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Camp jobs have lots of perks. A tiny little room with a single bed is one of them. Tall guys probably feel like lucky giants while their feet hang off the end of the mattress all night.
A ton of other guys share pretty much everything in camp except your pillow. But just last week, someone else had your pillow too. It’s quite the life.
That week, I checked into camp and got assigned a room way down in the “U” wing. It was as far away from the front desk as was possible. I didn’t mind the walk so much, but it was a long way from the smoke pit. Guess that cuts down how fast I’m gonna go through a pack, I thought.
That first couple of mornings, I went down to the dining hall and got my bacon and eggs. This joint liked to deep-fry the bacon, and they didn’t even separate it, so they throw a big clump of pork strips on the plate — the equivalent of one supermarket package per scoop. Start the day off with grease. That’s their motto.
Both mornings, I sat a couple of tables away from a cute blonde girl. I guessed she was a pipefitter with another crew. It seemed like I had a shot with her. Every day we made eye contact, and she smiled each time. She liked me! I figured the next morning, I was gonna ask to sit with her.
But that never happened.
Gang Bathrooms in the Hallway
Some camps give you your own tiny bathroom and complete privacy.
Other work camps have a “Jack and Jill” style setup, where a set of two rooms shares one bathroom between them. That’s not too bad unless you get stuck beside a greasy lowlife.
One time, I had a real big guy sharing my Jack and Jill bathroom. If you met him in the hallway, he had to turn sideways to get past you. There was nothing quiet about him, either. Every movement was a bang, a thud, or a smash.
He liked to get in our shared stall about 9:30 at night and drop a big load in the bowl. Okay, you gotta do what you have to do. But he would put his old lady on speakerphone so the two of them could yack real loud while he took a massive dump. Classy. Of course, you could hear THE WHOLE THING—only a bathroom door between me and heaven.
The camp I was in this time had the old, shittier setup. Way worse than the Jack and Jill bathroom.
Each bunk of 60 guys had eight individual shower stalls, in their own tiny bathroom with a locking door. Everyone tried to get these prime spots before they were full. Otherwise, you were stuck in a big room with a few urinals and sinks and some shower stalls. Much less private.
One thing you have to bring is shower shoes. You don’t want to pick up something funky off of a shower stall floor. Guys from all over the world come to these camps, and you gotta share the same surface with their diseased feet. I never used to worry about that, until I grew a gigantic wart right on the bottom of my foot. No one in my family ever had warts, so it had to be from camp. I hobbled around for days in agony. After that, I always made sure I brought a pair of Croc-type shoes to keep my feet safe. The ones I got were bright red, but who’s going to see them in the shower?
That morning, I jumped up early and headed for my morning splash-n-dash. My room was close to the stalls, so I grabbed my towel, shower shoes, and shaving kit and made a break for it. I was only wearing a pair of tightie whities and a towel. No point bringing a bunch of clothes and having them get all wet on the floor, right?
I was the first one there. Hardly anyone was up yet, the water was warm, and I had plenty of time. I enjoyed the shit out of that shower.
I got my ginch back on, that towel around my middle, and turned toward my room. That’s when I realized I screwed up. The doors were spring-loaded and locked automatically. Of course, I left my key in the room. I checked the knob: Locked. I couldn’t call for help, either. I had left my phone in the room beside the key.
I turned and looked down the hallway. No one else there. I sighed. There was no helping it; I had to walk down to security, all the way to the front of the building. I tucked that threadbare camp towel around my middle as tight as I could and marched double time in those sexy red crocs. Maybe no one I knew would see me.
Make the World Smile With Your Pain
I made so many people happy that morning. Who doesn’t love seeing a good fail-in-progress? As I headed straight for that security office, I passed about a hundred smiling faces. A couple of dudes clapped and cheered. I waved at them with my shaving kit and kept one hand on that towel to keep it from slipping loose.
The security guard behind the desk thought it was hilarious too. He filled out a form and asked for my supervisor’s name. No doubt so he could call him later and they could laugh at me together. I’m surprised he didn’t snap a pic with his phone, but the security cameras were probably on record.
Then he took a key and slowly walked back to the far end, in no hurry. A lot more people were up and about now, and the “U” wing seemed like forever away. I decided to pick up the pace and left the guard in the dust. He was taking too long and enjoying the spectacle.
The Towel Drops
Finally, back to the door to the “U” wing. I grabbed the handle, and my towel slipped free. With one hand on the door and the other on the shaving kit, I stood revealed in all my tightie whities glory.
I heard a loud female giggle behind me, where someone had come out of the doorway to the “V” wing. As I turned to grab my towel, I saw the blonde breakfast girl with a big grin on her face.
A part of me died inside.
She looked right at my white ginch and giggled again, then turned and went on her way. My face must have been the same shade as those red crocks. I got my towel sorted out and went to wait in front of my door. Soon enough, the security guard showed up and let me in. The walk of shame was over.
“In the future, I suggest you take your key with you,” he helpfully suggested something that had never occurred to me.
For the next week, I got lots of smiles and waves from people I didn’t know. But they knew me. I was the naked guy from the hallway.
I lived in fear of getting locked out of all kinds of things: My truck, my locker, but especially bedroom doors. The PTSD was real.
And I definitely didn’t dare sit in the dining room at breakfast again. She might be in there, and all she would see was some dumbass who got trapped outside his room in a white ginch and red crocs. I couldn’t take the chance.
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