Saturday 21st August 2010

If I used all of my pissed off energy right now, I’d make my suitcase trot after me without needing a touch. I’d open a ferris wheel at a fun fair and only charge people in bad jokes and bad dance moves. I’d load up my Macbook with hours and hours of battery and watch 12 Audrey Tatou films and call all of my Skype contacts and blog in the best detail ever written. If I could use all of my pissed off energy right now, I’d send a thousand mechanic birds, their beaks snapping in savage elation, tearing like darts into that man, that fucking twat of a man, who has just made me miss my train. Shit.

It’s 4:30am.

I’m freezing. I’m hungry. I am 100% knackered. I stagger to the desk, turn off my alarm and stumble like a zombie to the office. From there I ring the taxi firm, book my cab for 5am and then grumbling, make my way back to the infirmary.

Back inside, I grope about for my clothes on the floor, get dressed and quietly start packing away the remainder of my things. Anthony and Rickey don’t even stir as I gather my bedding and take my suitcase to the drive. I wake them up for a final goodbye- both have already told me that they won’t remember the farewell when they actually wake up- advise them to stay away from men with guns in New York and enjoy groggy hugs before slipping outside into the darkness.

I wait by the house, my eyes harassed by weariness. I wait under the light where I can see the whole camp looming up at me from the dark. I wait. I wait. I wait.

By 5:04am, I know something’s up. I dash inside and call the firm.

‘He came to pick you up and you weren’t there!’
‘I’ve been stood here for 10 minutes’.
‘He waited by the road, you weren’t there, so he left’.
‘Well I’m not by the road, I’m by the house’.
I try to keep my cool.
‘It’s 5 o’clock in the morning- do you expect me to walk down a pitch black drive to the road?’
‘It’s not my problem’.
‘Yes it is. I have a train to catch in ten minutes and I need a taxi now’.
‘Ah, yes, yes. I’ll send one back now’.

The panic starts to set in. My train leaves Middletown station at 5:18am. It is never late, it is always on time and it is coming in 12 minutes.

I stand waiting and the minutes just spew away- they’re on my hands, they’re on the pavement, they’re all over my luggage and there’s nothing I can do to stop them. By 5:09am, my hands start to sweat, my heart starts to thump and the fury is building in my head. I grab my suitcase and hoist it behind me. There is no way in hell that I’m walking down that dark drive and the playground is my next safest bet.

My suitcase feels like I’ve packed up all the stones from the creek. I’m tearing past the monkey bars thinking ‘please don’t come and drive past me, please don’t come now’. As I heave my case up the hill to the road, the car lights from the road glare down at me and I think ‘this is not cool. I’m a girl, standing on the side of an empty road in the middle of the night with thousands of pounds of goods on her and I’ve got 7 minutes to get to a train station.’

At 5:12am, my phone is weeping from the international infliction and I’m weeping hot, angry tears to the man at the taxi firm.

‘The man came for you, it’s not my fault you were not there’.
I feel like screaming in the phone.
‘I’ve been here for over 20 minutes, my train leaves in 5 and I’ve got a flight to catch. I need a taxi right now’.
‘He will be there soon, I guess’.
I wish phones would let you squeeze your hands through the receiver and punch the person on the other end. I want to kick his eyes out.

The man’s still blabbering on when I see it, the taxi rolls open and I hang up the phone, throw my suitcase in the backseat and jump in the front and shout-

‘Train station, now!’
‘When’s your train?’
‘5:18’.
‘It’s 5:14! Shit!’

We’re flying down the road, we dodging traffic; we are definitely and most certainly speeding. The driver cuts two red lights and swerves past Sam’s Club. It’s 5:17 and I know we’re close. He pelts through the car park, turns at the stop and shouts ‘can you see it?’ and I look down at the station and it’s there. The train is there. He urges the car forward as my heart is having spasms. Half of me is saying ‘it’s here, it’s here, it’s okay, it’s here’ and the other half of me is saying ‘it’s about to leave, it’s about to leave, it’s about to bloody leave’. As we screech to a halt, I look up and the train starts to stir-
‘No, no no-'

My hand flies to the handle, I throw it back, I sling myself forward and as I feel the protest of stone against my feet, I see it moving. It’s shitting moving. I flail my arms in the air, I’m getting closer, they’ve got to see me, please stop! I catch the eye of the train warden by the hatch- he looks back at me- I scream ‘STOP!’- he looks down the train- I scream ‘STOP!’ again and-

The train keeps moving.
It keeps moving.
It keeps moving.

I let my hands fall to my head and I’m speechless. I’m angry and I’m crying. I’m shocked and I’m livid. I’m freezing, I’m hungry and I am 100% knackered.

The taxi driver doesn’t know what to do or say as I just stand there, despising the train, loathing the man and at a complete loss. Finally, when the train has disappeared, I ask-
‘How much does it cost to drive to Newark Airport?’
‘About $150’.
‘Shit’.

I run to the schedule.

‘Can we catch it up at Suffern?’
‘We can sure try’.
‘How much is that going to cost me?’
‘About $75’.
I curse.
‘Fine. Let’s go’.

We run back to the car and again we’re racing, chasing the train down. As I sit in the passenger seat the radio goes and that man, that imbecilic twat of a man, calls-

‘Did she get there?'
‘No, she just missed it and now can’t get to her flight on time’.
‘It’s her own fault. I sent someone to her. She didn’t tell me she had a train to catch’.

I want to reach out and rip the radio out of its socket. I want to bash it into the dashboard. I want to scream curse words down the line, push my hands through the receiver and throttle him.

I sit in silence.
The driver calls him a dick and I laugh.
‘That, my friend, is an understatement’.

Ten minutes later, the driver radios for the train schedule and thinks he can make it to Harriman before the train does. We zig along the intersection and zag through the cars on the highway. At 5:46 we arrive at Harriman, a cool 4 minutes before the train. I tug my luggage out of the back seat- there’s grass everywhere- and I thank the man profusely before handing him over a crisp fifty. Fifty dollars gone in 25 petrol minutes.

I’ve enough time to buy my ticket and as I grapple it from the machine, the train pulls in. I drag my case on behind me and collapse into a seat. I catch my reflection in the window and I look terrible. I’m pale, my hair’s everywhere and there are large bags etched into my skin like sallow smudges of my frazzled eyes but alas, I’m here and that’s what counts.

I’m now sat in McDonalds in Newark Airport. I’m no longer pissed off. I’m no longer cold. I’m no longer hungry but good god I’m tired. The irony here is that it’s now 8:16am and I don’t even fly until 11:40. If I were to have got the 7:52am train, I would have just missed my check in. Now, I’m wishing more than anything that I would have taken that chance. If I had, right now I’d be sat on the train with Rickey and Anthony laughing about everything that’s happened this summer.

However, I’m sat here with my large Sprite and I’m content. I’m happy because I successfully finished camp without killing any children. I’m thankful for all the wonderful people that I’ve met through the course of these 9 weeks. I’m proud to have looked over many brilliant kids who have probably taught me more than I’ve taught them.

I don’t like getting sentimental but if I don’t reflect now, I fear I never will. So here we have it, the time has come! I tilt my hat and raise my Sprite to you and cheer ‘Braeside Camp! For all the running, the swinging, the moaning, the whinging, the cray fishing, the feather sticking, the gossiping, the cursing, the yellow t-shirt wearing, the ‘sneaker’ throwing, the carb eating, the chocolate craving, the laughing, the crying, the singing, the dancing, the winning, the losing, the kids and the counsellors- I bloody salute you all! You’ve done my summer good and proud and for that, I’ll never forget’.

Now down that drink and get some shuteye, for another disorganised adventure awaits! Oh Atlanta, sweet Atlanta! My beautiful second home where the peaches are peachy and the cobbler is gobblin’ good. It's 5 more days until ol' Blight calls and then my friends, this blog will be over and my 'real life' will begin. Am I ready for it? Probably not- so I'll just have to bloody enjoy my last few days of frolicking about in this fantasy land and take each day as it goes.