Through the worn metal doors of a Chicago suburban middle school, the sounds of a basketball game echoed. Sneakers shuffled and screeched against the polished wooden floor, chasing the ball with relentless energy. A referee's whistle cut through the air, joined by the cheers and boos from parents and children. Then came the sound that marked the end of the game: the buzzer. The game buzzer pierced the air, blowing out the eardrums of anyone within a ten-mile radius.
The double doors burst open, and from the chaos emerged a boy. He was the first to escape the school, sprinting for his life. Allan, thirteen years old, clean-cut with kind features, except for the raging-bull sized bandage running across his freshly busted nose. Blood from the wound had dripped onto his basketball jersey and his prized 1976 Vans. Behind him thundered a determined pack of bloodthirsty boys—his teammates—led by Bobby, the team’s captain. This was a race against time. Allan had to find his camp bus and get on board before they caught him.
Like a brave soldier charging into battle, Allan ran as kids bombarded him with fruit and candy. The parking lot had become a war zone of camp buses and cars. He veered right, darting between two buses, then turned right again, desperate for cover. Finally, he spotted a bus with an open door and scrambled aboard, hoping the driver might shield him from the relentless pack.
Inside, a summer camp clipboard girl, barely out of her teens, greeted him with a distracted smile and began scanning her list for his name. Allan’s eyes flicked nervously to the windshield, where his pursuers were closing the gap. The girl looked up, shook her head “no”, and pointed to another bus across the lot.
Allan turned to step out, but his team was boarding to murder him. Allan turned, ran down the aisle to the back, lifted the handle on the emergency door, and jumped. Allan felt like he was flying clear across the parking lot before he landed on his duffle bag and rolled out of the fall. He stood up and ran.
The Camp Arapahoe bus was assembled from several other buses that didn’t survive. Allan got on to discover that this bus was empty, too. He selected a seat in the middle, set down his duffle bag, and sweated with his eyes set straight-forward. He was breathless and as if he had survived a battle.
There was a knock, and he opened the window. Outside and below stood Bobby, also thirteen. If it weren’t for his terrible haircut, he’d actually be intimidating.
The team stood behind Bobby as he yelled, “Nice going, Globetrotter! You blew our game!
“We were losing before you passed me the ball, Bobby.”
“You are fast. I will give you that. Maybe running is more your thing, just promise us you’ll never throw or catch a ball again, ever. What kind of a man are you?”
“Says the guy who needs an hour to find his dick.” Allan returned through the window.
The boys laughed.
Bobby turned towards the team, “Shut up!” then turned back to look up at Allan, “What loser camp are you off to?”
“I have no idea.”
“Have a loser summer, loser,” Bobby and the team walked away.
Allan closed the window.
Boarding Allan’s bus was the Superfly driver. He was a funkadelic American Indian in his late twenties. He wore yellow pants, Evel Knievel sunglasses, and a knit shirt open way too far. There was a disco ball dangling from the ceiling, and the steering wheel was covered in purple shag.
“You must be Allan.”
Allan couldn’t help but notice the driver’s exaggerated features through the weird circus funhouse mirror.
“How do you know?”
“Because you are the only one leaving from here,” he returned while he closed the bus door to leave.
Allan was bewildered by the detail as the driver started up the bus. Black smoke exhumed from the back, filling out the entire area. Parents were coughing and gagging in response.
The smoke cleared, revealing a food truck playing “Hava Nagila” with the horn. The side of the truck read, “The Kosher Taco. Best in the world.”
“Hava Nagila,” the Superfly driver mumbled.
Stepping into the light of the truck’s doorway was Allan’s Grandpa. He was in his sixties, handsome, tall, with silver slicked-back hair. He wore a crisp white shirt and creased green work pants. For a moment, he posed with his hands on his hips like a superhero. Grandpa approached Allan’s bus and knocked on the window. Allan opened the window.
“Disaster! I’ve never seen someone hit themselves in the face with a basketball.”
“It bounced off the backboard and came straight at me. Grandpa, what did my parents do? This is not the camp I chose,” Allan defended.
“Your parents didn’t do anything. They don’t even know. I changed your camp. Yes. I did. After they left for Europe. Yes.”
“Why?”
“Why? Are you paying attention? You are a mess! You need, something. Something else. Class of twenty-eight.”
“Huh?”
“You need to fight for something. Starting with yourself. Here.”
Grandpa handed Allan a wooden cigar box with a black ribbon through the window.
“You got me a cigar,” Allan asked.
“Who did?”
Allan reminded Grandpa by showing him the box he had just given him.
“Right. Don’t open it. Later.”
“I’m getting off of the bus,” Allan gathered his things and stood to exit.
“I’m not going to force you. But, if you get off this bus, you will spend the rest of your life running. Go to camp. Ride a horse. Make a friend. Tough it out.”
Allan let the words sink in, “they have horses?”
“They have horses. Who loves you?”
“You do.”
Allan closed the window, and the bus pulled away. Allan looked back at his grandpa one more time before opening his duffle bag to change clothes. He pulled his team uniform off and put his Peter Frampton T-Shirt at Comiskey Park over his busted nose.
“Excuse me,” Allan yelled up to the Superfly Driver.
“Yes?”
“Why am I the only one on the bus?”
“We have to get the others on the south side of Chicago, then Michigan, then Camp Arapahoe.”
“South side? Isn’t that dangerous? I’ve never been there.”
“Don’t worry. From the looks of it, you may be your worse enemy.”