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David E. Shaolian
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Category:
Literary Fiction
Publisher: Itoh Press
ISBN-10: 1939383528
Type: Fiction
Pages: 228
Copyright: 2013
ISBN-13: 9781939383525
Price: $2.84 (eBook)
Secluded at camp in the wilderness, surrounded by others solely concerned with satisfying hedonistic desires, at a locale where anything can happen at any moment, which will ultimately prevail: sanity and order, or chaos and disaster?
Imagine being secluded in the wilderness, in an unfamiliar environment, with individuals half your age, whose core values and lifestyle are diametrically opposed to your own. How is one to react if a deluge of inappropriate behaviour, creating a highly perilous environment, rages, uncontrolled, due to ineffective leadership? What if your concerns about said conduct go unheard? And what if some are outwardly antagonistic to anyone threatening the perpetuation of the hedonistic status quo?
These are the issues faced by Simon Green, a high school English teacher and photography enthusiast, who enters this environment as the new photographer for Camp Black Pines, an overnight camp attended by campers from mostly wealthy families in one of the most prestigious cottage areas in Canada. Following a thorny period in his life, Simon accepts the position, attempting to escape his woes by immersing himself in his passion for photography. However, the natural beauty of this locale masks weighty issues: a prevalence of an ‘anything goes’ attitude concerning widespread drinking, illicit drug consumption, and promiscuous sexual activity among staff, eclipsing concern for the safety and well-being of the children attending the camp. It's a volatile recipe for disaster, where anything can happen at any moment.
How long will this situation persist before everything boils over and disaster strikes? Will Simon, an innate procrastinator with a commitment phobia, act altruistically, or will his reluctant nature prove an impediment? And how would such a situation impact on him and others?
Excerpt
Chapter Eight
The pontoon gracefully glided across the shimmering lake to the other side in the late afternoon. A cabin of twelve and thirteen year old boys was embarking on an overnight, and I accompanied them to capture the fun.
After docking, everyone unloaded their gear into two large, green tents erected previously. A bonfire was ignited on the beach, and kids began running in the water and joyously splashing one another. Others roasted marshmallows and hot dogs in the fire. Everyone was enjoying himself immensely, and I was photographing the revelry.
While snapping shots of some kids around the bonfire, a counselor with cornbraids, sitting under a tree on a boulder a few yards away, called out, “Hey, Green, want a drag of this?” and held out a lit marijuana joint in my direction.
“No, I don’t do drugs, and you shouldn’t either, especially around kids!” I said, disgusted.
One boy standing next to me, shouted, “I’ll try it!” and ran over, grabbed the joint, and started inhaling deeply.
A second boy, observing the first, yelled out, “Me too!” and ran over and grabbed the joint from the first boy’s hand and began inhaling. The two boys passed the joint back and forth between themselves and the counselor. Both were giggling, and seemed to be enjoying themselves immensely.
I cut in, stating, “What do you think you’re doing, giving illegal drugs to children? Would you like Ms. Devine to learn about this?”
“Fuck you, old man!” he shouted contemptuously. “Nobody tells me what to do! Do you know who my old man is?”
I responded, “No, I don’t, but whoever he is, I’m sure he would not approve of this!”
“My father is Edward Savage III, one of the best trial lawyers in Canada,” he said boastfully. I suddenly noticed the striking resemblance. I remember seeing Edward Savage in the newspaper and on the news. He was an attorney who had successfully defended a former prime minister in a huge corruption case, and an NHL superstar who was blatantly guilty of murdering his mistress, among other high profile cases. He was one of the better-known lawyers in Canada. He continued, “If you so much as say a word about this, my old man will drag you to court and screw you over so bad your head will spin like that bitch in The Exorcist. Catch my drift, asshole?”
One of the counselors interjected, “Why don’t you back off, Ted? He’s just doing his job.”
“Go to hell, Dick!” he yelled with hostility.
“It’s Richard, Ted,” he stated, with agitation in his voice.
“Richard, Dick—same damned thing!” he responded
“No, it’s not, Ted the turd,” he replied.
He set his joint down on the rock and the children next to him followed close behind. Everyone was staring in anticipation. He approached Richard, and it became obvious an altercation was inevitable. Richard would not fare well either, due to his diminutive size and un-athletic-looking physique, and Ted appeared like an intimidating titan next to him. I blocked his path, attempting to prevent the unavoidable, saying, “Ted, don’t-”
However, he interjected, hollering, “Get the fuck outta my way!” and aggressively shoved me aside. He clenched his fist, and viciously punched Richard in the left eye. Richard collapsed to the ground with a grunt, and lay there in fetal position, his hand covering his wounded eye.
I asked him, “Are you okay?”
His voice trembling, he responded, “I’ll be fine.”
Ted indignantly barked at Richard, with aggression in his voice, “So I’m a turd, am I? You look like what comes out of my dog’s asshole when I take him on his daily walk!”
Before backing away, Ted vigorously kicked Richard, still lying on the sand in pain, in the stomach, to reinforce his message.
I said to him, “Ted was that really necessary? I think you overreacted, and owe him an apology, don’t you?”
He belligerently replied, “What are you doing here anyway? Why don’t you go home and eat Jell-o with your geezer friends in the old age home? And watch what you say about me, or I’ll ram that fancy camera down your goddamned throat, and the only pictures that will come from you will be of your worthless insides, you stupid bastard!”
With that, he snorted, spat on the sand, and stormed off, aggravated, violently kicking away a loose piece of driftwood in his path, before entering the tent on the left, to fall asleep.
“Don’t mind him,” Richard said to me as he rose, one hand covering his eye, and the other, on his abdomen. “Most people get real mellow when they smoke up. He becomes a real aggressive jerk.”
I responded sarcastically, “Yeah, he sure is delightful! But why did you antagonize him, if you knew about that?”
“I guess he just pissed me off! He knows he shouldn’t be smoking up, but giving kids drugs—it’s just not cool!”
I resumed snapping shots of campers frolicking on the beach and in the water, avoiding contact with a few dead fish, until dusk began setting in, and a speedboat arrived to return me to camp.
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