Letters From Summer Camp

The second worst thing about sports road trips is not having freedom to masturbate. Kevin pulled the room key out, and led the way into the hotel room. Tyler, Will, and I followed, each of us dropped our bags in different parts of the room. We put our helmets and sticks together in the closet. Maybe Will says something about never having enough space. I remind everyone we have to be in the film room, a repurposed conference room, at 5:00.

“5:00 we gotta be down in the film room, conference room C.”

“What time is it now?” Tyler asked.

“3:30,” Will said, “I’m finding Derek now. I’m getting this over with.”

My cheeks clenched, and worst of all, he was right. Will strolled into the hallway, the door closing softly behind him. Tyler, and Kevin plopped onto a bed each, and I sat in the burnt yellow leather chair, finishing my sour patch kids I picked up at the gas station somewhere near Cleveland. From our window you could see Lake Erie, from the Pennsylvania side, and Tyler turned on Comedy Central.

“Winters, you ever snorted the leftover sugar from those things?” Tyler said, twirling the remote in his freckled fingers. I shake my head.

“You gotta try it once. Plus we can send it to the girls and make em think we actually have coke.” Kevin said, rising from the bed and pulling his phone out. Tyler shows me how to straighten the sugar into lines with a Wendy’s gift card, and gives me a dollar bill to roll up. I loosen my tie and untuck my shirt. Kevin starts filming.

Tyler snorts up some sugar and laughs, telling me it isn’t so bad, maybe he says it tickles, or maybe it was just a cough. I bend down and hold the bill to my nose. The door opens, and I exhale like a whale breaching, and jump up. Will is clutching his stomach but says he’s glad it’s over as he sits down on the bed letting the door close behind him.

“Doing a little sugar? Good energy boost boys.” Will said, his eyes closed with his tie now loose around his neck.

I look back at the table and its empty, sugar crystals line the red and green carpet that looked like the underside of the roadkill still stuck to a highway near Canton. Tyler knocks the last bit of fruit scented sugar onto the table and tells me not to breathe too close to it, gotta get the shot for the girls. Kevin’s filming away.

I lean down again, and Tyler stops me.

“Gotta put it in your left nostril, gets more torque.”

I switch nostrils and Kevin films me snorting the fake coke to impress the girls who didn’t even know my real name.

“Fuck. The video just uploaded to my family’s cloud.” Kevin said.

Incoming call: Egg Donor, Kevin’s phone reads.

“Mom…please stop yelling…it’s candy…you can’t call coach…it’s candy…I don’t care if you call his parents…it’s candy… you can’t tell Coach.” Kevin’s beginning to inhale on the verge of waterworks. We send pictures of the candy wrapper, and tell Kevin’s mom we don’t even know where to get real coke.

Finally she agrees to not tell Coach, or my parents, and says to delete the video, which we do, after sending it to the girls with the pushup bras who only talk to me for homework help.

Common sense is not a common virtue.

“Hey guys, I’m sorry, but you’ll thank me later.” I hear Will say just before opening the door. Tyler, Kevin and I freeze as Derek and the other seniors walk into the room.

“Typewriter time boys.” Derek said and they try to grab us. Tyler is on the ground trying to push two seniors off, and Kevin is tied up with another against the wall. Derek grabs my hair, tells me to just get it over with, and I’m grabbing his nearest knee trying to trip his back leg. Then someone else comes and grabs my legs, lifting me onto the bed near the window.

Two seniors hold down my arms, and Derek raises my shirt up. He asks me to choose A, B, or C.

B

“You win, Summer Camp Recipes for your letter Winters,” Derek said in a high pitched voice. “Dear Mom,” he smacks my stomach, “the food here is so great.”

Tap, Pat, Smack, Kcams, Phlpp

What happened next didn’t happen in only words, or only noise. I’m not really here, and neither are Tyler, or Kevin. I’m breathing, but I am not here.

The typewriter is the traditional choice of hazing for players on their first varsity road trip. For every word in your letter to dear ole mum is one open hand slap straight to the stomach. Derek describes the recipe for fried chicken:

Brine for 12 hours, plp hgl pft grp

2 cups flour, pgr tfp lgh

1 Tbsp salt, plp rtf ftr

2 tsp pepper, pbv gfy hur

The longer it goes the less you feel, about twenty smacks and your rib cage is numb.

1 tsp garlic powder, wdp ruh yfg vbp

1 tsp paprika, ohk jui klp

Roll it all together, plkiujkho, Derek rolls his hands continuously

Somehow you’re laughing through the pain. It tickles, and it kills. Kevin’s mom was scarier than this. Then Tyler screams, and his blubbering is real.

I am not here.

Fry until golden brown, poq fdr rdf qop

Enjoy, hgb

When something has to be deleted you receive a ball tap. Swdf.

Knuckle straight to my slightly smaller left teste.

Let cool, bgh fdg

Enjoy, gdf

A few more smacks and Kevin, Tyler and I are finished off at the same time, and my stomach looks redder than Kevin’s, but not as bad as Tyler’s. He had those little red dots that show up when you scratch an itch too long. Red not like a cherry, but red like a sunburn that makes showering impossible. Not glowing like a lightbulb, but glowing like a black eye in Christmas photos. I think about asking for that recipe later, written on paper this time.

“Whooooeeeeee. You boys did it, you’re in. Proud of you little fishies, now let’s go get Baxter.” Derek said, hugging each of us. Will, Kevin, Tyler, and I all laugh, relieved to survive. It didn’t matter though, not really. No one grew taller, or stronger, and the pain didn’t last longer than a few minutes. There was no salvation, no knowledge gained, but there was less fear. Was that all getting older was, losing fear?