by Dann Gershon
“Need some help, sonny?” a voice asked. Einstein froze solid and considered the possibilities. He could stay where he was and starve to death, if the heat didn’t get him first, or leave the relative safety of his sleeping bag to deal with forces unknown. He was still considering his options when the zipper unzipped and blinding light flooded in.
He squinted a few times until the room came into focus. An old man was hunched over him, his leathery skin parched and weathered. He had long, straggly white hair that was tied back in pigtails and an equally straggly white beard. Einstein noticed that his hands were shaking and that he was a bit unsteady on his feet.
“You okay, boy?” he asked. The voice was as weathered as his skin.
“I’m fine,” Einstein replied. “Just a little magic trick gone awry.”
“I see,” the old coot mumbled. “Not exactly Harry Houdini, are you, sonny?”
“Einstein P. Fleet,” he said, holding out his hand, “leader of the resistance movement.”
“You don’t say,” he replied, smiling at Einstein. “Ralph Waldo Greeley, underpaid and unappreciated mailman, at your service.” He cackled at his own joke.
Einstein noticed that he had a tattoo of a rattlesnake coiled around a letter opener on his left forearm. The inscription at the bottom read first class. He was dressed in work boots, tattered jeans, and a tie-dyed T-shirt that was glued to his bony frame. Greeley looked more like an old hippie than a mailman. Einstein thought about the pickup truck that he’d stumbled across in the barn and realized that it must have be-longed to Greeley. It must have read u.s. postal service at one time, but judging by the old man standing in front of him, Einstein thought the one word that remained seemed just as appropriate. “What happened to your uniform?” he asked suspiciously.
“I’m wearing it, sonny,” Greeley replied.
The old man’s withered finger pointed at what remained of the Twinkie and Einstein panicked. Was Greeley expecting some sort of tip for rescuing him from his sleeping bag? All Einstein had to offer him was three dollars and a half-eaten Twinkie. Reluctantly, he offered Greeley the rest of his Twinkie. It seemed the least that he could do after the old guy had saved him from suffocating to death.
“No, thanks,” Greeley said, shaking his head. “Junk food gives me gas.”
Einstein sighed with relief as the postman walked over to the nightstand next to his cot and picked up the letters that he had written to his parents the day before. Like everything else at Creepy Time, mailboxes and stamps were in short supply. In fact, they didn’t exist at all, keeping with the camp policy of no communication with the outside world. Obviously, Greeley was not aware of the policy or had decided to ignore it. Either
5 way, Einstein figured he had nothing to lose and decided to play along.
“You want me to mail these for you, Houdini?”
“I don’t have any stamps. Think you can help me out?” Ein-stein pleaded. “My life depends on these letters getting to the designated recipients.”
Greeley swiped his bony thumb across the soot-covered window and pressed down on the top right-hand corner of the white envelope, leaving a ridged imprint. He took out a red felt pen and scrawled 39 cents beneath the greasy black thumbprint and then initialed it to make it official. He took the second let-ter and repeated the process.
“Is that legal?” Einstein asked.
“It is around these parts,” Greeley answered. “If I use the full handprint, it goes out first class, guaranteed two-hour de-livery. You in a hurry?”
“No, thanks,” Einstein replied, realizing that the postman may be a few cards shy of a full deck.
The old man turned and slowly ambled toward the door, raising his wrinkled right hand toward the ceiling to signal his good-bye.
“Thanks for everything,” Einstein shouted at Greeley’s back.
“Don’t mention it, sonny.” He stopped at the door, then turned and smiled at Einstein. “Want to see a real magic trick, Houdini?”
“Sure,” Einstein replied.
The man cackled again and walked straight through a solid oak door without opening it. Einstein ran to the front door and opened it, shocked to see Greeley strolling leisurely down the path. “How did you do that?” he asked, genuinely impressed with the illusion.
Greeley turned around and winked at Einstein. “Nothing to it, my boy,” he said as he vanished before Einstein’s eyes. “The trick is simple. You just have to be dead.”
Einstein was paralyzed with fear. If bunking with were-wolves and spiders weren’t enough to cope with, he now had to deal with a postal ghost that thought he was the camp mail-man. He crawled back into his sleeping bag, zipped himself in, and screamed at the top of his lungs.
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Day Three — 10:27 A.M. oth the indoor and outdoor activities at Creepy Time were limited at best. The long list of boasts in the brochure sim-ply didn’t exist. Swimming and canoeing were completely out of the question, unless one had a death wish. There were no horses, which eliminated horseback riding. After the flaming marshmallow fight that broke out during orientation, Big Al had nixed all future events that involved gathering around a roaring campfire, including the traditional sing-alongs and weenie roasts. The arts and crafts center specialized in making lanyard key chains, basket weaving, and building birdhouses out of Popsicle sticks, activities that seemed more appropri-ate for a mental institution than a summer camp. Other than that, there wasn’t much else to do at Creepy Time except for a torturous game that Bucky claimed to have invented. He called it Capture the Flag.
It was a simple game with simple rules. Two teams squared off in the middle of an open field and wrestled for control of the flag. The first team to impale the flag on a wooden post on the opposite side of the field won the game. The trick was to maneuver past the other players without getting tagged. Once players were tagged, they were out of the game for good.
Given the hellish temperature of the Mojave Desert in the middle of July, the game was not without danger. Despite salt tablets and sunblock, seco
nd-degree burns were as common as heat rash, and several of the players on each team would rou-tinely collapse from dehydration at some point during the con-test. The playing area was roughly the size of a football field. The terrain of sun-baked earth was hard and unforgiving. Cac-tus stumps and rocks littered the field like an obstacle course. The players with minor cuts and bruises were forced to endure the pain. Even those with more serious injuries were bandaged up on the sidelines and sent right back to the game.
Of the limited choice of activities that the camp had to offer, this one ranked at the bottom of the barrel, at least as far as Einstein was concerned. What was the logic of charging up and down a vacant lot to capture a four-by-twelve-inch rag while being chased by a band of screaming lunatics? Clearly, whoever invented this sadistic blood sport must have enjoyed the sight of human suffering. Einstein nibbled at a half-eaten Twinkie, fortifying himself for the ordeal that lay ahead.
“Yo, Fleet! Put down the cupcake and get your butt on that field!” Bucky shouted.
“I haven’t had a decent meal in two days. Look at me!” he said, pulling the waistband of his pants about half an inch away from his belly. “I’m already showing signs of malnutrition. If you don’t mind, I think I’ll sit this one out.”
“That right?” Bucky the human beaver said with a toothy
5 grin. “You don’t look like you’re starving to me. In fact, I’d say that you need that Twinkie ’bout as much as a bald man needs a blow-dry. If you ain’t on that field in five seconds, Fleet, you’ll be wearing that pastry for a hat!”
Einstein grudgingly returned what remained of the Twinkie back into the wrapper and slowly made his way toward the center of the playing field.
“And don’t think I forgot about that costume either,” Bucky shouted after him.
A shrill whistle blew and suddenly the game was afoot. Einstein watched the activity with detached fascination. The teams were divided into two distinct sides—werewolves ver-sus mummies—which was only logical. Vinnie and the other vampires shunned the game altogether, preferring to stay in character and avoid direct sunlight. Werewolves and mummies ran about aimlessly, taunting one another with a relish that completely eluded Einstein. He eyed the players on the field and wondered which would be the first to collapse from heat prostration. The werewolves must have made a group decision to redo their outfits. They had cut off the sleeves of their plaid flannel shirts and chopped their pant legs off just below the knee. Einstein wasn’t sure if he was imagining things or not, but the werewolves seemed to be even hairier than the night be-fore. They looked like Neanderthal lumberjacks. The mummies had also decided to adapt their attire to the sweltering condi-tions of the desert. Ignoring the threat from Big Al, they had removed all of the bandages except for those covering their faces in favor of shorts and T-shirts that were more practical under the circumstances. As a result, the campers now looked like they had suffered head injuries.
“Wanna help me stick it to the werewolves, Fleet?” Roxie asked, tugging on his shirttail.
Einstein was disappointed to see that Roxie had adopted the official mummy team attire. If she hadn’t spoken, Einstein wouldn’t have recognized her at all. Before he could express his disapproval about her joining the status quo, she was al-ready gone. He watched her jog down the field with purpose, shocked that a sophisticate such as she actually enjoyed this type of mindless dribble.
“Play on, comrade,” Einstein shouted to Roxie. “I’ll stay be-hind and bring up the rear.”
Once the game had moved to the far end of the field, Ein-stein headed for the sideline. He found refuge beneath the rotting skeleton of an old wooden shed that had been aban-doned and left in the desert to die. The structure appeared to be unstable, but it beat standing in the sun, toasting like a Pop-Tart in a microwave oven. Einstein pulled what remained of the half-eaten Twinkie out of his shirt pocket and picked up where he had left off before he was so rudely interrupted. The cream filling had melted and dribbled down his chin like a river, covering his shirt and hands with sticky white goop. As he wolfed down the last of the Twinkie, Einstein heard an odd humming sound coming from directly behind him. It seemed to be emanating from a small brown object that looked like a rotten pineapple, camouflaged and hanging precariously from a rotting wooden plank located in a dark crevice at the top
5 corner of the shed. As Einstein got up, a loose board fell and the brown object burst to life. Suddenly, a horde of angry yel-low jackets attacked from every direction.
Einstein jogged down the field as fast as his legs would carry him, with the insects in hot pursuit. Attracted by the sugary remains of the Twinkie, they stuck to Einstein like glue. He zig-zagged down the field, trying to escape, but was unable to lose the angry insects. As Einstein charged toward the middle of the playing field, he ran smack dab into Billy the Werewolf. Billy was headed in the opposite direction, carrying the flag and making his way toward the end zone. They collided head-on, with Billy taking the brunt of the impact. Einstein grabbed the flag out of the dazed werewolf’s hand and continued down the field, swatting at anything that was within swatting distance.
Counselors and campers alike watched the spectacle in awe.
“Now that’s what I’m talking about,” Bucky screamed, not noticing the source of Einstein’s newfound motivation. “Look at him go! That boy got some skills!”
Einstein charged down the field like a bull, with the angry wasps in hot pursuit, mowing down anyone who got in his path. Both werewolves and mummies scurried out of his way to avoid being trampled to death. Only Roxie stood her ground and watched helplessly as the yellow jackets pursued Einstein down the field.
“Run for your life, Fleet!” Roxie shouted.
Einstein did just that until he reached the end zone and finally ran out of gas. There was no choice but to stand his ground and fight. He swatted at the swarm of insects with the flag, which only made matters worse. The more he swatted, the more agitated the wasps became. Einstein let out a bloodcur-dling s
cream as he felt the razor-sharp teeth penetrate the seat of his shorts and sink deeply into his rear end. Instinctively, he grabbed the yellow jacket and tried to squish it, then quickly realized his mistake as the enraged insect repeatedly bit his palm. He jumped up and down and howled in pain, swatting the flag at anything that moved. Einstein fought the angry horde with every ounce of energy he had left. From the other end of the field it looked like a primitive victory dance of sorts, or early signs of dementia. Beaten and out of breath, Einstein knew that he had lost the battle—but it didn’t mean that he had to lose the war.
“If you gotta go,” Einstein gasped, “you might as well go out a winner.” He held up the white flag for everyone to see, impaled it on the enemy goalpost, and then collapsed from exhaustion. As he lay curled up in a ball, his fellow teammates danced and cheered at their victory, chanting Einstein’s name over and over again. Billy picked himself up from the ground and dusted himself off, snarling at his teammates.
“Way to go, Fleet,” Bucky shouted from across the field. “Someone get that boy a salt tablet!”
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Day Three — 1:24 P.M. ig Al’s office was stark and well suited to the man’s person-ality. A large metal desk sat in front of a few uncomfortable metal chairs. The empty bookshelf at the far end of his office was missing one leg and tilted like the Leaning Tower of Pisa. Big Al had selected the space because it was located at the end of the main building and was reasonably private. Not that it mattered anyway. After the incident at orientation, most of the campers were scared to death of Big Al and avoided him like the plague.
