CAMP BLISS #2
Okay, so maybe they weren’t focus groups in the truest sense of the term.
A straw poll on the coffee counter in the teachers’ lounge and a Wine Down Wednesday roundtable with my work besties Deandra, Courtney, and Virginia—plus a couple of pitchers of mango margaritas—reinforced for me that the name Camp Bliss was the way to go.
The name of the retreat and recreation center has to be Camp Bliss. I refuse to budge on this.
“It works for all of our services. Kids day camp, after school care, corporate retreats, family reunions, couples workshops, yoga retreats—”
“Greta—” Zach is holding up his hand. This asshole is actually holding up his hand to shut me up instead of hearing me out. “I’m familiar with the services. My concern is that the name won’t resonate with two of our most important client groups: parents and business executives.”
I scoff. “But you know that today’s parents are more concerned about their children’s mental health than ever b—”
“Camp Bliss evokes images of patchouli and pot. Parents aren’t going to—”
“Childhood anxiety in this country is equivalent to that of schizophrenic patients of the 1950s, and—”
“And CFO’s aren’t going to greenlight expenses for a hippy-dippy office retrea—”
“HR directors are looking for damn near anything to reduce work stress and retain employees.” The little picture on the screen shows that I’ve leaned in closer to the camera. “I mean, just look at the three of us?”
“That’s a temporary phenomenon. We need a name that’s—”
“Burnout made all of us walk away from our careers. Your firm is trying to get you to stay even though you put in your notice three weeks ago.” I see my own scowl on screen. Some part of my brain registers that it’s not my best look. “And did you just call our business concept hippy-dippy?”
“Hey—Hey—” Josh’s hand lands on my shoulder, and he tugs me gently back from the camera before I can bite it. “Greta. Zach. Let’s—Let’s just take a minute here, okay?”
Nope. This isn’t going well.
One look at Josh’s profile says that he agrees. And guilt flushes my insides down the toilet. Worry lines—the ones that have grooved much deeper in the time I’ve known him—crease his forehead. He swallows, and I can tell by the way he’s breathing, he’s staving off a panic attack.
I reach for his leg, this time palming it softly. Lovingly.
“Sorry, babe. I got a little carried away there.” Then I turn to the camera. “Sorry, Zach.”
But he’s already shaking his head. “No, I should be the one to apologize. I was being pushy.” His brows pinch, and I could be wrong, but I think I see real remorse.
“I want you both to know I’m behind this project one hundred percent.
I think we’re providing something people really need.
” Zach glances down and mutters something that might be, I know I do.
And the fight goes out of me. I just need to get to know him. That’s all. Once I know Zach better, I’ll trust him, and once I trust him, it’ll be easier not to get worked up over disagreements. And I’m not foolish. There will be disagreements.
I’m nodding. “I don’t doubt that. Look, the name is important to me, but we can talk about ways to address your concerns. Maybe through marketing and signage?” I throw out, and he starts nodding too.
Beside me Josh is still employing conscious breathing, and I can feel the panic easing from him. With shaking hands, he drains his beer.
“Want another one?” he asks me.
“I-I’ll get it.” I rise from the couch—and out of the camera’s focus—even though my beer is still half full. I need a minute. We all do.
A long counter top is all that separates the kitchen from the living room, so when I hear Zach’s voice as I grab the fridge door, I freeze.
“Can she still hear me?”
Pause.
I open the fridge and clink around, but, hey, I’m human. And I’m listening.
“I don’t think so,” Josh says softly.
But if you can’t hear seventh graders whispering answers to a plate tectonics quiz or gossiping about who got fingered over the weekend or accusing each other of farting, you have no business being in a middle school classroom.
I have the hearing of a Rafinesque bat.
“She’s intense.”
“Mm-hmm.”
“She reminds me of a Bitmoji throwing a tantrum.”
Josh snorts a laugh, and my face would burn off if my head weren’t in the fridge.
“Not cool, man.”
I grab another Stella and set it on the counter with a thunk.
“Made you laugh though.” A few seconds pass. “Looks like you haven’t done that in a while.”
I make myself look at Josh. He’s squirming like someone with gallstones. I pop the top off his beer, hoping it’s his last for the night.
“It’s been rough. It’ll get better,” he tells his old friend.
Schooling a smile on my face, I tell myself that it will. It will get better. There’s too much riding on this. Josh’s stock options. Zach’s condo. Aunt Tilde’s Roth IRA. All we have that’s worth anything is going into Camp Bliss.
Not to mention that our three letters of resignation might as well have been written in blood.
Josh is going through some stuff. Zach might not be thrilled to work with me just yet. I’m having cold feet. All of this is perfectly normal, I reassure myself. Real-life responses to real-life challenges.
It will get better.
Because it has to.