Four Weeks, Five People. Jennifer Yu
not going to say that I don’t have a problem, because that would be kind of ridiculous at this point. I mean, I’m here, right? Camp Ugunduzi. I came willingly. I said okay when my parents suggested it and told them I would work on my issues and meant it. I’m not even angry about the fact that we’re in the middle of nowhere. Or that they took our phones away. Or that we’re not going to have internet and I’m not going to be able to jam with the guys for, like, four weeks. I’ll take that if it means I can bring myself to eat a burger and fries when I get back.
And it’s not like it’s not nice here. They’ve gathered all the campers on the grass by the lake so that the director can give some kind of speech before we break into our groups, and I have to admit, it’s pretty much just as beautiful as the brochure promised it would be. This is the kind of place artists go when they need quiet inspiration. When they’re sick of playing distorted power chords all day long and want to do something acoustic, something peaceful. I sit down on the grass, head filled with melodies and choruses and wishing I had brought my notebook out with me so that I could get it all down before they disappear. Inspiration is like that. There, and then, all of a sudden, gone.
By the time the director finally joins us, there’s about fifty people out on the grass. Some of them have formed small clusters and are talking to each other, but most people, like me, are just sort of staring into the distance. And then there’s this deafening screeching that I’d recognize anywhere as microphone feedback. For a second, it’s almost like I’m back in Aidan’s basement, plugging in all the amps and messing around with mics before a show. It’s a sound I’ve grown weirdly fond of, considering how awful it sounds. But then the director starts talking, and I snap out of it.
“Welcome to Camp Ugunduzi,” he says. “My name is Dr. Ash Palmer, and I’m the director here.”
The first thing I notice about this man is that everything about him is gray. Gray hair, gray eyes, gray suit. Even his voice, which is low and deep and gravelly, makes me think of the color gray.
“I could not be more thrilled to be starting the fifth year of our wonderful pilot program with you,” Dr. Palmer says. Which sounds great and all, except it would be impossible for this guy to look any less thrilled. Seriously. Dr. Palmer looks like one of those dudes who is literally not capable of smiling.
“Unfortunately, my position as director means that, for the most part, I won’t be seeing much of you over the course of the next few weeks. With that in mind, I thought long and hard about what I wanted to say this afternoon.
“Foreboding warnings against misbehavior and disobedience seemed like a bad way to begin what I hope—and I certainly know you all hope—will be a positive experience. Attempts to find some sort of grand, overarching teaching message that would apply to a group as complex and diverse as you seemed infantilizing, not to mention destined to fail. And the usual cliché words of encouragement—well, I’m sure you’re all sick of hearing those.”
At this point, I’m pretty confused. I mean, is he trying to be nice? Is he trying to be strict? Is he trying to intimidate us? Does anyone know? I look around the circle. Based on the looks on everyone else’s faces, the answer is definitely not.
“So I thought I would leave my opening dramatics to this, and leave the rest to our terrific, incredible staff,” Dr. Palmer continues. “For many of you, Camp Ugunduzi is a land of unknown. You may feel apprehensive, unsure, perhaps even scared, about what the next few weeks will entail. For others, it is a place where you’ve come to identify and address your problems. Your time here may hold many challenges, but you’ve come determined to confront them as best you can. Whatever role Camp Ugunduzi may play in each of your individual lives, I hope that for all of you it means an opportunity. To heal. To change. And, ultimately, to grow.”
Dr. Palmer does one last sweeping look across everyone gathered outside. Then he nods. “With that, I take my leave. You should now find your way to your group leaders, who are stationed around the area with signs with their group number on them.”
I stand up and start walking toward the woman standing next to the water with a giant 1L sign. Then I watch as everyone else finds their own group: clusters form around the 1R sign, then 2L, then 2R, then 3L, and so on until all ten signs are surrounded by five or six campers. But even as I look around, trying to take everything in at once, my head is still on Dr. Palmer, in his gray suit, giving his speech in his gray, gray voice. It was nothing unusual, I know. I shouldn’t even be thinking about it. Just standard stuff that you’d expect to hear on the first day of camp—about how we’re going to grow, and change, and help each other solve all of our problems and whatever else. It’s stuff that should make me excited actually—because this is why my parents sent me. Because this is why I came.
But the thing is, there’s a part of me that’s scared. There’s a part of me that doesn’t want to grow, or change, or let anyone help me get through this stupid problem. Because sometimes it feels like it’s everything I have. Or everything I even am. And sometimes, like the nights before shows and the moments after eating something I know I really shouldn’t have and when I’m counting my ribs as I’m lying in bed, I can’t think of who I’d be without it.
Here is the exposition:
FADE IN:
EXT. CAMP UGUNDUZI MAIN GROUNDS—DAY
A field of grass.
The sun is shining. The air is warm. There is no noise other than the chirping of birds, the rustle of leaves in the wind, the occasional crack of branches from the forest in the distance. All is calm. All is beautiful. All is perfect. Well, except—
PAN to reveal the UGUNDUZI 1L BLOCK: five unhappy campers standing in a circle and looking like they’re facing certain death. One of them, lanky with brown hair and green eyes, grimaces.
BEN (V.O.)
Yeah, so that’s me.
This isn’t as weird as it seems.
Think about watching a movie. Think about the feeling you get when you’re actually in the theater, watching stuff happen on-screen. You’re invested, right? You want to know what happens. You like the characters, or you hate them, or you want them to hook up, or you want one of them to kill the other, or you want everyone to kill everyone else because they’re all imbeciles (I call this last one the Michael Bay effect). The point is, you care about them as if they’re real humans. You react emotionally to the things they do as if they’re real humans. But at the same time, you know, in your mind, that they’re not actually real humans. You know that in half an hour, or an hour, or two hours, or way too many hours (Michael Bay effect again here), the lights are going to come back on, and the universe you’ve just been lost in for however long is going to disappear, and all of the people you just rooted for or cheered against or lusted after are going to vaporize, too. And so, while you care, there’s always a part of you that’s holding back. And sometimes, that part of you is strong enough to drown out everything else you’re feeling in a sea of indifference.
That’s what moments like this feel like. People always say that dissociation is when things don’t feel “real,” and I used to say that, too. But then I realized—that’s not true. I know that I’m standing outside in the middle of a state park in upstate New York, and that I’m with four other people, and that we’re all furiously avoiding eye contact with each other while waiting for the adults to start talking and tell us what to do, and that I would do anything to disappear and be somewhere else right now. Life doesn’t get much realer than that.
What it does feel like is that, at any moment, the lights will come on and the credits will play and I’ll be put out of my troubled, awkward, unavoidably real misery. Sure, I’m so panicked that I can barely breathe right now, but just wait until the act-two turn! And yeah, I’m positive that everyone can already tell how terrified and pathetic I am, but I’m sure it’ll all get sorted out in the closing pages of act three. Whatever mortifying thing I’m about to do or say,