Cockeyed (21 page)

“We're not done hosing yet,” he explained, and ran back into the woods, dragging a thick green garden hose after him. I could hear other boys, out of sight, too, cackling and hooting
with cracked, pubescent voices. The only other sound was water, lots of water spraying.

What needs hosing down in an obstacle course? Some of us speculated. Others kept a dignified silence and tried to keep nervous stomachs from barfing up handfuls of eggs and porridge. Myself, I imagined the older scouts rinsing all the blood off the obstacles, the blood from the previous week's campers. In my mind I saw carnage and twisted, painful faces, boys who'd impaled themselves on tree branches as they scrambled over logs, others grinding their knees to the bone as they crawled under a stretch of low brush tangled with razor wire. And then the free-for-all, like a war movie. I imagined dozens of cub scouts trampling to the finish line, the unfortunate and weak dropping to their knees or tripping on their poorly tied shoelaces, stomped by a herd of do-gooders who know ten practical uses for human hair. Blood. It was definitely blood they had hoses to deal with.

Mine was only an approximation of what we found. While it's true I did eventually see boys clambering over logs, dropping out of trees, breaking a leg or two, and I did see a violent stampede for the finish, the hoses weren't for the blood. They were for the mud. The entire obstacle course was set within an expansive muck that came up to our knees. We crawled in it, fell in it, swallowed it, flung it and, supposedly, enjoyed it. The name they'd given this inspiriting camp activity was “jungle fun.”

Our reward for crossing the finish line was a long, icy blast from Gary and Todd, the worst of the older scouts who assisted the phantom adult camp directors. The finish line
looked like a Vietnam demonstration, dozens of boys lined up, hands over their faces, hosed by our two budding riot police.

Cabin #4 was quiet that night. Even though we didn't understand anthropology or know how to say it, we knew in our hearts we were all to be sacrificed here. We wanted to go home early. We'd only experienced the first twenty-four hours of our summer. Lucas cried a lot.

I can't say my arrival at blind camp was nearly as dramatic or wet. Nevertheless, once again I wanted to go home before the fun started. Maybe even earlier. The thought had crossed my mind before I'd signed up, too.

In order to secure my place among the other blind campers, I'd had to register at the Vancouver office of the Canadian National Institute for the Blind. They'd long ago moved shop from the old, military-style barracks into a sterile, hospital-like building. I don't know what they do for blind folks all day long, and I've never mustered much enthusiasm for trekking down to find out. A lot of blind people are usually there, and that's enough to keep me away. I'm certain many of them are super folks, but I can still see just enough to make out some of the faces there, and the shuffling bodies, and the confusion in the hallways. I can't run, but if I could, I couldn't run from that fast enough. I hoped confinement to an island with my people might show me something about them and why I react this way.

Marla, the lodge's director, helped me register for camp once I'd found the courage to call and to make my way to the new CNIB digs. She was short and sighted, square and frazzled.
Her shoulder-length gray hair frayed in every direction. She also wore those white, clunky shoes, the ones only nurses know where to buy. We walked to her office and sat together at her desk long enough for me to piece together that much of her appearance.

What she saw, primarily, was a jittery blind man who sweated a great deal. That's what always happened to me at the CNIB. I could do nothing but sweat an anxious, clammy sweat. Good campfire retardant.

“The only thing we have to do,” she said, “is fill out this medical form. Then you can pay the fee, and you're set for camp. Good stuff?”

On her desk she dropped the weight of a thick application booklet.

“Tremendous,” I agreed.

“The medical form is a bit long. Should I read it to you and help you fill it out? Or, if you like, you can take it home and have someone help you, then bring it back tomorrow.”

I felt a fresh surge of sweat at the thought of a return trip to the CNIB. At this rate, I wouldn't make it to camp without dying of dehydration. “Let's do it now, “ I said.

Marla filled out my particulars, my name and address, then got to the meat of the book we called a form.

“Now,” she began, turning to page two, “there's a list of medical details we need to establish. They're just yes or no answers. Good stuff?”

“Terrific.”

“Okay, do you have some sight?”

“Yes.”

“Night vision?”

“No.”

“Tunnel vision?”

“Barely. In one eye. About one percent works.”

“Do you use a cane, a dog?”

“Yes and no.”

“Do you need a personal guide?”

“No. But I like them. Especially when driving.”

“I think,” Marla paused, “I can check a bunch of these off quickly. Let's see, you aren't in a wheelchair, you are not deaf, you don't have behavioural problems. Right?”

Problems? I wasn't sure if sweating or a paralysing fear of blind people would count, so I let the question pass. “No, don't think so.”

“You don't need twenty-four-hour care, no night attendant, no assistance with personal hygiene, bathroom equipment, no wheelchair . . .”

Her list continued, as did my concern. I knew I would be partnered with somebody in a room at the lodge. Unfortunately, I began to wonder what that person would be like. The picture Marla suggested wasn't comforting. According to her list, I could be sleeping next to a shell of a body with no arms or legs, strapped inside an oxygen tent, with an on-call surgical team hanging out in the corner of our room, just in case. They would accompany us on our canoe trips, too, administering shots and applying ointments when necessary.

“Do you have asthma?” Marla asked.

“Nope.”

“Any STD's, insomnia, food allergies, or heart trouble?”

The portrait of my bunkmate refined itself. Not only would he complain about the noise made by his private surgical team, he'd complain about the clap, arrhythmia, and lactose intolerance keeping him up at night.

“No to them all.”

“Nightmares?” she added.

“Plenty.”

“Have you ever been hospitalized for depression, violence, suicide, or psychotic episodes?”

I shook my head no, hoping sweat wouldn't fly from my face.

“What about medications? Do you take any medications?”

“Can I bring a stash?”

“Good stuff,” she giggled, and then leaned across her desk, as if about to confide in me something about her own pharmaceutical preferences.

“Sorry,” she whispered, “I have to ask this, but do you, I mean, are you a bed wetter?”

I was seven years old again. Lucas Ballard would be my blind camp bunkmate, the poor guy. What the hell could have happened to leave him in such a maimed state? Maybe the obstacle course really did him in.

“No,” I admitted, “not in a while.”

Marla finished the form with me, and a half an hour later I signed myself up for camp.

“One other thing, “ she added. “Do you wish to make this information available to other campers?”

“Huh?”

“In the past, some have asked if they can find out more
information about their roommates before choosing them. If people agree to make the information available, we see no problem with that.”

I remembered from my high school sports experiences how captains picked their teammates one at a time, a system that left a few poor kids last to be chosen, and thereby consolidated public opinion that, yes, indeed, Derek, Sandy, and Eugene were exceedingly lame. Would that happen here too, on an island retreat for the disabled? We'd be down to the final three and some über-jock blind man would be picking his bunkmate.

“I read Ryan's just sweaty, so I think he's okay. Bill and Mindy are both asthmatics. That's not so bad, I guess. Marla, could you read Bill's record again? I think he checked off bed wetter, but I can't remember.”

Darwinism even applies within a group of blind people. But I let it go. I didn't want to cause trouble so soon.

“Sure,” I agreed, “why not let it all hang out?”

“Good stuff.”

Tracy took me out for breakfast the day I left for camp. She would drop me off at the CNIB afterward, where I would catch the bus Marla had arranged to transport a number of campers to the island. At the restaurant I poked at my eggs and sausage with the solemnity of a man about to begin his prison sentence. What would I have in common with anybody other than an inability to see well? The deaf, unlike the blind, have their own culture. They have a shared language. Culture and identity begin there. But what do the blind share
other than an indifference towards sunsets? Anything? Worse, would the camp force us to make arts and crafts? Would there be jungle fun? Tracy, always thoughtful, had tucked a fresh bottle of Irish whiskey into my suitcase.

“If you have to sing around the campfire,” she reasoned, “you'd best be lubricated.”

When she dropped me off at the CNIB, Jason, one of the four camp counselors, met me at the door. Normally, he said, there would be at least eight counselors, but funding cuts were such that the lodge could only afford four counselors for all thirty-one campers. This should be fun, I thought, perking up a little. Low supervision for the low of vision.

Jason, like the other employees, was in his early twenties, friendly, helpful, and, unlike the others, Green Giant-large. His hand swallowed mine when we shook them. When he said it was nice to meet me, his voice came from a mouth somewhere above my eyebrows.

He guided me to a chair in a lounge area where two other campers waited. He left us and resumed his post at the door. Jason hadn't said a word, and my nod of thanks for the guidance maintained the silence. Either both campers had agreed through ESP to pretend I wasn't there, or neither had any idea I was waiting with them. Great, I thought. Maybe I could pull this off all week. Don't make a sound, and nobody will know I'm here.

Later I would learn that the two people sitting across from me were Eddie and Cheryl. Eddie was in his mid-twenties. His only distinguishing feature, from what I could tell, was a
large pair of 1970s-style headphones clamped to his head. Amphetamine-crazed metal pleased him. During our week at camp, he never seemed to take the headphones off.

Near him sat Cheryl, a private and pleasant young woman. She suffered some sort of occasional Tourette's or linguistic tick, as well as blindness. Every once in a while she'd erupt, shouting one of two words—“f-f-f-f-f-f-fuggin” or “sh-sh-sh-shimbles.” I don't know what they meant. I doubt if she did, either. Otherwise, she was soft-spoken and, from what I could guess, maybe had a closed, worried expression. Sitting across from me, she looked tight-lipped and pensive. Or something.

It may have been the case that both Eddie and Cheryl knew nothing of the other's presence, too. We waited, all three of us mute, while I sweated something awful.

Then Martin arrived. Or maybe I should say Martin's relentless jabber arrived. Jason guided Martin to the lounge, but I heard his voice well in advance.

“This is gonna be some camp, Jason. You're new this year, right? It's some fun, and the ladies, oh, the ladies are always the highlight, my friend. You single? Catch as catch can, as they say. I brought a radio this year in case I'll be entertaining in my room. Nudge, nudge, wink, wink, as they say, eh? You like the Python? Lots of oldies, that's what I like. Not the ladies. I mean tunes. They just don't write them like they used to. I collect songs about driving truck. ‘Truckin,' now that's a song.”

Martin was my age and was desperate to get laid at blind camp. A tradition existed of past campers coming here, hooking
up and sometimes marrying. Imagine a hybrid of
Gilligan's Island
and
The Love Boat,
but everybody has a stick.

Jason guided Martin into the lounge and sat him on a chair next to Cheryl. Eddie remained on the other side of her, and I sat across the room from them all, cloaked in quiet. When Eddie heard Martin's soliloquy coming down the hall, he began to beam.

“Martin? Martin-o, the Martinmeister? Is that you, man? The Don Martin? Marty the Martini Maker?”

“Who's that?” Martin asked, taking his seat.

“It's me, Eddie! Eddie from Kamloops!”

“Heavy Eddie Metal!” Martin cheered. “How the hell are you!”

“I'm great, man. Brought my tunes with me.”

“Me, too,” said Martin. “You never know when you'll need some mood music.”

“Divine Blade!” Eddie shrieked. “Hey! Hey! Have you heard Divine Blade? They rock and roll, man. Totally rawk!”

“I wonder who else is coming this year?” Martin said.

“Sh-sh-sh-shimbles.”

“Cheryl!”

Old friends began to catch up. I doubt, though, Cheryl was so thrilled. Like me, she'd done her best to keep out of sight from Eddie and Martin. I mean, keep quiet, or whatever the phrase would be.

Most of the campers were making their way to the island under their own steam, so Jason drove a van, just six of us and our luggage stuffed inside. Perhaps spying my sweaty
condition, Jason offered me the front seat near the air vents. Or maybe he sensed that, like him, I was new to this scene.

In the back sat Cheryl, Eddie, and Martin, joined by Liza and Dick, a couple who'd met at the camp twenty years earlier and married. They returned every year.