Date: Wed, 4 Oct 2017 08:19:53 -0400
From: Orson Cadell <orson.cadell@gmail.com>
Subject: Canvas Hell 36

Please see original story (www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/camping/canvas-hell/)
for warnings and copyright. Highlights: All fiction. All rights
reserved. Includes sex between young-adult men. Go away if any of that is
against your local rules. Practice safer sex than my characters. Write if
you like, but flamers end up in the nasty bits of future stories. Donate to
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*****

"All those in favor of the proposed joint Campfire, say 'AYE!'" About half
of us, including every boy that I, Karl or Jim had drawn in, screamed,
'AYE,' in unison.  I was worried; would it be more than half or less? "All
those opposed, say 'NAY!'" The sound of shuffling feet and a few coughs
were the only sounds, other than the squeaks of bats still stunned by Cabin
1's high-pitched cheer. "Without any opposition, the measure passes by
acclamation! Everyone, please thank Quinn and Mark for the excellent
suggestion!" The place erupted and the diminutive Quinn disappeared under a
tidal wave of backslapping and handshakes.

*****

Canvas Hell 36: Foreshadows

By Bear Pup

T/T; self-discovery - Sunday/Monday/Tuesday

*****

When we quieted, Major Bachgen asked in a slightly worried tone, "But how
are we going to pick a song?"

"Um, sir?" One of the Leaders who did our own group stood up. "A few of us
have worked on an idea, thinking maybe to use it for Cabin 4."

"Well, let's hear it."

An intensely-whispered conversation ensued and one of the other Leaders
began to beat time on a drum from the Indian War Dance. "It's, I guess, two
songs mixed together?" He sang a bit of it, and we were stunned at the
idea. This was decades before mash-up entered the common lexicon. He took
two same-named songs from nearly a century apart and interweaved them,
setting certain parts to each of three groups just as we'd done with "Down
in the River to Pray". He combined "Joy to the World" by Three Dog Night,
more-commonly referred to by its first line, "Jeremiah was a Bullfrog" with
the original hymn, "Joy to the World". It took some adjustment to the
rhythm of each, but he sang a couple of phrases and everyone started
cheering.

A hubbub broke out as kids and Leaders alike began to talk about the
logistics. It was decided that each cabin would rehearse separately with
the exception of cabins 1 and 2 (all boy-treble tenors) who'd be scattered
among the rest, and a few of the oldest guys who had strong bass voices
would work with Cabin 3 to round it out. There was also some shuffling
amongst the leaders so there was a strong rhythm-keeper in each cabin since
that would be the hardest part of this. Friday and Saturday practices would
be in the central Fire Ring with everyone joining

We were in exuberantly-high spirits until Major, George and Lloyd all stood
and gestured for silence. When we finally chattered down to (relative)
stillness, George spoke. "Thanks to Quinn, Mark and the Leaders of Cabin 4,
this will be a week that celebrates the unity of Camp Sinnemahoning." There
was a loud cheer, quickly hushed as some of the boys realized what was
coming next.

"But it is also a week that forces us to remember that we will disperse to
the four winds on Sunday. Some are lucky and live close enough to maintain
the ties of Camp Sinnemahoning, but some of us will never see each other
again, and some others will be a world away, or so it will seem, until we
come back together next summer."

Lloyd's enormous voice took up the announcement. "All of the Adults and
Leaders will carry slips with them at all times. We call them Camper
Contact Cards. Ask for as many as you want, and use them to give your
address and phone info to the friends you've made here. We have always been
very proud of the often-lifelong friendships that started here as Camp
Sinnemahoning. We encourage you to make the effort to stay in touch, and
remind each other through the cold months of winter about the warmth of the
sun, the campfires and the camaraderie you found here."

"We want to be clear." Major Bachgen continued as Lloyd sat. "This week
will NOT be the end of your Camp Sinnemahoning experience. The things you
learned, both about activities and yourselves as men, will be part of you
forever. You leave to rejoin schools and sports and local friends, all of
which are important. But over the months, make an effort to rekindle your
connections, renew your friendships and retell all those stories of your
month with us this summer. Now, have a nice night and get some rest so you
can make the most of what can be the best week of your summer!"

There was a cheer, but it was tempered with a foreshadowing of a reality
that no teen wants to acknowledge or face -- that things really do end,
even important things. The three of us were utterly silent as we trudged
back to Tent Canvas Hell.

"So, uh, Karl? Who all are you going to, well, let have your info?" I asked
when we had the flaps tied and started to undress for the night. He smiled
at me.

"Smooth way to ask if you made the cut?" I blushed furiously. "You and Jim
are the top of the list."

"How about Nate? I saw you two come back before dinner and you both seemed
winded. You go for a run?" Did you know that brown bears can blush? I
didn't, but Karl's fur seemed to glow from underneath. Jim's eyes were
twinkling as he watched, trying not to smile. It suddenly dawned on me what
might have happened. "Oh. OH! Uh, never mind. Sure. Run. That was it."

Karl started talking to his bare toes, a non-judgmental audience of ten. "I
uh, well, um... you see, we went to talk about what's gonna happen back in
Scranton. You know, the different-schools thing and all. How that would
work, what we might, you know, do together weekends when there weren't
meets or games for me." Jim and I shared a long, eyebrow-popped look. This
was easily the longest speech we'd ever heard from our quiet friend.

"We got to talking and, you know, we started talking about girls and
stuff. Turns out that Nate's a bigger horn-dog than I am! We, uh, stroked
one out up in the beeches. We're, well, we're gonna be good buds, I
think. Chicks dig guys who watch out for younger ones, you know, the whole
'soft-touch but manly' thing? And, well, it won't hurt his prospects to be
seen hanging occasionally with a Senior..." He finally looked up at both of
us. Jim was beaming and I was smiling. Karl seemed to almost melt with
relief, looking down again quickly.

"We talked about... well, what you two have, you know, that kind
of... friendship and all. But we decided it just wasn't us, you know? Not
that we're better!" He rushed to add. "We're just not..." His voice trailed
off, at a complete loss to finish the sentence.

Jim went over to him and pulled his face back up. "Karl Mueller, you are
one of the best men I've ever met. Nate is lucky to have you around. And,
no, I never did think you were, well, interested in anything."

"What? Why?" He was half-relieved and half-indignant.

"Karl," Jim giggled, "you damned near had a friggin' heart attack when I
kissed you on my birthday. I thought you were gonna faint! And, well, you
never could... you know, finish? When Patrick and I were touching you that
day? That was a pretty good indicator. But I think the biggest reason was
Wednesday night when we were all trapped by the rain. Four guys, all pretty
amazing to look at, and you had to close your eyes to get there."

Karl snorted but didn't argue. "And you, Patrick? You knew, too, I
suppose?" The whole discussion apparently had fried a transistor or two. I
found myself answering honestly.

"Oh, hell, no, Karl! I was praying you were, you know, interested since the
second night in the tent! Oh, fuck..." The last was squeaked through my
hand as I suddenly realized what I'd said and, apparently, tried to
physically stuff the words back in my mouth.

Karl chuckled once, then launched in the deepest, gut-busting-est laugh I
think I'd ever heard. He was literally crying with laughter and Jim wasn't
much better. Jim chortled, "Smooth, Red. Real smooth!" before rejoining
Karl in the laugh-fest at my expense. I joined as the absurdity hit me like
a truck.

Jim was stripped bare when I turned and I blinked, then pulled my shorts
off. I shot a look to Karl, part in worry and part in challenge. He was
examining Jim and me in a different way than I'd ever seen him look at us,
as if sizing us up when picking a football team, perhaps. He looked at me,
then back to Jim. "You know, Patrick, you two are really... I dunno. I was
gonna say 'cute together' but it sounds weird."

I snorted loudly and Jim punched my arm, hard. "If you ever so much as
THINK about scoffing when someone calls me cute, I'll rack your balls so
hard you talk like Rocky the Squirrel." I just, well, gawped at him as he
basically crammed me into the sleeping back and curled up into my chest,
knees pulled between us. Instead of spooning, my outsized, lanky frame
enfolded him. I sighed deeply.

"You know," Karl said, wearily, as he snuffed the lantern, "you two are
disgustingly happy. Now I know why they call it gay."

I'm sure that Jim felt me stiffen suddenly because his hand reached out to
pet my side and hip, slowly, calmly. It was the first time that anyone had
really *said* it. Ever. Jim had thrown 'faggot' out when he was in that
spat with Trey, but now? To hear it from Karl's mouth as Jim was curled
into me? My heart started to race and my breathing quickened.

Still petting me and using a voice so soft I could barely hear it, Jim
asked, "You heard the tone, right? He doesn't care. It's just a word like
blond or left-handed. Maybe, someday, most people will think like that. You
think it upsets him, Red? He knows we love each other, and we're naked in a
single sleeping bag in a tent a few feet from him, and he's already
snoring." I fell asleep crying, and didn't know myself if they were tears
of hurt or worry or happiness.

Monday dawned... way too fucking early. All of us were early risers, but
today, something about the hazy, pearlescent light and the songs of the
earliest of the early birds begged me to tuck back in and ignore the whole
"world" thing going on around me. With Jim, however, that was simply not an
option.

When I didn't move when he "nudged" (kicked) me as he went to relieve
himself, he decided to use me as a bench while he pulled his shower kit
together and got dressed. When that didn't work, he took some fucking piece
of grass or shit and started tickling my nose and ear. When I finally
roared, "Jesus! Just fuck off!", he just laughed.

"Too late. Karl already tried that."

A rather grumpy voice came from the other side of the tent. "The little
shit threw a rock into the bushes behind me. He made me pee
everywhere. Bastard." That was enough to make me giggle, which made sleep
impossible. I got up and pulled my stuff together, deciding to piss in the
Hygiene Hut. We were a little later and there was a small rush, but nothing
tragic. There were still dry napkins -- I mean, towels -- when we finished.

Aaaaaaand... Chef was back. Apparently, he'd spent the time away
researching new and inventive evils to inflict upon campers. The first up
was something called a breakfast biscuit. In theory, it was delicious --
you put scrambled egg, cheese and either sausage or ham *inside* a biscuit
before you bake it. Yum! But when you used undercooked powdered egg, fake
cheese and greasy sausage, strange things happen. The bottoms were
uniformly raw, the rock-hard tops had black parts from being burnt and the
ick in the middle was, at best, lukewarm.

The true masterpiece, and one that haunts me to this day, were the
hardboiled eggs. Take an egg, put it in boiling water for some minutes,
take it out, repeat. That's, like, the whole recipe. For the last
{mumble-mumble} years, I've tried to figure out how Chef could make an egg
taste like garlic, vinegar and despair without breaking the eggshell. At
some point in my thirties, I actually *tried* to come up with such a
process because it had been gnawing at me all those years. Other than
getting three sets of neighbors complaining about the stench, I was utterly
unsuccessful. Once peeled, the eggs still just tasted like eggs. One of the
great unsolved mysteries, I guess.

Being early, we had a pick of cereals and fruits, as well as our "secret"
steaming black coffee from George. You can't even imagine the looks of
longing and desperation on the faces of those who came late to the meal,
eyes flicking from Biscuits of Doom to Hell in a Shell to a couple boxes of
WWII-surplus Shredded Wheat and some extremely-dubious apples speckled with
creepy spots.

First up after breakfast was the double-session of canoeing and
fishing. Sea announced a fishing contest. He said the recent rains had
swollen the river and to stay within shouting distance (one turn up or down
the Sinnemahoning) for safety, but it also meant the fish were likely to be
biting. He was right. I used lures, Jim used shrimp and Karl used
worms. Jim pulled in six fish, one of them a quite-large white bass. Karl
snagged five fish, two of them respectably-sized (if rather hideous) things
called Gizzard Shads. My tiny, flashing lure apparently attracted several
kinds of sunfish, none big enough to really keep. I caught four overall.

For the first time, though, the Tent 9 Mystique didn't make the grade. Five
other canoes hauled in bigger catches, both in numbers and size. We didn't
care; we'd had a blast -- except for an extremely unhappy gar that tried to
eat Jim, finally escaping before we could get the hook out but not before
leaving some very sharp teeth-marks in Jim's forearm.

Lunch was meteoric hockey pucks, with or without a slice of cheese-like
substance. A couple Saturdays before, Chef had served edible
hamburgers. Apparently, he'd been studying that failure. These were so done
they crunched, and had been "enhanced" with enough Lawry's Season-All to
choke a bear. The cold option was an overdressed salad swimming in what
would have been a vinaigrette if the oil and vinegar had been, you know,
mixed before being poured on. I would swear that a drowning crouton called
out, "Help me, Red!" before being dragged below the surface by a drowning
radish.

That afternoon was leatherworking. My wallet was really starting to look
good with the various names. For the first time in forever, Jim's
Wilderness Survival saw a beautiful, breezy afternoon. Karl decided to go
for a run which I politely -- well, I didn't flip him the bird or anything
-- declined. It was too nice to sit in the tent, so I grabbed Doorways in
the Sand that I'd started reading the previous week and found a place to
sit with a clear view of the river and a nice breeze. I got so wrapped up I
didn't even hear the end-of-session ring and was jolted to consciousness by
the dinner clang.

Do you know how to make beef stew with hamburger meat? Well, you can't, but
Chef decided to blaze a new trail. The glutinous grey-brown goo cloyed onto
the mushy carrots, potatoes and (for reason that can only be called
culinarily-psychotic) green beans. Little-known fact: When you stew
hamburger, all that's left is the gristle.

The first night of practice for the joint singing went... medium-bad. It
started well. The leaders took all of Cabin 4 (plus a half-dozen from 1 and
2) through the shared refrains. "Singin' Joy to the world / All the boys
and girls now / Joy to the fishes in the deep blue sea / Joy to you and me"
went great, and the hymn's first and last lines were pretty easy if we
watched the sheets. The problem was when we transitioned from song to
song. Too many of us were hearing the original songs in our heads and the
only ones on target were those who hadn't heard the Three Dog Night
tune. Finally, the Leaders made us use the method we'd had the first week
when learning City of New Orleans.

We had to stomp and clap as we *read* the lyrics, ignoring the tune. We
went through twice then added the music, still stomping. Suddenly, it
clicked, more or less, and the leaders moved us into our three groups. For
the Baritones like me, most were repeats like, "And Heaven and nature sing
/ And Heaven and nature sing..." Those were a cinch and we were completely
jazzed.

We only had three lines in the Three Dog Night, one from each verse. "I
never understood a single word he said..." and, "I'd throw away the cars
and the bars and the war..." and finally, "I'm a high life flyer and a
rainbow rider." The first two were only a little messy, but the last was a
train wreck. For reasons beyond understanding, we could NOT get that last
one down. We had everything from "jai alai fire" to "raindrop riser". Why?
Hell if we knew. We finally just gave up and the Leaders promised something
special the next night. From the way they were whispering and hissing at
each other, they had no friggin clue what that would be.

Tuesday was another nice day. Sadly, waaaaay too many of the guys had
learned their lesson the day before and we were far from the first to reach
the Hygiene Hut. George gave us an apologetic shrug to let us know that
he'd been ordered to keep everyone out until the chef was ready. There was
quite a crowd when we surged in. Half the guys didn't even glance at the
steam trays but started a full-on scrum at the cereal station.

As it happened, it was one of Chef's less-diabolical creations and was a
sort of Eggs Benedict Arnold. The English muffin was there, topped with
Taylor Ham [ED: Processed 'pork roll' otherwise indescribable in terms of
flavor and texture, and best left that way] and a hard-poached egg, topped
with a sauce that we hoped was supposed to be Béarnaise; if it were
really meant as Hollandaise, the green tint would be an
inescapably-horrible thought. I got one and it really wasn't disgusting at
all, but I had a haunting taste of garlic the rest of the day --
terrifying, since garlic was not an ingredient.

That morning also started something that nearly undid me. All of the guys
we'd gathered started asking for a Camper Contact Card... from *me*, as
well as Jim, Karl and most of the others. I stammered that I hadn't made
any yet and promised all of them one tomorrow as I looked at Jim in
panic. I couldn't say no, could I?

Woodworking was, well, just plain sad. I'd started my napkin ring with the
idea of an open fist wrapped around the napkin, candle or whatever. The
more I carved, the more the fingers looked disturbingly-like those of a
Vincent Price character or some other long-digited fiend. I decided to take
drastic action and carved it down to a simple circle, figuring that I could
just shallow-carve some sort of curlicue or paisley design and pretend it
was what I'd been going for all along.

As Karl went off to Orientation & Cartography, Jim and I wandered over to
the seats around the central fire pit to talk for a bit. We were still very
spooked by the Jerry thing from Sunday and didn't want to end up anyplace
that might tempt us into... well, whatever.

"So, um, what do I do, Jim?"

"Well, since that is a terribly-specific question, Patrick, I'll just make
a wild guess that you're freaked out over the number of people who might
want to keep in touch with 'Red' over the school year?" I nodded
miserably. "And you are absolutely convinced that you will mortally insult
anyone you say no to, and they'll be scarred for life?" I scowled at him
but there was nothing in the statement to deny or correct.

He sighed. "I decided that I don't mind people having my address, but the
phone thing would likely freak the hell out of Mom. Have you seen the
cards? No? Okay, they have a place for 'At-Camp Name' then one for
'Mail/Phone Name'. Apparently, there are a lot of people who would be
tormented by parents and siblings when someone called up and asked for
Butch or {giggle} Tex." I laughed with him.

"Then there is 'Mail Address' and 'Phone Number'. I'm going to do a lot
with just my address and maybe six or eight that also have the phone." He
blushed, "You of course. Karl, Nate, Trey. Maybe Willie. Probably not many
others. Others will just have the address. I think that's best."

I sighed, deeply relieved. "Jim, you're a lifesaver. I was terrified of
someone calling and my, um, father being... well, not at his best." Jim
nodded soberly. My drunk of a father was one of the main reasons I was so
worried about everything and Jim knew it. "I'll give you and Karl my phone
since you both, well, know and all. I think that's probably it."

Jim smiled, "If anyone asks, I tell them I am not allowed to have friends
telephone because my sister got all of us phone-grounded for life with
boyfriend calls."

"Oh, God! Did she?"

"No," his said with twinkling eyes, "but she darned well should have and it
makes a great excuse!"

We knocked as quietly as possible on Dr Eaglas' door and he called us
in. He took one look and pointed to a tray. "Take as many as you
want. You'll need them." We didn't even ask how he knew what we were there
for, but grabbed a big stack each. We both ignored the useless "golf
pencil" stubs as we had pens in our packs for the letters we promised to
and never did write home.

We spent the rest of Free Period scribbling out cards until our hands
cramped, which happened to be when the lunch bell clanged. It was
bittersweet, terrifying and hopeful rolled into one confusing package. To
think that all those guys wanted a way to keep in touch was daunting, but a
little special. But the reason we needed them at all -- that we might never
see these guys again -- peeled a tiny piece of my soul away with each slip
I completed.

<eof>

THANK YOU to those who spent their own free time to make this a better
chapter: Ronnie, Dan, Skip and Tom.

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Active storelines, all at www.nifty.org/nifty/gay...
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