The Castle in the Forest by Maxwell Blue
[The first sentence was written by Norman Mailer in a novel with a title by the same name.]
You may call me D.T. That was what I told them. They were a sorry excuse, the whole lot of them, but there was no going back now. I was here for the summer and this was no vacation. I was staying in bungalow number seven. It was an all boy’s cabin. Camp rules permitted girls to be in boy cabins during the day. Most campers made great fun of that rule. The girls from bungalow three started showing up at our cabin a week after the program started. That put my plans to teach Eric to read on hold permanently. He was going to be my little project. Give my bored ass something to do, like in those dramatic prison movies with the sympathetic lead. I was the most sympathetic guy I knew. I was just waiting for a callback from the casting agent, it was deliciously simple. While I taught Eric his ABCs the time was supposed to fly for me. Yet a teenage Hope had done me in. One look at Hope’s curves and Eric quickly lost interest in the subject of reading. I thought it was tragic. The guy could barely read and write his own name. Still I cannot blame Eric for picking Hope over me, maybe Eric thought he was the everyman that needed hope to be his side, for a man without hope is a very sad thing and a man with hope can do almost anything. But when I saw him walk off in Hope’s tow I knew it was nothing more than a summer fling.
I was known to all as D.T. or just T. as Eric loved to call me. T. you coming to class? T. are you coming to lunch? T. are you coming to a film in the main house? He always said it with such glee, with such distinction. I figured the D. was too much for him to deal with. As time would have it I went by many names. Some campers knew and called me Tom. I made that one up as a joke. My middle name is Terrance not Thomas. It didn’t manner to me. And no one knew of the deception or probably didn’t care if they did. Then there was my last name, Whittle. I was only able to get the staff to call me that. The whole charade was my one true pleasure.
I just did not want to be known as Donald. My Crazy Camp Chronicles were in no need of a revision. I walked into bungalow seven on the first day of camp and saw as luck would have it there was already someone named Donald in my cabin. And he was shorter than me, much younger than me and wore a back-brace. I did not want to be associated with him. I did not want to be miserable and be mistaken for somebody else all summer.
The bane of my existence during these long days wasn’t the mosquitoes, that left me with so many marks on my arms and legs that the nurse thought I had an acquired immune deficiency syndrome or the food that was always a hit or miss occurrence. Over time I could deal with these things. I could fight mosquitoes with long sleeve shirts and pants and I could miss every other meal. One obstacle a matter of taste and the other of disease, but it takes a mighty sledgehammer to tickle a walking brick wall known as Mike Mellon, but whatever I did, that blockhead wouldn’t go away. For some reason he really didn’t like me. Most of the campers thought I was hilarious. A laugh a minute type of guy, but Mellon didn’t check out my act. He was so imposing no one would dare challenge him, except me. I found it too delightful, just the chance to trip the giant. I kept chopping away at him, yet never without an audience. The dining hall was my stage; the largest building in the camp with large openings on all sides. That was my safety net. It was perfect if I needed to dash out. No matter how steamed Mike got I knew he would hold off making a move on me when dozens of witnesses were around, and I was sure Mike knew this as well.
On the lunch room floor I would dance about, poking him and twisting his words when he would use them, he was rather laconic, most likely use to people listening to him when he spoke. Mellon particularly didn’t like me using strawman arguments, which I excelled at and when that didn’t sink his dinghy I called him “Michael” or “Big Mike” and walked around like I was wasted on the dance floor. He looked like he had a fondness for hard narcotics, so I often would playact him ruthlessly.
One time I blew him so full of stinging holes that it looked like he was going to pop. I gave him a little push to make should he did. Mellon didn’t like to be mocked and it was certain that this bully had never been bullied. I was calling him a “Cry-Bully” when he came at me; only a mountain is not light on its feet. I ducked behind a heavy green table. The standing room crowd was getting the ride of their life. I might have imaged it. I was high on life. Mind racing like a roadster using nitro. I acted like we were best buds. “Michael.” His face overheated with hate. “You’ve changed, my friend” He circled around and tried to grab me. “Grab me and what are you going to do with me?” Not a word. “Is Mikey thinking” I knew I had him. Mellon would make me dance around, only I had him where it counts. He was as dangerous as a cloud of dust with the staff standing by like dopes. They might look like overpaid doofuses, but I was counting on them to stop Mike if he were to pound my face into the dirt.
On my way to class I caught up with Eric who was getting a little more familiar with Hope. She was a little young for him I thought, but what could I do about that? Then Ralph from my cabin caught my attention. Ralph Ferdinand. Ralph told me that his name was German and French. Who was that girl with him? I remembered she was one of the girls from bungalow three. What was so special about bungalow three? Ralph introduced me to her as Nikki Zizzo. She only stood about five feet tall and even Ralph towered over her. I found her very attractive and was feeling a little jealous. Then the moment passed. I wasn’t looking for a relationship here, though I was quite fond of petite girls with dark shoulder length hair.
There was a lot of excitement in the air. Eric informed me that every class was canceled and the entire camp was instructed to meet in the Main House. This was the first time they canceled their Mickey Mouse classes. I thought it must be really important. Did Mellon go off on a fit of rage and kill someone?
Mr. Dach, the director of the camp, got everyone’s attention. In front of him there were three members of the staff. I didn’t know their names, yet they probably knew me. Despite my usual affinity for names I wasn’t the best at recalling them. These staff members all looked like they had a good cry or got punched in the gut, maybe both. One by one they took center stage and came clean with what they were going to say. I thought this had to do with complaints with the laundry room always being in disarray or perhaps they were looking for the menace who kept forgetting to put the DVDs back in their cases. Imagine my shock when I learned that these three staff members before me had gone skinny dipping last night and now they were apologizing for it. Why did I think we should have traded places? The campers should be on stage because they had been doing some late night skinny dipping and these three staff member should be wondering which dork kept misplacing the DVDs. It was like I was vacationing in Camp Hell or maybe in a parallel universe. I always loved science fiction stories. This one was ripe for the pickings.
I ran to my cabin after hearing the staff confess their sins. I was looking forward to an engaging novel waiting for me there. At least someone was putting a few hours aside to do some light reading. This book wasn’t a masterpiece, nowhere as an enticing as Nikki Zizzo. I was aware enough to see that my demeanor was off-putting at times, and if I didn’t stop riding roughshod over people, I was destined to have lost dreams plague me, but I was too hardheaded to let these feelings subjugate me either and for now I must make do with what I have. Despite some stirring thoughts about Ms. Zizzo I was able to rediscover that my novel was a real page turner, with both intriguing characters and a dynamic plot that would twist about when you would least expect it, but I hadn’t gotten through one chapter when I felt a disturbance in the bungalow. It wasn’t the stampede of an entourage, but instead the patter of little feet. I put my book away in my suitcase, the one I was counting down the days to leave with. I was pleasantly surprised to see Nikki Zizzo’s small doll-like features, even if she looked troubled. I put away my fanciful idea of Godlike powers. I had been thinking about the girl and here she had appeared. What else could I do? Was it foolish if I think I should try?
Nikki was waiting for me to reply like she had some kind of hold over me. Perhaps she did. I just sat back on my bed. It wasn’t the most comfortable thing to be on, but I suppose it was better than sitting on metal springs. I wasn’t going to play games with her, no matter how pretty she was, if Ms. Zizzo had something to say I guessed that she would have to get the hint to come out and say it, eventually. She took a seat on the bed next to me. This made me somewhat uneasy. Was she trying to make some kind of move on me? This was unexpected. Then she asked me how well I knew Ralph. I thought she must be as dimwitted as Eric, there was no mistaking how gorgeous as she was, but now it appeared she had not a brain in her head. I told her how could I possible know Ralph? I met him last week. I told her that she knows him as well as I do; better if she accounts all the time they been fraternizing with each other. What she said next completely dumbfounded me.
Nikki didn’t accept it, but Ralph gave her a diamond ring and proposed his love. She described a modest sized rock, but we both thought it must be worth something. Ralph must have cleaned out his piggybank. The image of it erupted inside me. I laughed out loud and even tears welled up in my eyes and I thought I was going to bust my gut. Nikki pleaded with me that it was no joke and asked me what she should do. I asked her if she loved Ralph and she admitted no more than her other boyfriends back home. She was only having a good time here with Ralph while they were on the campgrounds. At least she was honest with me. I explained to her that she needed to be honest now with Ralph. She wanted me to talk to him. I guess I’m the wonderful D.T., I could do anything.
It was no laughing matter with Ralph. He looked suicidal when I found him. What was he going to do? Throw himself into the lake? Ralph wanted me to talk to Nikki. What was I, a string with two empty cans attached? The next thing he will want me to do is be his best man. These people can hardly read or write and they are talking about a marriage that they want me to negotiate? This wasn’t in the brochure; in fact the language of brochure was so rosy it might have even tried to convince me that a money pit is the best place to deposit a lifetime of investments. I gave Ralph the old line that there is someone for everyone and Nikki Zizzo is not your someone, but I can see how he thought she was the one.
Besides dicing Mellon into a flagitious fruit salad and playing mind-bending name games with the freewheeling campers and their slacker staff I did like to take my show on the road and see how much of a bother I could be to the outside sphere of the camp. I’d take the walk to town and mess with the shop owners and goose their world on things. There was a video store, a movie theater that only played one film, a diner, a general store and a very small hotel that always had a vacant sign in their office window. One night I didn’t feel like walking back to camp and I stayed in that dollhouse sized hotel with rooms just large enough to squeeze in a bed. The bathroom did have a tub. I was happy about that. I don’t believe there was a way to get washed like that unless you took a dunk in the lake. The movie theater was a lot of fun. I must have watched the same film four times before they changed the reel. Homeowners with the movie bug would have put this place to shame. As unforgiving as a rock, the chairs looked like they were from a long lost classroom and they weren’t seating on an incline but singularly flat on the floor. It wasn’t much, but it was the reprieve from camp. I don’t think the staff ever had a clue that I left, not even when I stayed in that always vacant hotel.
I have heard it said that everyone you meet knows something you don’t, but maybe that’s not true for the people who live in the middle of a wilderness, beyond the reach of any real civilization in upstate New York.
The walk to town was long. If I wanted to clear my head from talks of marriage and unrequited love and I didn’t want to walk into town I would go to the Red Dog Bar. It was a brilliant idea to put a bar in throwing distance of a summer camp, but the bartender knew what I liked. I handed her a crisp dollar bill and she set down four cold quarters for me. I was there for the machine. The machine’s very presence taunted me as I funneled money into it and after a new high score I entered my initials. It was such simplicity from another era.
When I played my last quarter I thought of getting back to camp before dinner, but something wasn’t quite right. Upon reaching my bungalow I heard a commotion like the whole world fell apart. Several members of the staff were running around asking campers questions and when they saw me it looked like they found Bigfoot, but at the same time they didn’t know who I was. I was the great D.T., everyone knew me. Yet for the first time in a long time the staff members started dissecting my name and took notice to how I concealed it. I admitted that my first name is Donald. Then I thought about the other Donald, the little guy with the back-brace. Did the staff think he was me? But it was far worse than that. That blockhead Mike did something criminally wrong. When I was about, watching movies, soaking in tubs, eating walnut ice cream sodas and playing arcade games my doppelganger was getting the living daylights beaten out of him.
When the squad car drove up to collect Mike Mellon I knew my days of running the Crazy Camp Chronicles was coming to an end. I felt so very far from home. My thoughts questioned how very far would I see this flyspeck camp in Upstate New York when I got home? Oftentimes things seem sour when you don’t get your way and think you have been wronged. That was my view from inside the camp from the start. I didn’t think I belonged here, but maybe I did. Maybe I fit in so well and it scared me. Perhaps I’m too guarded to take a wild spontaneous leap and ask someone to marry me when I’ve only known them a week. Perhaps doing time in craziness has its advantages. But being a big fish in a small pond can only take you so far. I would remember these people and misremember them. Their characters will live on in my imagination despite how vexing I found them pecking at my psyche. |