At 11

1982


I’m away from home on a week-long field trip with my sixth-grade class, and two girls (popular) have just asked me (unpopular) if I want to get high with them. Smoke the pot. Toke the reefer. Of course I said, "Sure." I like Guinevere and Lara, and I’d probably agree to do anything they asked. "Hey, Erv, you wanna come sacrifice seven chickens and drink the blood in the name of Satan?" Sure thing! "Hey, Erv, you wouldn’t mind if we both peed on you, right?" I don’t mind!

I’m a sucker for a pretty girl. An absolute idiot for a couple of pretty girls.

I don’t really want to smoke the pot, but I want to be around Guinevere and Lara when they smoke the pot. I’ve heard that girls get horny when they’re stoned and maybe, once the marijuana kicks in, they’ll both realize that they really want to make-out with me. That they really want to let me fondle their newly-blossomed boobs. Really want to put their hands down my pants. Want to get naked and roll around with me in the woods.

Honestly, of the two of them only Guinevere is pretty. Lara is chunky and rather unfortunate-looking, but when standing next to Guinevere, Lara is instantly more attractive. Guinevere has an aura of gorgeousness that spreads to anything within ten feet of her. Pretty enough for two girls. Has pretty to spare. She’s tall and thin, with long brown hair, huge blue eyes, and a cute little gap between her front teeth. She always wears tight Jordache jeans and concert T-shirts. Tight jeans that show off her perfect little ass. Today, since we’re all staying in the woods for the week, Guinevere is wearing jean shorts and a Fleetwood Mac half-shirt. I can’t stop staring at her bellybutton, which is so devastatingly small and cute and freckled that I think I’m starting to hyperventilate. She’s also wearing tennis shoes and no socks, and even her bare ankles are tempting me. Tonight, Guinevere smells like honeysuckle and soap.

"Have you ever gotten high before?" Guinevere asks me, smiling in her sweetly crooked way.

"All the time," I say. "I get high with my brother a lot, but he’s in prison right now, locked up in solitary confinement because he kept beating up all the guards." I’ve never gotten high with my brother, and he’s in juvenile detention, not prison. "Dave always has pot and we smoke it constantly." Dave does smoke a lot of pot, but I’ve never shared it with him. The only thing Dave ever shares are his dirty socks, which he often wraps and gives out as Christmas presents, thus ruining Christmas and making Mom cry. (I ruined Christmas last year, when I opened all my gifts early and tried to re-wrap them and pretend that I wasn’t a great big sneak. My re-wrapping skills were weak, and it was apparent that my gifts had been tampered with, thus ruining Christmas and making Mom cry. It’s just not Christmas in our house until someone cries.)

"You’re lying!" Lara says, adjusting her large, square-framed glasses. "He’s such a liar, Guin. Look at him, all nervous and making shit up. I think he’s blushing."

Guinevere puts her arm over my shoulder and whispers, "Are you lying to me, Ervin?"

"Maybe a little," I say, cracking under the pressure of sweet breath and a soft touch.

"I’ll be he’s chicken," Lara says.

"I’m not chicken," I say, shaking all over. "Just ‘cause I haven’t done it before, doesn’t mean I won’t. I’ve been wanting to try drugs for awhile now." I’m amazed at the rapid pace in which the lies flow out of my mouth. Pretty girls make me babble.

"Then meet us behind our cabin at midnight," Guinevere says.

"If you’re not too scared," Lara adds. I’m beginning to realize that she’s kind of a bitch. If The Jersey Devil is hungry, he can have Lara.

Guinevere runs a hand through my hair, ruining what took me ten minutes in front of the mirror to create. "My Ervin isn’t scared, are ya, sweetie?"

"I’ll be there," I say, mildly hypnotized, staring into Guinevere’s eyes. "I’ll totally sneak out of my cabin."

"Oohh, mister tough guy!" Lara chirps.

"We’re gonna bring a big fat joint, and you’re gonna share it with us," Guinevere says. "It’s gonna be so much fun!" She’s always happy. Always has a smile. Can brighten anyone’s day. "And then maybe we’ll sneak you into the girls’ cabin and make a man out of you." She giggles.

"Awesome," I say, suddenly aroused.

"You better show up!" Lara says, jabbing a chubby finger in my face.

"Calm down, Lara. Erv’s cool. You’ll see. We’re gonna have a good time tonight. It’s gonna be such a time."

Guinevere and Lara then kiss my hot cheeks and run off. I watch them disappear into their cabin as the sun begins to set.

My stomach fills with a painful fire. I’m trembling all over. Scared to death. I feel nauseated. Am I actually going to try drugs? Is that the kind of person I am? I guess so. Michelle has always been nice to me and I do not want to disappoint her. And I do want to be cool. I want to be liked. Or at least noticed. My family moved from Pennsauken to Cherry Hill less than a year ago, shortly after Dave robbed the candy store (again), and I don’t have a lot of friends. A few from my apartment building, none at school. I’m not close to anyone who’s on this trip. I don’t have a single friend in the boys’ cabin. I don’t fit in with most of the kids in Cherry Hill because I’m a poor and they’re not. Because they’ve never eaten a mayonnaise sandwich out of necessity. My wardrobe is not stylish. I’m the only kid in my class who receives a free lunch. Even if I did make some friends, I’d be too embarrassed to bring them home to my tiny, dirty, cockroach-infested apartment. Most of the time, I feel as if I don’t belong. But now Guinevere and Lara want to get to know me. Hang out with me. Smoke some weed with me. Maybe I’m starting to become cool. Maybe the kids are warming up to me. Maybe I can win them all over. All I have to do to begin my ascension into Coolsville is smoke a little pot. Can’t be that bad, right? Cheech & Chong do it all the time. So what’s the big deal? It’s only pot. I would never try any of the hard stuff, but what damage could a few hits of reefer do? I’m a big boy. I can handle it.

I’m in the New Jersey Pine Barrens, an hour from home, at a place called Mt. Misery. It’s like summer camp, except instead of having fun we’re supposed learn about nature. Our objectives are "to recognize the value of our natural resources and to learn to use them wisely" and "to learn to live democratically with other children and with adults through experiences in outdoor living." We’re all staying in cabins in the middle of the woods. The Pine Barrens cover over one million acres, 30 miles wide and 80 miles long, and that’s a lot of trees. The Jersey Devil lives in these woods, and he’s probably going to eat a few of us. On our first night here, we were shown a film about the Beast, and it scared the shit out of us. I think the teachers just wanted to scare us all so we wouldn’t wander off into the woods alone. But I believe in monsters. And I believe that The Jersey Devil eats children; I mean, what else would he eat? Adults? Cheese?

It’s Thursday night, October 28, 1982, the last night of our trip. Tomorrow afternoon we’ll climb into a bus and head back home. Just one more night. I’ve survived three nights without wetting the bed. I’m eleven years old, and every night when I lay down to sleep I say a prayer and hope that my bed will be dry in the morning. I should’ve stopped pissing my pants long ago, but I haven’t. In the weeks leading up to the trip, I started wetting the bed more and more. My mother began to worry. The night before I left for Mt. Misery, Mom said, "Ervin, you can’t wet the bed on your trip. You’re eleven now. You’re too old for that. The other kids will tease you if they find out that you wet the bed. You’ve got to stop. I’m only telling you this for your own good. Just stop it already."

But here I am on Thursday night, and I think I’m going to make it. I smile to myself as I walk back into the cabin. It’s been a good week. The Jersey Devil hasn’t ripped out my intestines yet. Hasn’t drained my blood. Guinevere has spoken to me more than once. I did well in the Mt. Misery Olympics. I won a few races my teammates gave me high-fives and I felt accepted. Felt almost normal. It’s been a fun week. The other boys in my cabin, Dean and Dave and Paul and the rest, chat and laugh and talk about stuff I know nothing about, while I sit alone on my bed and think about tonight. I don’t mind that the guys don’t really talk to me. They will once I tell them about my night with Guinevere and Lara. Tomorrow, I’ll have stories to tell, and then I’ll be accepted. Then I’ll be cool. Things are looking up for me. Life is somewhat less shitty than usual.

I set my little Superman Alarm Clock for 11:45 and lay down. It’s ten p.m., but I have a secret rendezvous planned at midnight, so I’ve got to sneak out. It’s easy to sneak away from our cabin, because our teacher, Mr. Braddock, the man who’s supposed to chaperone us, leaves every night to go home and check on his ill father. So my cabin is left without a teacher to keep an eye on us. I close my eyes with no real intention of falling asleep. Close my eyes and see Guinevere. We’re holding hands and kissing. She loves me. I love her. She tells me she wants to have my babies. All of them. She’s eleven and has the body of a seventeen-year-old. I’m eleven and have the hairless body of a nine-year-old. I’m thinking of her and feeling good. Relaxed.

Then I fall asleep.

I pop up at eleven-thirty and wonder why I woke before my alarm went off. I quickly realize that I’ve woken up because my bed is soaked. A sticky, warm wetness. A pungent scent in the air. I can’t believe it. I wet the fucking bed. It was only a nap, not even a full night’s sleep, and I pissed myself. My best pair of shorts. I start to cry, but only for a second. I’ve got work to do. I need to get myself out of this mess.

These boys I’m sharing the cabin with would use the knowledge that I wet the bed to torment me for the rest of my days. I do not want to be known as Piss Boy until the end of high school. I quietly remove the damp sheet from the bed and fold it into a ball. Then I turn the mattress over. In the bathroom, I remove my clothes and take a quick shower.

At five of twelve, I’m behind my cabin, wearing fresh, dry clothes, furiously digging the soft dirt with my hands. Once I dig deep enough, I fill the hole with the sheet from my bed and my soiled shorts, then cover it up with dirt. When you’re a bed-wetter, you’ve got to learn how to be a sneaky bastard. Got to know how to make the incriminating evidence disappear. I guess this will be good practice if I ever become a hitman and have to dispose of a few bodies.

I shake my head in disgust. I’m always the kid digging the hole. I’m always the one who’s up when everyone else is sleeping. The kid with something to hide. The one thing that’s not like the others.

At midnight, I’m where I’m supposed to be, behind the girls’ cabin. I wait for Guinevere and Lara. I’m not going to let a little bit of urine ruin my night. Guinevere will make it all better. She’ll make life worth living.

An hour later, I’m still waiting. The girls haven’t shown up. I guess they were just playing a joke on me. I hear strange noises coming from the woods, probably The Jersey Devil’s footsteps as he closes in on me. I’m shivering because I’m cold and scared. I don’t want to go back to my cabin. Don’t want to be anywhere near that stinky, pissed-in bed, but I also don’t want The Jersey Devil to drink all of my blood.

So I run.

I run and whisper, "I just want to go home."