggers? I don't UNDERSTAND!" he near-wailed.

"The prick-pack you run with. Never mind. Just come with me." I used my shirt to wipe his face and Karl nearly decked me for the effort, but instead he leaned the tears and snot and we re-joined the group just as Mr Sea started sending groups into the water. We were fifth, which gave Karl time to calm down and begin glowering at me. 'Fuck,' I thought. 'Well, no good deed goes unpunished. I hope I swim faster than he can drown me.'

We were tasked with getting all four of our team to the buoy and back. Within a few seconds, it was clear that Karl could take care of himself, but the other two were hopeless. One could dog-paddle but the other was what I call a 'victim-in-waiting'; the character in a teen slasher film who would certainly be the first to "wander off" only to turn up later attached to the boat's anchor. I calmed the kid that I mentally dubbed Second Victim from the Left while Karl took Dag Paddle under his wing. I decided the easiest course of action was to lifeguard-tow Victim 12 to the buoy, and Karl copied me. We weren't the first to return by a long shot, but we were the only ones with two dead weights to make it back.

Mr Sea congratulated us both and scratched my swimming course, replacing it with life-saving. Over Karl's strident objections that he really wasn't a swimmer at all, Sea convinced Karl to drop tracking (he said it was pretty boring) and got Karl to agree to join me.

We ended up in the same groups for the General Fitness. I was agile and had great stamina; Karl was built for sudden bursts of strength so we balanced each other nicely. Next was Camp Skills. If it had been scorecarded, we would have been in the range between abysmal and laughable; I managed to trap my own foot and Karl's fire-starting skills include setting my pants alight.

We had about two hours of free time before the triangle's siren song would lure us with a false hope of an edible meal. We were laughing and poking each other over various foibles at the skills assessments as we returned to the tent to prep for a shower.

Before we got to Tent Canvas Hell, however, we were struck dumb. Buggers 2, 3 and 4 were waiting on the path. Bugger 3 was the spoken-asshole.

"So, Big Man, you found a little fuck-buddy? You told us he was a jack-off yesterday; is he jerking YOU now, Big Man?" The other two guffawed as Mr Wit (he actually only had half that) smirked.

"Actually, Winston," the use of a full name drained all colour from Bugger 3's face, "it turns out that Patrick here is twice as cool as all of you stitched together. Run off and terrorise a 9-year-old. That's more your speed. And as for Mikey (yes, I know your real name is Muriel) and Bobby, you can go fuck yourselves. I've found friends that don't hate and don't get hated in return. So, little bully-babies, BUGGER OFF!" The tableau called 'still life with social awkwardness' broke only when Karl twitched in a pretend rush. All three end up with asses in the dirt before scrambling off.

He turned to me. "You know they hate you now more even than they hate themselves?" I was standing in slack-jawed wonder.

"You were fucking AMAZING! Karl, you are a comic book hero! You are also a really special person. I am honoured to be hated by that lot if it means I'm liked by you."

We both blushed and went silent as we approached the tent.

We both froze at the tripping bar. I felt Karl's rush at offing the Buggers fade, leaving him shaken and unsure.

"Now what?" I honestly to this day don't know which one of us said it. Maybe both.

I do know I said, "Let's clean up and wash the stink of those three off us, Karl."

He looked seriously defeated as we gathered our bath kit and headed to the dreaded Hygiene Hut. Neither of us were garrulous as we washed and rinsed. We weren't alone in the showers; frankly, I think I may have been the last lone person in the Hygiene Hut when I was recovering from (and preparing for more) humiliation the day before.

Like every boy (I thought), I paid scrupulous attention to the wall and ceiling to avoid accidental visual contact with a cock, ball, ass or pubic patch of any other boy. Many years on, I kick myself for not feasting on the views of boyflesh on parade for me. I learned later that the vast majority of my peers were looking constantly, straight boys (sizing up the competition) and gay boys (building their stable of wanking fantasies); it was only the terminally-shy and those unwilling to face their sexuality (those like me, in other words) who abstained.

Karl and I dressed and returned to Tent Canvas Hell, having another hour to kill. I was really beginning to like Karl, and it hurt me to see him so downcast. I decided to make it either much better or much worse.

"I was awake, you know," I started weakly. Karl's head snapped up and I could see a rage building at this betrayal. "I was afraid you were going to be mean to me again and couldn't face it, and when you started talking it was too late not to listen." Just as quickly as his face flushed, it paled to a sickly white. I dropped my eyes to the tent floor, utterly ashamed but determined.

I continued, "I didn't, you know. Find you useless. I thought you looked like the person I wanted as a friend, but then you hurt me. No. Don't say anything. Let me finish. You looked at me like you hated me, then what you, what, what you said to those three hurt so bad. No. I said shut up! But what you said when you thought I couldn't hear you. It all made sense. You had to be hurting so bad, and sometimes you want, you know, others to hurt so you hurt less. I get it. But what you did today, that took real guts, Karl." I finally had the guts myself to look Karl in the eye. He was transfixed, mouth slightly open, clearly not breathing and no surer of himself than I was.

"What you did was right, Karl. You HAVE found friends, well at least one friend, who doesn't hate. I don't hate, well, maybe the Buggers but only a little. I don't think I realised I had ever hated before until you said that to them. But you're braver than me. Will you, you know, let me be your friend, too?" My voice was a small, timid little thing by the end. My lip quivered and I could feel tears building. I had admitted to doing something unforgivable, listening to him last night, and then left myself open for him to destroy me. What the BLOODY HELL was I playing at?

Karl remained, stunned immobile, just staring. I don't know what I saw, some shiver or tremor, but I had the presence of mind to snag the tent flaps closed just as Karl dissolved in tears. I sat next to him on his cot and he melted into me, apologising, agonising, begging me not to tell anyone, begging me not to hate him anymore, begging me to help him.

I was leaking tears too, but more out of relief. I shushed him and tucked his head on my chest and hugged him like a brother would (or should) and let him cry it out in silence for a few minutes. When the waterworks slowed, I nudged the top of his head with my chin.

"Let's help each other, Karl. I am just as messed up. To make sure you understand that I'll never tell anyone or do anything to hurt you, I, I'll tell, I mean..."

I took a long and shuddering breath. "I am terrified, Karl. Every day. All day. Every minute. I've been picked on all my life and I am terrified of people. Now, we've even. I know one of your secrets -- that you are a really good person pretending to be tough -- and you know one of mine. We're partners, now. Fair?"

Karl looked up at me with red-rimmed eyes. I knew nothing of sexuality in general and certainly nothing about my own, so I had no convenient label on which to hang the elated devastation those eyes wrought in my soul. All I knew was that I would die for Karl right then, just to have him look at me like that again. In that golden, priceless moment, that fucking triangle started clanging to draw us to dinner. I fucking hate that thing.