For our class trip our brilliant adviser Mr. Bailey decided it would be fun to go camping. We looked around at one another, everyone had that laid-back whatever-dude look on their faces. Camping? Seriously?
He had to be joking. Only I never knew Mr. Bailey to be funny. Sure his high-water pants and broken glasses with duct tape were laughable.
But funny? Bah! I knew cockroaches with more comedic skills in their chitinous bodies. The whole idea was absurd. Mr. Bailey was nipping the sap in the teacher’s lounge like old Mrs. Wright. Who can forget the time she fell asleep at her desk? That’s right. Nobody!
But when it came time for our class trip, it turned out Mr. Bailey was seriously not funny. He had meant it. He had it all planned out. I shook my head. Camping.
Like we were going to go out in nature and learn something or something. I should have had my cousin—the macho one on the police force with all the hand-cuffs and stuff—come in and give our teacher a breathalyzer. Lunacy. I lived in mortal fear for weeks. I begged my mom to not let me go. I threatened to run away with the circus. I always wanted to be shot out of a cannon.
Finally, the day of doom descended. C-Day. The day to go camping.
The whole class piled into the short bus, did several laps around the block, and we disembarked upon the far side of our athletic fields.
Mr. Bailey was already there and started handing out our camping gear. He should have asked a math teacher though. We didn’t have enough tents.
“Improvise. Improvise,” he said walking around like a ostrich.
“Three to a tent?” I asked my buddies.
Orville and Red just shrugged.
“Do you think we’re all going to fit?”
They shrugged again.
Once the tent was up we all wedged inside. Tight like sardines in a can.
We were watching Mr. Bailey spill marshmellows when Orville just smiled contentedly and calmly let one rip in our tent.
That’s when we really knew it was going to be a great weekend.
Picture linked via The Write Prompts.