Frexh Squeezed O.J.

            by Jacob Shandling

 

            I stepped out into the shivering cold of a typical Oakland morning. The sky was roofed in gray clouds as far as the eye could see, and a chilling breeze blew in from the Bay.  I pulled my duffel bag out of the trunk and lugged it to the back of the bag check in line for Southwest Airlines.

            “Hey, dude” an unexpected voice said from behind me. I turned around to see my friend Kenny just pulling his stuff in line behind me.

            “O hey watsup man,” I said.

            “Dude I’m so tired. I finished packing at like two last night”
            “Damn that sucks. I got mine done pretty early. Dude I’m so juiced for camp”

            “Hell yea I know,” he agreed. Then Ya’ir  (pronounced “Yaah – EAR”), who went by Ya-Ya, and Noah arrived a few spots back in line, but they cut right in with us.

            Noah came and towered over us. “Jacob! Kenny! Wassup my brothas!”

            “Noah Belkin, watsup man! Damn dude you’ve grown hella much. How’s it goin’ Ya-Ya?”

            “Jacob Shandling; how are you?” Ya-Ya greeted me in his signature fatherly voice. Ya-Ya had hit puberty about 3 times by the time everyone else was just in the middle of their first and only go, and his voice and body showed it.

            We got our bags checked in and met up with the rest of the kids from Northern California that went to Camp Ramah in Ojai, which is a roughly two hour drive out of L.A.

            On the plane the air was buzzing with excitement for another summer at camp of chilling, doing activities, breaking rules, and all the fun stuff to do at camp. But especially for Kenny, Noah, Sam, Ya’ir (Ya-ya), and me. We were in Machon, our last year at camp, and we knew that we would own the camp, get to do the most fun activities, have the least restrictions, and get the chillest counselors. Machon was the final step, what, essentially, campers are preparing for every other year of camp. EVERYONE was expected to come back for their final summer at camp in Machon.

            After the 45-minute plane flight and hour-long bus ride through the endless orange groves of Ojai, we arrived at camp. As the bus began its descent into camp, I saw the familiar Camp Ramah that I hadn’t seen in two years. There was the big grassy hill in the center of camp, the dining hall with its home-made “Ga-Ga” (the ball game) court, the boys’ and girls’ tents, and, way over past the baseball field, the forbidden orange grove. The orange grove spanned the entire length of camp, separated only by a wooden fence. Camp Ramah had recently bought the orange grove from its previous owners, and set one strict guideline regarding it: never, EVER go into the grove. So expectedly it had become a bigger draw to campers than anything else at camp.

            When we reached camp, all the age groups were called off of the bus, youngest to oldest. “Giborei!”,  “Adat Shalom!”, “Solelim!”, “Tzofim!”. The five of us were the last left on the bus. And finally “Machon!!!” and we got up and proudly walked off of the bus, knowing that this summer, we owned the camp, to join all the rest of the “Machonies”, as the oldest kids at camp were called.

            As soon as we stepped off of the bus, the sounds of crazy counselors and excited campers, cheesy Israeli music, and the heat of a southern Californian summer hit us. All of the kids I had spent the last 3 years at camp with were outside bursting with excitement, just like us Nor Cal kids, for our senior year at camp. Everyone wanted to know who was back again this year, who had been so weird as not to come back for Machon summer, and, being at the ripe ages of 14 and 15, to see who had changed how much and in what ways. Lots to get done. But all this had to wait.

            We made our way to where we were told to go and met one of our counselors.

            “Hey! My favorite kids! How’s it going?”

            “What? You’re our counselor this year too?” Kenny exclaimed.

            “Yea! We’re gonna have a blast. Me and Mike have some tight shit planned out for this year”

            Apparently David Linder (he went by Linder because, at a Jewish camp, “David” isn’t exactly the most rare name) had been my friends’ counselor the previous year, when I hadn’t been at camp, so I was the only one meeting him for the first time.

            “Hey I’m Linder, you must be Jacob?”

            “Yea hey nice to meet you.”

            “Okay guys, I’d like you to meet my co-counselor,        Mike,” Linder said as he pulled out a white board with a smiley face with glasses and the name “Mike” drawn on it. Now of course this wasn’t the real Mike, and everyone knew there was a real person named Mike from the letter that had been sent out before camp naming each person’s counselors, but I wasn’t quite sure this was the case and couldn’t figure out if Mike was real, or if Linder was our only counselor and he was playing a joke on us.

            So we all sat down with Mike the whiteboard in the seat next to Linder at the first dinner of camp. The head of camp stood up on a table to attempt the near impossible feat of getting the entire camps’ attention away from talking to all the people they hadn’t seen all year.

            “Machane Ramah!” (meaning “Camp Ramah!”) he shouted over the sea of campers. No one paid attention.

            “Machane Ramah!” he tried again. Finally he just began his speech, gave up, and let the campers eat and socialize.

            I leaned over to whisper in Ya-Ya’s ear, “Wait what is our counselor’s name again?”

            “Linder,” he reminded me with a laugh.

            After a while Linder got us to listen up.

            “Hey guys, so here’s what’s up. All the other tents are having their tent activities tonight, so we have to do something also.”

            Everyone looked surprised. We “have to” do something? Shouldn’t he want to do something? Is our counselor a lazy guy who doesn’t want to have any fun? But Linder continued and everyone understood.

            “But tonight isn’t going to be our REAL first tent activity. We’re just gonna do some little fun thing tonight, just to fill in our scheduling. Mike gets to camp tomorrow, so tomorrow night is when we are going to have the real thing.”

            “So what’s the activity?” Kenny asked the question on everyone’s mind.

            “You’ll see,” Linder replied with one of his signature wide grins that could have any number of meanings.

            After dinner we all walked to the tent. I immediately went to my bed and opened my duffel bag; no one had as of yet had a chance to unpack. We all began putting our clothes in the shelves, making our beds, hanging towels, setting up fans, and doing everything required to set up a real camp tent (the “tents” we stayed in were like bunks with canvas roofs, not what you probably thought of when you heard “tent”).

            “Hey guys!”

            “Nor Cal boys, heeeeeey!”

            “Watsuuuup!” went the familiar greetings of fellow campers dropping by to visit friends they hadn’t seen all year (or two in my case). This was the first “free” time everyone had had, and people wanted to go around and see their old friends, and if not friends, then at least who had come back for Machon year.

            After setting up our cribs, all of Machon went to the first Edah (age groups) gathering in the BKR, an octagonal building in the middle of the main grassy hill of camp where Machon meets. Finally, all of Machon was together in one place, and the cacophony in the room showed how excited everyone was to be there. After about ten minutes’ worth of beginning-of-camp babble, Hillary, our Rosh Edah (Head of the Age Group, in our case of Machon), finally stood up on one of the many art-covered benches and yelled until she had everyone’s attention.

            “Welcome, Machon!” she projected her greeting throughout the room, eliciting a response of cheers and whistles. “My name is Hillary and I’m your Rosh Edah for this summer.” She then proceeded to give the standard speech of welcomes, rules, schedules, assignments, requests, boundaries, and all the other basics you would expect to hear in a start-of-camp speech.

            After the meeting, we went and did our “Tent Activity,” which consisted of playing music in the tent, eating candy, playing cards, and doing some real hardcore kickin’ it. Linder had brought a vintage “Sheshpesh,” also known as backgammon, set, and, as happened every summer at Camp Ramah, I re-learned how to play the game, which I always forgot how to play as soon as I left camp. This cycle of knowing/not-knowing how to play sheshpesh gave the game a really sentimental feeling, and learning how to play it again brought back the feeling of Camp. And, of course, I loved it.

            Finally, after our first half day of camp, it was time to “go to sleep.” Everyone grabbed their toiletry baskets, an odd commodity strangely popular at camp, and headed for the bathroom to brush, floss, and wash up. Once all were done with the nightly routine, we got into our beds, and lay in bed for a while with the giddy excitement of a first night at camp, before sleep overcame us.

            The next morning, as the alarm set to play John Mayer went off for the first of what would be every morning that summer, all of my tent felt that shock that anyone who has been to camp must surely know of waking up the first morning, expecting to be in your own bed and house, then noticing the oddly colored ceiling of a bunk-bed, and suddenly remembering where you are; it is both a discomforting and invigorating feeling. All of us campers got right up and off to their showers, which were surprisingly clean for camp showers. When everyone was back in the room, we noticed that Linder was still fast asleep, a characteristic of his we would get used to and make fun of for the rest of the summer. After much screaming, slapping and shaking, Linder finally got pissed enough to get up.

            We sat down at our table for breakfast, and found, as you might expect for the first breakfast of camp, a scrumptious meal in front of us. “Oh damn, Croissants!” I said enthusiastically when we saw what was on the tables. “ I’ve missed these things.” Croissants and jam, usually served on Thursday mornings, was the favorite meal of nearly every camper; the camp cooks really knew how to make them well. Another camp specialty was the fresh squeezed orange juice made from oranges fresh from the camp’s orange grove that we got every morning. Ya-ya got the first cupful.

            “Oh god. This is incredible! Oh how I’ve missed you, camp Ramah,” he said after he took the first sip of the elixir. Everyone followed suit, and had somewhat similar reactions.

            We went about our first day of camp, getting reacquainted with other camp friends and with the camp itself.

            As we entered the dining hall for lunch, we saw a dreaded main course sitting on our table; pizza. Camp Ramah’s pizza was notoriously terrible, and most of us decided to have a healthy salad for lunch instead.

             “Me and Mike will be right back,” Linder told us as he got up and grabbed Mike the whiteboard. We continued eating and chatting.

            “Hey, hey guys, where’s Linder?” Kenny noticed as other tents began leaving their tables and moseying off to wherever they felt like chilling for the rest hour after lunch.

            “Oh shit son, I dunno. I forgot he left,” said Noah. “Whatever, lets just go chill around the tents.” So we all went back to the tent to do whatever.

A half-hour later, Linder walked into the tent with a short blonde guy wearing some classy lookin' glasses.

            “Hey guys, I’d like you to meet Mike,” Linder said with a broad feline grin.

            “Hey watsup guys,” Mike said in his soon to be so familiar scratchy nasally deep voice.

            “Hey I’m Jacob.” We shook hands.

            “Kenny.”

            “Sam.” Ya-Ya and Noah were off doing something, and everyone else was asleep.

            “Ok so now that I’m actually here, and not just a,” he glanced at the whiteboard on Linder’s bed, laughed, “whiteboard…god this guy is ridiculous,” as he patted Linder on the back, and they both started laughing again, then continued, “We can talk about our tent activity, but only once everyone is back.” We were eager to hear what we’d be doing tonight, since Linder hadn’t been letting on at all as to what the activity might be.

            Everyone was in the tent except for Noah and Ya-Ya, so Kenny and I went out to look for them. We walked around for a few minutes but to no avail, and returned to the tent. They were there, so Mike and Linder told us that, although they knew it was aggravating, all they could tell us was to wear all dark clothing to the activity.

            So after a fun filled day of camp, a delicious dinner, and some relaxing, it was time to get ready. Not having any black pants, I grabbed the darkest pair of blue jeans I had, threw on a black T-shirt, black sweatshirt, and my black beanie, and tied up my black sneakers.

            Everyone emerged from the tent looking like depressed emo kids, and we headed over to the picnic table where Mike and Linder were meeting us. Everyone gathered around the table as Mike ran about 100 yards away to check our visibility.

            “I can only see you guys if I really try,” Mike reported as he returned to the group.

            “Great. Ok guys, here’s the plan,” Linder started to speak. “We are going to sneak into the orange grove.” Although literally every camper had gone into the grove at least once by their Machon year, the idea of going with counselors was incredibly weird and exciting. “Anyone feels too uncomfortable, they can go back to the tent.”

            “That’s against the rules!” exclaimed David. David was that kid who always bitches out of things, and no one was surprised at his objection. But finally we all got David’s balls to drop and he was in on the plan.

            “So,” Linder began, “We are gonna infiltrate the grove at exactly 2300 hours. That gives us a half hour to get ready,” Linder then set into a grave looking face, and Mike took over.

            “Jacob and Ya-Ya, you guys are going to be our eyes, and Sam, you are the optical nerve.”

            “Hahaha you’re such a nerd Mike,” said Noah. A quick slap to the back of Noah’s head sent the two play fighting until Mike finally got Noah into a secure headlock, and Noah was put back in his place. Mike and Linder explained the rest of the plan, and it was go time.

***************

            Ya-Ya and I ran back to the tent as the rest of the team headed for the section of fence we were to crawl under. We swung open the tent flap, grabbed our flashlights, and bolted right back out to meet up with the others.

            I stopped about 20 yards on one side of the group, and Ya-Ya about the same distance on the other side. I looked around, didn’t see a soul, and gave the group three long flashes. A second later I saw Ya-Ya do the same. Sam must have seen us both because as soon as Ya-Ya gave his half of the O.K. signal, I could vaguely make out Kenny and Mike slithering under the fence.

            “O shit,” I whispered under my breath as I saw a figure pass by the road a few hundred feet from me. Luckily they continued walking away from us, and everything was ok.

            When I looked back to the group, I could only see 3 figures, excluding Ya-ya and I, standing on this side of the fence. Once everyone but Ya-Ya and me were under, the two of us bolted from our positions to the fence.

            I reached it first, and dropped onto my stomach much more violently than I had intended. Shrugging off the unexpected pain from the fall, I wriggled myself about half way under, and just as my jeans got stuck to the protruding metal wires of the fence, a hand on the other side grabbed mine and vigorously pulled me the rest of the way under, ripping a gash in the left leg of my pants.

            “O crap sorry man. Didn’t realize you were caught,” came Mikes voice from the unidentified body that had pulled me through.

            “It’s cool, don’t trip”

            I looked down and saw Ya-Ya’s torso pop through. I grabbed his hands, making sure he wasn’t caught on anything, and yanked him in.

            “Thanks buddy,” he said.

            We were finally in. I looked around and saw nothing but cold, suffocating darkness, until I spotted the flashlight-less (so as not to give away our presence to anyone who might walk by on the road outside) group in a patch of moonlight. Mike, Ya-Ya and I ran to meet up with them.

            “Follow me,” Linder whispered to the group. He pulled out a small flashlight, aimed it low to the ground, and led us straight into the rows of orange trees, which seemed surprisingly ghostly in the silvery moonlight.

            We walked for about a minute, jumping at every crack of a twig or crunch of a leaf, until Linder stopped and sat down.

            “Listen up,” he whispered. “Everyone go and pick 3 oranges and come back to the circle when you’re done.”

            We all went about our harvest, and sat back down. Linder pulled out 2 hand-held fruit squeezers and cups. Without a word, he passed the cups around the circle, and then did the same with the squeezers. All waited silently for each one’s turn, and after a long, silent while, everyone had a paper cup about ¾ filled with fresh orange juice. Silently Linder and Mike raised their cups and toasted, and the rest of us followed suite.

            As the sweet juice touched my lips, I felt a rush of happiness. I saw the long days of hiking, tennis tournaments, sneaking out at night, swimming, card playing, and tent activities. I silently looked around at my family away from home, and smiled. This was going to be a good summer.