I'd Rather Die Than Eat Camp Food

I wanted to go back so badly. I yearned for the sunburned shoulders, tanned faces, messy buns, and even the bell we could never hear. You could not even imagine such an amazing place like Tagonda, unless you’ve been there. And every time I explained it to someone, they gave me the same baffled expression and asked why I’d ever want to spend even a minute without A/C and no cell service in the middle of nowhere. I had to explain to them that nothing else in the world compares to camp and the friends you make there; they just didn’t get it. There’s something about the “poopy” colored cabins mixed together with the everyday craziness that drew me in. Like a moth attracted to the cabin after canteen, I flew through life trying to find something I’m attracted to as much as camp. It was my light pulling me through the year because I know every summer I get to go back. Or at least I used to know that.

Two months ago in the middle of May, Mary Percs was hired to work as part of Camp Tagonda's kitchen staff. She was a short, portly woman with a faint Russian accent. She was one of the sweetest people I’ve ever met, always wearing her jolly smile. Ms. Percs gave herself the funniest nickname, “Large Tush” Ma Percs. My friends and I made our way to the dinner line and I quickly grabbed a faded blue tray and flashed Ma Percs a toothy smile as I got my semi-warm hamburger. We walked over to our table and sat down next to Holly, our favorite counselor. Everyone was famished due to all of the day’s action packed activities; earlier I rode a jet ski on my own. People chowed down as I sat there staring at the meat, as if! It looked like something my dog would drop on my backdoor step! When my entire cabin finished dinner (besides me), we headed back to 22A, when I heard loud groaning and crying from the cabins. I looked around, campers and counselors were dropping like flies. They crumpled to their knees on the dry, rocky dirt. Let’s just say their meal wasn’t down there for long.

I was confused, it seemed like I was the only one not suffering from this horrific illness. Their faces were pale as ghosts, with sweat soaking through their clothes. I was in a panic, no idea what to do, no cell phone service to make an emergency call. Then a light bulb went off; I sprinted up to the old golf course where I got one bar of service, that was all I needed. My fingers were trembling as I pressed the screen; 9-1-1. My voice cracked as I recited the address that I had memorized from the Camp Tagonda’s prominent song. It took an elongated 20 minutes for the first ambulance to arrive. I was in hysterics, that is until I passed out from anxiety. 

When I came to, I was informed by the doctors that the campers had all died from cyanide found in the hamburgers. I was interrogated by a police officer that had a short grey beard and a small coffee stain on the right shirt pocket. He wasted no time, asking me if I had any information or knowledge about any possible suspects. The only person who survived was a fat woman who worked on the kitten staff he told me. She had claimed she couldn’t remember anything and was supposedly suffering from PTSD. “Large Tush” Ma Percs was the only counselor who fit that description, and the second I told the officer, he left the room and told me he would only be a few minutes.  It felt like a millennium by the time he returned. He had gone into the database to search for any type of information about Ms. Percs. The officer found no one by that name.  A cold chil went down my back as the words escaped his lips. When I went home I typed her name into the Google search bar, anything at all could help. As my fingers slid across the keyboard, I noticed there was an unusual pattern in her name. I wrote it down, just how I had seen it done in cop shows, and right before my eyes, the truth unfolded.  “Large Tush” Ma Percs, was not a nickname at all. Unscrambled it read a message; slaughter campers.