In 2003, Mark Berger retired as a guidance counselor and moved from Brooklyn to a rural community outside of Albany. In 2012, in a memoir writing class, he found his voice as a storyteller and uncovered a memory trove of personal stories, which SUNY Press published as Something’s Happening Here: A Sixties Odyssey from Brooklyn to Woodstock.
His second memoir, Going Country, is ready for submission to publishers.
All's Fair
By Mark Berger
In the summer before eleventh grade, I make the fateful decision to get a job as a camper-waiter in Connecticut, instead of going with my Brooklyn buddies to do the same work in the Catskills.
Arriving at Camp Welcome, I discover that almost all the other waiters are pals from Manhattan. Moose is their appropriately named leader and, between us, it’s hate at first sight.
Conrad, our counselor, takes me aside, “Berger, you’ll work the staff table. You start a half hour earlier, but you finish earlier, too. It’s going to take a while before you’re accepted by Moose and the boys.”
I say, “I’m trying to be friendly, but their circle is locked solid.”
“Give it time.”
I befriend Danny, another outsider, from Long Island, who spends his free time reading about World War II.
A week later, I awaken in the middle of the night badly needing to pee. As a prank, someone’s put my fingers in a bowl of warm water to make me wet myself. I rush to the bathroom just in time.
The following week, my alarm rings at 6:30, instead of 6. I’m late. I throw on my clothes and race down to the mess hall, but it’s dark and empty. The illuminated clock inside reads 4:30. I’ve been tricked again. Getting back in bed, I hear muffled laughter.
I don’t report either incident. Days later, entering the bunkhouse, I see my mattress has been hoisted onto the rafters. The Manhattan crew pretends not to notice; I do the same. I turn around and go to the waterfront and sit.
Danny wanders down. “You were so cool. Conrad made them put it back.”
“I may be outnumbered, but I won’t crack,” I say.
“In World War II, the underground would stage commando raids.”
“To make mischief?”
“That too, but mainly to disrupt the order of things.”
“I’d like to knock that cocky look off Moose’s face,” I say.
“A worthy purpose.”
The following morning, I take notice of the camp pickup truck parked outside the kitchen. The door’s unlocked and the ignition key is dangling from the ashtray. Aha.
I go into the food storage locker to see what’s there. Suspended on hooks are six salamis and the shelves are stocked with boxes of snack food. Aha, aha.
I devise a plan and tell it to Danny. concluding with, “Moose and his bozos will be blamed, but not us, because we don’t count.”
Danny says, “If we get caught, goodbye Camp Welcome.”
“You in?” I ask.
We shake hands.
Thursday at 4 a.m., it’s on.
Sliding into the truck. Danny starts it up and we roll quietly down the hill, parking at the rec hall. Next, we head to the kitchen. With my scout knife, I unlatch the door. We stuff four salamis and two boxes of snack packs into a large trash bag. We add rocks to weigh it down, tie it shut, and drop it in the lake. It plops and sinks. At 4:35, we’re back in bed.
After breakfast, Conrad tells all the waiters to report to the rec hall. Joshua, the camp director, is fuming. “Last night, something unforgivable happened. One person, but likely more, stole the camp truck and pilfered food from the kitchen. I’m certain the perpetrators are among you.”
Conrad adds, “If you know about this, you must come forward.”
Joshua says, “Until it’s resolved, you’ll all be restricted to the bunk after meals and at nighttime.”
Moose raises his hand. “Why’re you blaming us?”
“Who else?” the director asks. “Moose, I’ve noticed how you swagger around here, like you own the place.”
Looking at the rest of us, Moose declares, “It’s not fair.”
Nodding in agreement, I say, “You’re telling me.”