The Throw-up Stories

An Engrossing Narrative of Vomit

Sympathetic pukers, beware. What follows is a heave by heave account of throwing up. Not for the squeamish or those inclined to vomit out of respect for the queasy of stomach.

It wouldn't have been camp if my daughter's best friend hadn't puked in the middle of the night over the rail of the top bunk covering all her bedding, two different mattresses, the ladder, and a miscellaneous towel.

I, however, was blissfully oblivious. I was playing hooky with another counselor... I snuck off after lights out to go spend time with a friend to have six words of adult converse after a day of "What are we doing next? No I mean after that? But why? But I don't waaaaant to." ...bad girl, bad girl.

I tried to return to the cabin discreetly (read: without getting in trouble) only to discover that the door had been tied shut with a bandana to prevent the boys from a dawn raid. They had told the girls they would squirt toothpaste in the girls' hair followed by a sound spraying of silly string. The note on the door read:

Boys smell bad. They look bad. And if we ate them, they would taste bad, too. So STAY OUT!

Said midnight writer needs some new material, clearly. Anyway...

I nearly yanked the door off its hinges, waking the counselor in the first bunk. She staggered toward me with the eyes of Carrie. Yes, red like that.

I glanced up to see my co-counselors race by. I escaped the angry gaze of red eyes by joining the race to the bathroom... where I found little Sarah upchucking the rest of the mashed potatoes and popcorn into the sink. I quickly took my position - holding her forehead and tummy - while she let loose three or four more heaves of the yellow stuff.

I had to hold my breath. What a hero.

We returned to the gooey bunk where (the saint of the story) Holly, wiped up layers of puke. Not her kid's puke. Not the puke of a husband or father. But some other woman's child's puke. Do you know what fortitude that takes? Like, crunched muscles in your stomach. Like an iron liver or intestines or something... something I don't have anyway. Sympathetic puker that I am, it's surprising I wasn't already laid out somewhere throwing up my salad bar contents.

We scavanged new bedding (not easy when most kids brought sleeping bags). I gave up a sheet, someone else dug out an old blanket from inside her car, another folded a towel to make a pillow.

Another counselor ran down the hill in the dark to the high school cabins to retrieve the mom. The mom flew to her daughter's side in time for the next round of throw-up. No more towel pillow - the latest casualty in the throw up stories.

Seeing that this would be an all night puking party, I fled back to the high school cabin to retrieve the mother's bedding so she could stay with us and her daughter.

Finally, we all went to sleep.... for about two hours when:

Wretch!

I slid under the covers a bit more to hide from the sound and stench knowing the mother was here with the daughter... when a body lurched by my bunk. I jumped out of bed, ran to the bathroom in bare feet (remember the bare feet), slid (yes, I did slide... remember that too) to the sink and found Sarah's mother hurling her cookies. No joke!

By then, four counselors had slid into place beside Sarah's mom.

"Yeah, I'm the one. I didn't quite make it to the bathroom. It's a long way from the bunks!"

We all looked down at our feet. You guessed it. Orange, yellow and puce slimey stuff on every one of our feet.

Moments later, four right feet were poised over four sinks, when the next counselor entered the bathroom.

"What in God's name is happening in here?"

"Our feet are throwing up."

Yep, camp was fun. A real BLAST!