Chapter 3
Chapter Three
N o matter how many times I’ve gone through it, the first day of camp is always a whirlwind.
With my owner and operator hat on, I barely have time to enjoy the reunions with everyone.
I spend most of the day in crisis management mode and cleaning up the paperwork in my office that I never got around to organizing.
And by ‘cleaning up,’ I mean stuffed into the bottom drawer in the filing cabinet and promptly forgotten.
As always, Adam was the first to arrive, wearing his customary glossy black helmet, sweeping cape, and chest panel—it’s as if the Sith Lord himself decided to take a break from the empire and see all that camp life had to offer.
His beloved canine companion was by his side, a Yorkshire terrier named Chewy.
The five-pound dog is every bit as anxious as Buffy, which is why Adam insists on bringing him every year.
He tried a kennel once and Chewy left with two weeks of nervous diarrhea and an intense fear of ducks.
Fortunately, there are no ducks on our lake.
As twilight descends upon the camp, thirty campers gather around the firepit to toast marshmallows and catch up.
This is my happy place, seated on a stump beside a glowing fire with my favorite people in the whole world.
I wait all year for this moment, and I fully intend to suck the marrow out of it.
We kick off the first evening of camp as we always do, with each person sharing the high and low of their year since the last time we were all together.
No one’s suffered too horribly, I’m pleased to hear.
Although we have a group chat that runs throughout the year, introverts aren’t the best about sharing what’s really going on in our lives—the feed is mostly memes and TV or movie recommendations—so these two weeks are the best shot we have for real communication.
“What about you, Cricket?” Laura asks. The petite white-haired dog groomer is one of the OGs of Comic-Camp, having attended every year for the past five years.
“No highs or lows to speak of,” I reply. I slice my hand through the air. “One long straight line.”
Angela’s look is disapproving. “You haven’t used any of the apps I recommended, have you?”
“I live in the Poconos. How many eligible men do you think there are within range of my house?” Everyone at camp has at least one area of expertise. Sixty-year-old Angela’s are older men and Prohibition cocktails.
“You won’t learn the answer to that by spending every night at home with fictional men,” Angela says.
“Why not? Fictional men are the best. They appear when you summon them and they never, ever disappoint you.”
“Well, they disappoint you partway through the story,” Stefan corrects me, “but then they more than make up for it by the end.”
“See? Stefan gets it,” I say. I love rewatching my favorite fictional heroes because I know what to expect, and therefore I am never upset or distressed.
Without fail, Aragorn will always ascend the throne as the King of Gondor and marry Arwen.
The Avengers and their allies will always defeat Thanos at the pivotal moment.
If the story doesn’t have a happy ending, I have no desire to invest. As far as I’m concerned, the real world is one long dark night of the soul, except the bright spot that includes these two weeks.
“Stefan also dresses as a Viking,” Angela says, quickly followed by an apologetic look. “No judgment, darling.”
“Are you sure?” Gloria asks. “That sounded dangerously close to judgment.”
“All I’m saying is that Stefan lives his life as a fictional man,” Angela replies. “Obviously he’s going to agree with Cricket’s take.”
Stefan adjusts his horned helmet. “Vikings are historical, not fictional.”
I adore that Stefan unabashedly and unapologetically takes up space in a healthy way. He fully owns his Scandinavian corner.
“Your headgear is fictional, bro,” Bradley says. “Vikings didn’t actually wear them.”
Stefan heaves a sigh. “It’s a visual shorthand. I don’t have the right hair or beard, and I can’t carry around swords or spears, so the helmet is the easiest and fastest way to telegraph my identity to others.”
“I think you look great,” I tell him.
Bradley spears another marshmallow. “Dudes, I don’t know how you and Adam don’t sweat to death in those helmets.
” In black jeans, work boots, and a Metallica T-shirt, Bradley doesn’t necessarily seem like the kind of man who would support helmet-wearing adults, but he’s proven himself to be one of the most open-minded and open-hearted people I’ve ever met.
Adam produces a small portable fan. “This helps.”
“What’s the matter?” Laura asks.
I swivel on the stump to look behind me. “Who, me?”
“Yes you. Your body is tenser than a Schnauzer on the grooming table.”
I stab a marshmallow with my stick and hold it close to the flames. “It’s nothing.”
“She had an unwelcome visit from a lawyer,” Gloria interjects.
Angela’s ears perk up. “What’s the problem? Is the camp in trouble?”
“No problem,” I insist. “There’s a property developer who seems to feel entitled to my land simply because he wants it.”
“Typical man.”
Angela would know. She’s been married to about half a dozen of them.
“Present company excepted, of course,” Gloria adds with a sharp look at Angela.
“None of the men here are typical,” Angela says. “This is an adult camp for self-proclaimed nerds.”
“My granddad’s a pretty typical nerd.”
We laugh at Olivia, Ben’s eleven-year-old granddaughter. Technically the rules don’t allow anyone under eighteen to attend Comic-Camp, but I gave Ben special dispensation this year to include her due to unforeseen family circumstances.
“Speaking of typical nerds, I’m happy to see you added robo races to the schedule this year,” says Ben, our resident wise man.
“It was a special request.” I catch Bradley's eye across the firepit and smile. The electrician lobbied hard for the addition after inheriting a collection of robot toys from his late uncle. I got the distinct impression he doesn’t have anybody near home who would share his enthusiasm, which I completely relate to.
I know people who live in the area, but there isn’t a single one of them I would call a friend.
A sense of calm washes over me as I gaze around the campfire.
There isn’t anything I wouldn’t do for my campers.
They deserve these two weeks of freedom to be themselves.
To cosplay without fear of snickers behind their backs.
To fight zombies on a battlefield. To play a tabletop game until the sun goes down with no regard for meals or responsibilities.
I’m excited for camp to get started, although I know from experience these two weeks will fly by in a heartbeat. I already dread that final afternoon.
By the time I roll into my cabin for sleep, I’m bone-tired, but it’s a good tired. I’m reunited with my people, and all is right with the world.
All except the nagging feeling that the lawyer’s visit won’t be the last word from LandStar.
I choose my wardrobe carefully. If I want Miss Nerdy By Nature to believe my intentions are pure, I need to play the part.
I unearth a Race to Mordor T-shirt that was gifted to me by my law school roommate, who clearly didn’t know me very well despite sharing cramped quarters for three years.
I also pack a pair of dress shoes and zip a suit into a fabric travel bag for any urgent meetings that spring up, which happens all too often in the legal world.
Someone else’s lack of planning becomes my emergency with alarming frequency.
I poke through my drawers and closet for anything else pop-culture related that I could fold into my suitcase.
No, wait. Would a Star Wars devotee arrive wheeling a RIMOWA suitcase? I think not. I pull an old duffel bag from the bottom of my closet and repack.
It won’t be easy to win over Courtney Abernathy, but I never met a challenge I couldn’t overcome and this nerddom will be no exception.
The drive is an hour and fifty minutes today. On the highway, I play Chopin as I bob and weave through long lines of semi-trailers.
“Elizabeth calling,” my car says.
I accept my little sister’s call. “Where are you today? Palm Beach?”
“Your house.”
“What are you doing at my house?”
“I need a place to crash. Do you mind?”
In other words, she doesn’t want our parents to know she’s in town. “Be my guest. I’m gone for the next two weeks though.”
“I’m sorry, what’s this? Has the worker bee finally flown away from the hive for a well-deserved vacay?”
“Not exactly. It’s a work thing.”
Her sigh tickles my speakers. “I should’ve known.”
“Is Bruno with you?” I ask.
“No, that’s kind of why I’m here. I’m avoiding him.”
“Because?”
“Because he’s annoying, and I can’t tell him that without it becoming a whole deal.”
“I can see your conundrum.”
“I don’t want Mom and Dad to know we’re on the rocks. They were hoping for an engagement to announce at their anniversary party and if it doesn’t happen, I’ll be their big disappointment.”
“You and I both know that role is reserved for yours truly.”
“Bullshit, big brother. You’re the golden boy. Knowing you, you’ll be announcing your sole ownership of the firm by the time August rolls around.”
I laugh. “You only say that because you haven’t met the partners at my firm.”
“Are any of them single?” She pauses. “Never mind. I see how much you work.”
I wince. “Ouch.”
“No offense,” she tacks on. “You know I love you, but I wouldn’t dream of setting you up with any of my friends.”
“I’m starting to rethink this whole letting-you-stay-in-my-house thing.”
“Face it, Charlie. You’re married to your job. Who takes two weeks away from the office and spends them at a work event? I hope it’s at least somewhere close to a beach.”
I glimpse the mountains in the distance. “Not quite. Listen, I’m almost there. I should go so I don’t miss my exit. Don’t eat all my pickles.”