Camp Lore - 13. Chapter 13

The first Saturday night show was very funny – in an in-joke, Camp Seneca way I was still learning.

“You were very good,” I told Greg.

“Sounds like you didn’t expect it.”

“I didn’t know what to expect. As you said, you’re a high school actor.”

“And we’ve all seen plenty of them in bad plays.”

I nodded. “Enough.”

“I’ve even been in a few,” he admitted.

“Everyone’s not as good as you?” I joked.

“No – but what ya gonna do?”

And we both laughed. We were talking over breakfast Sunday morning, after the kids were gone and the tables were clean.

“Where do you get your material?” I went on.

“The jokes? We write ‘em.”

“I knew that. But they’ll obviously based on real stuff. Who gives you that?”

“Everyone. The counselors. Kids – if they don’t mind embarrassing themselves and their friends. And sometimes we let ‘em – if the joke’s funny enough. But we try not to be mean. And Linden steers things to us. He bribes people.”

“How?”

“Candy – for the little kids. Extended privileges for the older ones – like time after Rec in the Canteen. And bonuses for counselors and staff.”

“Where do we fit in?”

“Staff.”

I considered that while I chewed on a bagel.

“So, basically – at least for the little kids – you’re trading jokes for rotten teeth?”

Greg smiled. “I should write that down. But I’m sure we’ve used something like it before.”

“I’m not the funny one in my group.”

“But some of the kids are – that’s the way they end up in shows. They tell us things, and we realize they’re the best ones to put them over in a skit.”

“I wondered.”

“Now you know.”

“How long’ve they been doing this? You said you’ve only been acting for a couple of years.”

“In these. Before that, I did the plays.”

That’s what the drama counselors were for – they put on short plays one night each week. Nate told me that.

“And I really don’t know how long camps’ve been doing skits. Maybe always. Along with the all-camp musicals – boys and girls.”

“Do you sing?”

“Well enough for an actor. But not for musical leads – I’d need lessons. And I’d need to learn to read music. And to dance.”

“Not interested?”

“Acting’s tough enough.”

“It sounds complicated.”

“Yeah – it really is. And for a career that often pays zip. That’s why my parents don’t want me in it.”

“And you?”

He needed to think.

“I go both ways. I mean it’s fun – but I’m not supporting myself now. And I don’t wanna wait tables – not after this.”

“This isn’t rehearsal?”

“Let’s hope not.”

And we laughed again.

Other than waiting tables, we didn’t see a lot of Greg. He’d turn up in the bunk and at the Canteen, but he was mostly with his group of friends, and often with one particular girl.

“That’s the other thing I have going against me,” he told me at breakfast. “I’m straight – in a gay business.”

“I’ve heard that,” I said, carefully. “But figured it was exaggerated.”

“It is – some – when you consider all the actors and all the gossip about Hollywood divorces.”

“Is it worse than guys hitting on women?”

Greg again needed to think.

“I really don’t know enough. The dozen-or-so times my parents’ve let me go to auditions in the city – I think mainly to see how tough the life is – it’s always been there. Casting directors feel me out – and other actors – my age and older. Sometimes well older – it ought to embarrass the guys. And I’ve talked about it with friends – girls – and they say, “Well, now you know how we feel.” But they also admit it’s sometimes worse for a good-looking guy.”

Maybe like his singing, Greg’s looks were good enough. But probably so were every other kid’s at camp. We were all young, healthy, and reasonably athletic, so probably to the rest of the world, we looked fine. As guys got older, some got more interesting, but that might just have been to me. Though I felt the same way about the girls.

“And maybe I don’t know how to handle it yet,” Greg went on. “As I said, I don’t have a lot of experience. It’s turned up a little in high school – ‘cause our drama teacher lives with another guy, and he’s pretty open about that. But we have two drama teachers, and the other’s a woman, so half the time we work with her. And we just ignore the guy’s casting as his playing favorites – there are kids he likes to work with, and we can’t deny, they’re often the best. Still, there’s sometimes something else going on. But he’d get fired if he ever went near a student – or even seemed to. And he’d wreck his marriage to a really nice guy – a lot of us’ve met him.”

I didn’t have anything like that in high school and told Greg.

“You probably wouldn’t. Being a jock.”

I wanted to tell him I really wasn’t. But maybe that’s how most people saw me.

“You even run into it in camp?” I asked.

He grinned. “Yeah and no. I mean there are drama counselors and troupe directors who make cracks and tell us jokes we shouldn’t be hearing. And you know they’re just doing it to bait us.”

“Like?”

He thought for a second, then told me a really obscene joke. It was funny, but jeez – if my parents ever heard me repeat that, New York would seem like daycare.

“You hear a lot of those?” I asked.

He grinned again. “Enough so I could do an hour of stand-up. But they’re not my jokes, and you can’t go around stealing other people’s – even if you put them all together yourself. They’re still someone else’s.”

“But people tell jokes all the time.”

“Not for a living. Not when you’re trying to earn money.”

“I hadn’t thought about that.”

He laughed. “Yeah – ethics among actors. That goes way past not hitting on people.”

I laughed with him. “As I said – it sounds complicated.”

“Maybe. But I’d still rather be doing it than anything else.”