Camp Lore - 5. Chapter 5

Bill Linden came into our car shortly before noon. He quieted everyone and asked kids standing to find seats. Then he called the names of all the waiters and had us line up in the aisle. There were eight girls and seven guys.

“About lunch,” Linden began. His voice was deep but clear, and he sounded used to giving instructions. “Most of you know how this works, but for those who don’t, I’ll explain. And for those who’ve heard it all before – some many times, I know – it would be so nice if you’d be quiet. So I don’t have to keep repeating.”

He smiled and sounded like a well-liked teacher, and I remembered Dad saying that, while not at Seneca, Linden coached wrestling and taught as a small Pennsylvania college.

“The lunches are packed at the rear of each car,” Linden explained. “Make sure that everyone gets two sandwiches, two drinks – their choice – a couple of cookies, and some fruit if they want. Don’t force that on them – it’ll just end up on the floor. And a couple of napkins. There’re plenty of options, so don’t let kids tell you there aren’t. And don’t argue with them or try to convince them if they want something you don’t have – they’ll never believe you. Just give them the best you’ve got, as quickly as you can, then get back here and eat your own lunches.”

He seemed to be finished then suddenly went on.

“Oh – and if we run out of anything – and we shouldn’t because we ordered lots of extras. But just in case that somehow happens, short yourself – I’ll make it up to you. Don’t short the kids – they and their parents don’t expect that kind of treatment. And don’t short the counselors – they’ll need all their strength.”

Everyone laughed at that, as Linden seemed to expect. He again waited till we were quiet.

“Any questions?’ he asked, looking around. “Good. Now go.”

He blew the whistle that had been hanging around his neck, once, briefly and not too loud. It had a pleasant bosun’s sound – I’d heard it in a movie. Then he left.

“I hate that whistle,” a girl in front of me said.

“‘Short yourself,’” the guy named Nate repeated, in fair imitation. “‘I’ll make it up to you.’ Sure you will, Uncle Bill.”

People around him laughed, then we all went to work.

Giving out lunches wasn’t that hard, and if it was any indication of how easy the work was going to be this summer, that was great. The kids were nice. A couple of them said things like, “I don’t eat meat,” or “Do you have anything other than cow’s milk?” But they didn’t complain when I asked what they wanted instead and came right back with it. Linden was right – we were well supplied.

While we were handing out food, I also got to watch Nate flirt, close up.

“I’d forgotten how funny you can be,” one of the girls was telling him. Though it didn’t seem like a compliment.

She wasn’t a waiter and was too old to go to camp, so I figured she must be a counselor.

Nate just smiled and said, “I’m almost not underage anymore. Does that make a difference?”

The girl considered, squinting at him a little as if appraising. Then she shook her head. “Nah. You probably still don’t know what you’re doing.”

“Then I guess you gained a lot of experience at college,” Nate said simply. And he grinned

The girl knew she couldn’t possibly answer that, so smiled again and moved away.

Nate turned to his friends, and they all broke up. “Maybe – possibly – finally – this summer.”

“I wouldn’t bet on it, Nate. Not even a little.”

“Aw, you wouldn’t bet on a sure thing.”

We were out of that car and into the next, when he suddenly turned to me. “Who are you, anyway?” he asked.

I told him my name, and – though I already knew it – he told me his. He didn’t seem to make any connection between Andy and me – which was fine, because I didn’t feel like explaining Andy’s comment. There was also a chance it would never come up, since my head had possibly been turned to the window while I slept. Maybe Nate had never seen my face.

When I got back to my car, Andy was mostly finished eating.

“Trade you two cookies for your apple,” he offered. “Well, most of two cookies. I broke off a piece.”

“And didn’t like it?”

“A bit too sweet. But you might not mind.”

“Sure – I don’t like apples anyway. The peel gets stuck in my teeth.”

He laughed, and we swapped. But even before I started my sandwiches, I tasted a cookie.

“You’re right. It’s great.”

And he laughed again.

The sandwiches were good, too, and I was surprised. I’d expected the kind of food you get wrapped in plastic from a glass case in a gas station. But this was good airport quality. I was sure it came from a chain, but it wasn’t a cheap one, and if the food was as good all summer, there shouldn’t be a lot of complaints.

Then again, this wasn’t a cheap camp – and I’m not sure any of those ever existed. Even when my parents went away summers, their camps looked like good motels – I’d seen pictures. Though my grandparents used to joke about how easy my folks had it.

“My camp didn’t even have fans,” Grandpa said. “And the bunks were something out of the old west – just bulging screens for windows and always a banging door.”

“And splintery floors, and no insulation or closets,” Grandma added. “Just cubby holes and a shared closet pole.”

“At least, you didn’t have an outhouse,” my mother joked.

“No. But two old toilets in an undivided room,” Grampa described. “Not even separated from the sinks.”

“We had stalls,” my grandmother admitted. “With curtains.”

“The girls were always pampered.”

When I finished eating – and for the rest of the train ride – Andy and I worked on the puzzle. He’d finished most of it, with no cross-outs or corrections, which was kind of amazing. To avoid making mistakes, he seemed to hold three or four overlapping words in his head, until he was sure of them, and then wrote them all down.

We were also fairly well paired. I could suggest words he hadn’t considered, and he could figure out puns I made no sense of. We finally filled in all but three spaces – which were alternatives like “dire” and “dine,” crossing with things like “refired” and “refined” – when we gave up.

“Maybe I’ll figure it out tonight,” he said. “Sometimes things seem clearer when I’m away.”

“Do you usually finish the puzzles?”

“Most of the time.” He smiled. “I’m trying not to lie.”

“Between my Dad, my sister, and me, we usually get all but a couple of words. But I don’t do the weekday puzzles ‘cause I don’t have time. Still, every once in a while, when I see one that my sister’s almost finished, I can fill in a word – except on Fridays and Saturdays.”

“Yeah – those are the worst. I’m always grateful for Monday. The puzzles make me feel bright.”

As I took one more look at our three empty spaces, kids around us were beginning to pack up. They obviously knew how long the train ride would be. So we quickly collected our things.