autobiography fragment #6

All the camp counselors asked us to call them “Mister” or “Miss” followed by their first names. We called the counselor who was in charge of our cabin of eight or so boys “Mr. John.”

It was night and I felt vaguely sick. “Mr. John,” I whispered, shaking him lightly at the shoulder. I could feel the warmth of his body through the single sheet. It was too dark to see anything save for the moonlight on the edges of the buildings and trees just outside the window. Mr. John had asked us to wake him up if we ever needed to go to the bathroom in the middle of the night.

He turned his head, mumbled something. The corner of one of his eyes caught the moon.

“I feel sick.”

“Ok. Do you need to go to the bathroom?”

“I think so.”

“Hold on.”

I stepped back as he stood and walked past me. I followed him into the hallway, feeling my way along the particleboard wall which ran like smooth gravel beneath my fingers. He flipped the light on. Four or five bare bulbs, painted a thick urine-yellow, extended in a line down the center of the unfinished, plywood ceiling. The eerie, unreal light they cast made the humid night air feel all the more thick, motionless, and difficult to breathe. I ran to the bathroom. Mr. John closed the door behind me. “I’ll wait out here.”

I knelt in front of the toilet, opened my mouth, and waited for something to come out. Nothing did. I sat back, wondering if I still felt nauseated. It was hard to tell. Maybe not. But I didn’t want to leave the bathroom only to have to wake Mr. John up again or, worse, throw up all over the cabin floor. I imagined Mr. John handing me some paper towels to clean it up while everyone watched or -- not so gross but just as embarrassing -- cleaning it up himself.

“Are you all right?”

“I think so.”

“Ok, come on out whenever you’re ready.”

Was I ready? I still wasn’t sure, but I didn’t want to go back to bed.

“I think I’m still feeling sick.”

“Okay.” Mr. John sounded sleepy.

I don’t remember how far into the week this occurred, but it was late enough that we’d already been preached to a couple of times. Ever since the preaching had started, I kept thinking of when my dad had brought home a helium balloon that looked like a giant, aluminum pillow. I must have four or five. For days on end it had hovered over the dining room table, never losing its buoyancy. I’d never seen a balloon stay aloft for so long.

At night I’d take the balloon outside and let go of the string just long enough for it to start to float upward toward the stars. I dared myself to let it go for longer and longer. When the inevitable happened -- when I finally wasn’t fast enough to catch the string – an iciness settled into me, as if I’d just been dropped into a cold bath. I watched the balloon disappear gradually, steadily, into the void overhead

“I want to go home,” I said, finally.

“Okay. I know it gets scary sometimes,” Mr. John said, his voice muffled by the bathroom door. “It’s hard being without your folks all this time. But we think it’s better for you if you stick it out.”

“I want to talk to my parents.”

“We can call them, but just between you and me, I think you’re just a little scared and that you’ll get over it and be glad you stayed. Part of this is about learning how to be on your own. You want to be brave, don’t you?”

“I guess so.”

“I think your folks will be real proud of you when they know that you stuck it out. And I think your friends will be proud of you too. You don’t want to let them down, do you?”

“No.”

“Are you going to be brave?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay, good, I’m real proud of you. You’re going to be all right. I know it. I’ll just wait right here until you’re ready to come out.”