"What's in these cookies?" I asked, craning my neck upwards.
My voice was soft and pitiful, like a mouse arranging a peace treaty with a cat. The hulking teenager at the head of the chow line looked down, unaware of how difficult it had been to ask the question and how absolutely essential it was to get a straight answer.
"These ones are spiders and these ones are bugs," the comedian told me, gesturing to the two plates of cookies.
I was a small boy, torn from televised pro wrestling, and to a lesser extent, my parents, and plunked down in the middle of Ukrainian camp. Why my parents chose Ukrainian camp and whether that camp became independent upon the dissolution of Soviet Union camp, I will never know.
I'm not sure how young I was, but I was too shy to ask a follow-up question of the gawky teen who ruled the line and too ravenous for sugar to walk out of the cafeteria without a cookie. I gambled on the arachnids.
Spiders, it turns out, were peanut butter cookies. I have a peanut allergy. Nausea ensued. My eyes filled with tears as the green grass, wooden canoes, and tall trees of the camp were suddenly distorted and ugly, like the world seen through greased Saran Wrap. Buckets were deployed, a quarantine created.
Some children love camp. Some of us survive it.
