I laughed, and walked back over to the check-out tent. It was a beautiful day to just hang out in the sun with everyone else who had later flights. We mostly gathered near the checkout tent. It made it easier to say goodbye as people left. And Carol, who was checking each of us out as it was time to go, had a huge tub of sodas and seltzers in the shade with her.
Ten minutes after Wendy’s first text, my phone buzzed again. I checked it again to see what she was going to do to Van and his swarming curiosity.
I did not laugh.
American Airlines: FLIGHT STATUS UPDATE. Due to mechanical difficulties, your flight has been cancelled. You have been automatically been re-booked on our next flight at 9:25PM flight this evening. No further action is required at this time. Thank you for your patience.
Not only did I not laugh, I believe that I expressed my total lack of patience with American’s shit in loud and colorful detail. Everybody around me was staring, but it was Carol who spoke to try to calm me down. “Easy, Casper. It will be all right. You said they already have you rescheduled. When is the flight, so I can figure out which van you should go on.”
“Nine. Twenty. Five. Tonight.” I ground out between my teeth, in no mood for sympathy from anyone, least of all, Carol. I would not dream of yelling at her, but I wanted to yell at somebody besides the far distant and uncaring, unhearing corporate entity that was AA. “Anyone else have a flight that late?” I asked Carol.
“Oh, I am sorry,” said Carol, “but no. The latest flight anyone else is on is United at 5:57.”
Then Tripp Phelps, a second year counselor who I would not regret never seeing again answered my prayers. “Oh man, Wilson. You are so fucked.”
“Fuck off, Thor,” I snapped, using the nickname he had tried to affix to himself, and which we had all made him regret thinking of. “I am in no mood to hear your absolute truth.”
He laughed and walked away, which was good, because I did not need my last afternoon at Camp Dickinger marred by my beating the shit out of him. I turned back to Carol with a pleading look. “What time is the last van, and is there still room?”
I wanted no part of a longer wait than absolutely needed in that podunk little airport. The only source of either sustenance or entertainment was a pair of vending machines that were so unreliable that they were more like playing the slots.
Carol looked pained. “Um, Stan goes home after he takes the 2:30 run, and Bob is going out the last time a little before four,” she said quietly.
“Oh God,” I gasped, no longer loud and angry, just filled with dread at the thought of five, or possibly six and a half hours in that airport with its shitty wifi. “Please tell me Bob has room and I don’t have to go with Stan.”
Carol looked pained. “Bob is full.” The look of pain on my face must have been eloquent. “Please relax,” she said as she scratched ‘Casper Wilson’ off the list for the noon van. “I won’t have your last memory of Camp Dickinger being a re-enactment of Waiting for Godot in that damned quonset hut of an airport,” she said reassuringly. It wasn’t a joke. The terminal actually was a renovated quonset hut from WWII. “Just hang out here and relax this afternoon. I’ll drive you to the plane myself later this evening.”
“Oh God! Thank you,” I breathed, the weight of hours of staring at corrugated tin lifting from my mind. Weirdly, I was suddenly almost happy about a seven hour delay, now thatI didn’t have to spend most of it in that damned airport.
I could have kissed Carol, I was so happy, but somehow, I did not think that would go over well.
Instead, I let out a deep, relieved breath and went to go play hackey sack, then corn hole with the dwindling group of counselors. The afternoon went wonderfully, actually. I had never departed late before, and found the lazy afternoon to be a really pleasant experience. Bob would hang out with us between trips and crush all comers at corn hole. Carol ran out of things to do as well and played a little hackey sack, though not very well. None of us guys minded that whenever the sack went in her direction we had to usually start over. Carol looked great just moving, much less lunging. She and Bob were still in their camp uniforms of orange shorts and logo tees, and Carol looked just great bouncing around. I had had about eighty times more sexual activity, of infinitely higher quality, than I had expected for this summer, and my testosterone was still running freely. I may or may not have knocked the sack Carol’s way more than was strictly necessary.
And then, just like that, Bob had changed into nice clothes and was shepherding the last group of counselors into the van. When they were all loaded, Bob waved at Carol, who was over by the checkout tent, and took off down the winding road.
Suddenly, it felt a little sad and lonely, even a little creepy. I felt the need to busy myself, so I collected the corn hole equipment and carried it over to the lockers. Professional workmen would come in as early as the next day to pack the big stuff off to a warehouse, and bring in other equipment for the luxury roughing-it corporate retreats that over the winter would supplement the camp’s ledgers, but I wanted to see things tidy before I left forever.
When I closed the locker, Carol called me over. “Let me finish your check-out paperwork, Casper,” she said. “That way I can close up this box and be done with work.”
I happily set to signing the last forms, and my final reports. My mood was pretty damned awesome, actually.