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Stories posted in this category are works of fiction. Names, places, characters, events, and incidents are created by the authors' imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual persons (living or dead), organizations, companies, events, or locales are entirely coincidental.
Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you. 

Camp Lore - 16. Chapter 16

About a week-and-a-half into camp, while watching Bill Linden zip towards the girls’s camp in his open Jeep, I realized I probably should have already introduced myself. My parents hadn’t mentioned it in their notes, which might have reminded me, and Linden didn’t say anything when we occasionally saw each other in the Mess Hall. We simply nodded. And he probably had six-hundred names to juggle in his head, so mine wouldn’t mean anything.

But the next time he was sitting quietly after a meal, which wasn’t often because somebody always seemed to be asking him something, I stopped by the head table and asked, “Do you have a minute?”

I was carrying a serving tray, so that instantly identified what I was, and he just smiled at me.

“I always have a minute.”

“But not much more.”

He laughed. “No. And it’s often a very short minute.”

I told him my name and followed with a quick introduction.

He laughed again. “I thought that’s who you were. I knew you were around here somewhere. But there are a lot of things I half-remember and then never get around to doing anything about.”

“You’re busy.”

“Oh, yeah.”

And at that point, a counselor interrupted us. Linden listened to him for a couple of seconds, then held up his finger, as if to say “Wait,” then turned back to me. “Look, stop by the office some time, and we can talk. Obviously, I can’t now.”

“Sure thing,” I said.

He looked into my eyes.

“I mean it. I’m not just being polite.”

“I promise.”

And he went back to the counselor.

That afternoon, I asked Nate, “Should I make an appointment? He’s a friend of my dad’s, and I introduced myself this morning. And he said to stop by the office.”

Nate cracked up. “So that’s why you’re here – I should’ve guessed. There were a couple of other guys who were supposed to be waiters, and we got the two of you.”

I was a little embarrassed. “I hope I didn’t take someone’s job. I mean, I did. But from one of your friends?”

“They’re only summer friends, so it’s no big thing. And sometimes, we don’t even like our summer friends – don’t have that much in common – though we hang out with them a lot. And, yeah, it would’ve been great to have those guys here. But it’s no loss.”

Talk about mixed messages. But since I couldn’t figure that one out, I let it go. Instead, I asked again, “Should I make an appointment?”

“With Linden? Nah. Just stop by the main office some morning – that’s when he’s usually there. The rest of the time he’s driving all over camp.”

So the next morning, I walked to the office after breakfast. Since I’d never been inside, I didn’t know what to expect. But it looked like any comfortable business office, built to impress. At the counter, I told the girl my name.

“He said to stop by. My dad’s a family friend.”

Since I was wearing a Seneca T-shirt, she must have figured I was part of the camp. And while she went to get Linden, I looked at pictures on the walls.

The ones in the Mess Hall started in black-and-white about a hundred years ago – okay, maybe fewer – and just looking at them told you all you needed. They were groups of guys, sitting on benches, or posed along the bunk rails, and you didn’t know their names, but you could tell almost everything about the camp. The pictures in the main office were different. All were in color and new. And all were action shots – the kind you’d see in commercials. Happy people having fun. Katie would have loved them for the yearbook.

I wondered who took them, because they looked professional, and thought maybe I should have pitched myself as a camp photographer instead of a waiter. But then I hadn’t interviewed for the job. It was a present.

“Rob,” Linden said behind me. “You came.”

I turned, smiling. “Who takes the pictures?”

“Everyone. I pay for the especially good ones – the ones that make the walls or online. So there’s a little competition.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“Probably ‘cause you didn’t come to the orientation meetings – didn’t have to. I trusted your dad. How is he, anyway?”

He said all that while indicating I should follow him past the counter, into his office and sit in a chair opposite his desk. By the time I was sitting, I’d explained that Dad, Mom, and Laurie were fine.

“I never could persuade your father to send the two you to camp – even at a discount. He asked, ‘Why would I have kids if I didn’t want them around?’ Fortunately, other parents don’t feel that way.”

“I’m sure they love their children.”

“Oh – no doubt about it. But not all the time. They’re busy with their lives – and their jobs – and they’re happy their kids go to school. And to camp.”

“I guess my family’s different.”

“Glad to hear that.”

“But not that different. The people we see in the summer are the same.”

“Where’ve you been going?”

I explained our cross-country trips, and our house in Vermont. I even worked in Katie’s trip to Europe with her parents. Linden listened as if it was important.

“I think I want your childhood,” he finally said. “I was always at camp.”

“But weren’t your...” And then I stopped, realizing I only had half information. Nate had said Linden’s dad worked at and then owned the camp. But he never mentioned Linden’s mother. I decided to risk it anyway.

“I thought your parents owned the camp. And they worked here before that.”

“More than that – they met here – when Dad was still teaching science. Eighth grade. What we used to call ‘junior high.’”

“I’ve heard of that. From my grandparents.”

“You’ve just made me feel very old.”

“Sorry.”

“It’s okay. I’m not that old yet.”

He grinned. “Anyway, yeah, my parents did own the camp – still do, kind of, along with my sister, brother, and me. They all turn up here occasionally but are happy I like to run the place. And the truth is I wouldn’t know what else to do in the summer. But what you did sounds like fun. So tell your dad he’s off the hook.”

“I’m sure he wasn’t worried.”

“Nah. Your dad was always as solid as you seem to be. You’re just what I would have expected.”

“Thanks.”

“And thanks for introducing yourself – and politely waiting till I had time to even think about you. I know why the rest of my family avoids this place when it’s busy. Though it’s really quiet here in the spring and fall.”

“You could ski in the winter.”

“Only cross-country – there’s plenty of snow. But we like downhill.”

“Me, too. The other’s too much work.”

“Are you good at it?”

“Like everything – good enough not to embarrass myself. But not enough to stand out.” I was about to tell him about my wrestling – something else we might share – when the girl from the front counter came in.

If it hadn’t been for her, we might have talked for another hour – if he’d really been interested. And before he excused himself, saying there was a landscaper he had to talk with, I quickly squeezed in something else I’d been thinking about and had been wondering how to ask. It was a risk, but he listened as I explained, and then said “Yeah. Sure. I’ll talk to Marie and let her know you have my permission.”

“Thanks. That’s really great.”

“And here’s where I’d usually warn, ‘Don’t mess up,’” he went on. “But you’re not your friend Nate, and he only messes up very carefully – sometimes just to get my attention. He’s kind of a hoot that way.”

“We know that.”

“It’s written across his face.”

And he walked me back to the front office, where a woman who looked like she could have been a landscaper was waiting. We solidly shook hands, then I left the office and tried not to jump in the air as I bounced off the front porch. Linden had just given me carte blanche. Now there was a phrase for a crossword puzzle.

Copyright © 2020 RichEisbrouch; All Rights Reserved.
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Stories posted in this category are works of fiction. Names, places, characters, events, and incidents are created by the authors' imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual persons (living or dead), organizations, companies, events, or locales are entirely coincidental.
Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you. 
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