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January 06, 2006

In the Grass

In which someone lurks and someone else runs out of lighter fluid.

In the grass with complex visions in our heads, we wish for paper but have to tell each other our stories and hope that they will be remembered, however approximately. Janet says she sees a rainbow but the sky is dry and the angle of the light all wrong.

I'm using my imagination, she tells us.

I'm imagining that I don't see a rainbow, says Charles.

Why are you being so contrary, Charles? says Midge.

It's how I am, says Charles. Plus, I'm trying to make an interesting point. Is what I imagine any less valid than what Janet imagines? Even if what I imagine has an uncanny resemblance to reality?

We are tired and don't want to think too hard about what seems like bad logic. Chad seems satisfied by our silence, interpreting it as a victory.

Leavenworth speaks: I think your argument is flawed, he tells Charles. You're just being contrary. We listen to you because you are smart in other contexts, such as investing. I'd love to have your sense of where to put my money. In human relations, you are spiteful and your comments uninteresting. Be quiet now.


We chew on individual stalks of wheat to pass the time. Eddie eats sunflower seeds.

Are there sunflowers here? says Franny.

Brought them from home, says Eddie. Want some?

I'd like to harvest my own, says Franny.

Suit yourself, says Eddie.

Thanks, though, says Franny, though most of us think her gratitude seems forced.


When the sky begins to darken, John suggests that a bonfire might be appropriate.

Is there wood? says Ulrich.

The forest must be full of down wood, says John.

I'll look for wood, says Sallie.

Me too, says Julie.

Thanks, guys, says John. We should have enough in no time, considering your energy and enthusiasm.

I have a lighter, says Mordachai. When the time comes, I may let someone use it.

His name isn't really Mordachai, thinks Phillip. I know it. His name is probably Phillip, too.


The girls collect the wood. Mordachai uses up all of his lighter fluid trying to make the wet wood catch. We sit around the wood in a circle. It crosses through someone's mind that lightning could strike, but it does not. We do not sing. No one feels like singing.


When the dark comes we wonder if there are ghosts.

Monica says it aloud.

There aren't ghosts, Monica, says Jasper.

He says it with such patience. I am touched. I would have taken this moment to ridicule Monica. She is an imbecile.

Then again, given that Monica, with her comment, betrayed a certain degree of vulnerability, perhaps she deserved the benefit of the doubt.

I know that, Jackass, says Monica. I was just making conversation with Jim. I'll say it again, Jim are there ghosts?

I dunno, says Jim. Want to go in the woods and make out?

Did you bring a blanket? says Monica.

No, says Jim. I bet Phillip did, though.

I did, says Philip.

Right on, says Jim. Throw it over here?

Philip does. The rest of us sit silently as Monica and Jim make out in the woods. Eventually we fall asleep.


In the morning we are surrounded by cows.

Camping is just as interesting as they said it would be, says Midge.

Are these cows dangerous? says Trista.

Occasionally cows are dangerous, says Phillip, but bulls much more so.

Is that a bull? says Trista.

No, says Phillip, no horns, see?

No, that one, says Trista, pointing at the one with the horns.


We work up a sweat, but find ourselves on the other side of the fence, eventually. We're behind the supermarket now. A refrigerator truck is unloading produce.

Let's swipe some lettuce, says Hoedel, while we're still young.


We'll each remember the camping trip differently, I imagine.

Phillip will remember the moment he lost his blanket. He changed after that weekend. He slept with all the girls from then on.

Mordichai will remember the day he lost his army.

Samantha will remember her birthday in the dark after Mordichai's failure. I read it in her journal. She was genuinely afraid and was so glad when Monica mentioned ghosts so that she didn't have to.

I'll think of it as a time of contemplation. I spoke to no one. I lurked and watched. No one knows that I was there. I am not well-liked.

I may go on to succeed in life, financially at least. I will not have peaked that night in the clearing. It was I who wet the wood. It was I who made a sound like ghosts, who recruited the cows. Who fed on the fear of my classmates.

Posted by bogenamp at January 6, 2006 04:43 PM