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Authors: David Lubar

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BOOK: The Curse of the Campfire Weenies

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T
here are three things I hate to hear from an adult. First, “This will be so much fun.” When you hear that, you know it won't. Second, “This is for your own good.” No, it isn't. Finally, and worst of all, “Mr. Dwerkin is coming with us.”

That third sentence hit me as I was climbing into the back of our van, along with my little brother, Rupert.

“What?” I looked at Dad, hoping I'd heard him wrong.

“I just found out he loves camping, so I invited him along,” Dad said. “Don't act so grumpy, Sarah. We have lots of room.”

I looked at Mom. She smiled and said, “The poor man is so lonely.”

Yeah. For good reason.

Mr. Dwerkin lived next door to us. He was an expert. On everything. You name it, he knew the best and only way to do it. Sometimes I walked all the way around the
block just to make sure I didn't run into him. I watched out the window as he dragged piles of camping gear from his garage. He had an awful lot of stuff for one person.

“This stinks,” Rupert muttered.

For real.
I nodded my head and pinched my nose. That was another thing about Mr. Dwerkin. He smelled like lunch meat. “At least there's a lot of woods to hide in,” I whispered to Rupert.

“Hi, kids,” Mr. Dwerkin said as he climbed into the van. “I love camping. This is going to be so much fun.”

Before we even pulled out of the driveway, he started a sing-along. Did I mention it was a four-hour ride to the campgrounds?

By the time we got there, I couldn't wait to leap out of the van. I shot through the door the instant the opening was wide enough for me to fit. Rupert and I started setting up our tent.

“You're doing it all wrong,” Mr. Dwerkin said.

“I like doing things wrong,” I said. “It makes me feel special.”

“Now, Sarah,” Mom said. “Let Mr. Dwerkin show you how to put up your tent.”

I sighed and stepped back. Mr. Dwerkin set up the tent all wrong, but I figured I could fix it later.

After we got everything set up, Mom and Dad headed out for a hike. I thought about joining them, but I'm not really big on tromping through the woods. The moment they left, Mr. Dwerkin opened our cooler and dumped all
the food onto a blanket. Then he tied up the blanket, tossed one end of the rope over a tree limb, and hoisted everything in the air.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“Standard woodcraft,” he said. “It's important to protect your food from bears. They can catch the scent of a meal from miles away. This way, it's out of their reach.”

“Whatever.” I grabbed a book from the tent and headed out to sit under a tree and read. Rupert grabbed a coloring book and followed me.

“What are you doing?” Mr. Dwerkin asked.

“Reading.”

“No, no, no,” Mr. Dwerkin said. “We can't rest yet. We need to gather wood for the campfire.”

“There's lots of time for that,” I said. “And we don't really need a fire. It's gotta be ninety degrees out here.”

He shook his head. “The campfire is the most important part of camping. It's far more than just a source of heat or light. It's the heart of civilization. All other activities revolve around the fire. Everyone knows that.” He clapped his hands together. “Come on, don't be lazy campers. Let's go gather wood.”

And so Rupert and I gathered wood. Mr. Dwerkin went with us, but he didn't do much gathering. Instead, he examined every single piece we picked up and tossed half of them away. Then he spent at least two hours arranging the wood. At least I got to read while he was doing that. My parents finally returned from their hike, but all they wanted to do was sit around and talk about the
plants they'd seen and the birds they'd heard. I wonder if their list included the cuckoo that was jabbering by the woodpile?

When it began to grow dark, Mr. Dwerkin said, “Okay, let's get the campfire lit.”

He insisted on starting the fire the old-fashioned wayâusing a flint and steel. That took another twenty minutes. By then, it was really dark and I was starving.

“All right,” Dad said. “Let's bring out those burgers.” He bent down and opened the cooler. I could almost see a big question mark floating over his head as he looked into the empty container.

“Where's the food?” he asked.

“Safe from bears,” Mr. Dwerkin said, pointing to the bundle dangling from a tree.

“The meat's up there?” Mom asked. “In this heat?”

Mr. Dwerkin nodded.

“How long?” Dad asked.

“All day,” Mr. Dwerkin said. “I made it my priority to secure the provisions.

Mom and Dad exchanged glances. I shot them an
I told you so
look, but they ignored me. Then Dad got his car keys. “I hope the market is still open.” He and Mom headed for the van.

“We'll go!” Rupert and I screamed. “Take us with you.”

“No, it's too long a trip,” Dad said. “I don't want you to miss out on the fun. That fire looks fabulous. You kids stay with Mr. Dwerkin.”

Mom and Dad scurried off to the van. I watched their
taillights disappear down the road. It was at least forty-five minutes to the closest market. I knew they'd spend far too long shopping. We were stuck with Mr. Dwerkin for at least two hours. Maybe a lot more.

“Let's gather by the fire, kids,” Mr. Dwerkin said. “Ancient man huddled by the campfire for safety. All predators fear fire. We'll be safe here.” He was carrying a guitar. Before we could even get seated, he started singing “Kumbaya.”

“I think we need more wood,” I said, leaping to my feet.

“I'll help,” Rupert said.

We raced for the woods.

“Kidsâit's dangerous to run around in the dark,” Mr. Dwerkin called after us.

“We won't go far,” I yelled as we fled.

“Hurry back,” he said. “I want to tell stories.”

We sprinted down a path; then I stopped to catch my breath. “Sheesh, what a weenie,” I said.

“Yeah. A total campfire weenie. This is going to be an awful trip,” Rupert said.

We weren't really in the dark. I could see other campfires flickering all over the place. Distant sounds of laughter and singing rippled through the woods. The aroma of food drifted our way, making my stomach growl. “Come on, let's find some place to hang out for a while.”

We wandered into a clearing. A group of campersâit looked like two sets of parents, with about eight children between themâwas cooking something over a fire.

“Come join us, kids,” one of the moms called. “We're making yummy gummy gooey hobo stewy.” She pointed
to a rusty bucket sitting on the fire. Thick bubbles burst on the surface of the brown liquid inside of it.

“And I'm making cherry berry piekins,” a little girl said, grinning a gap-toothed smile and holding up a can of biscuits and a jar of jam. She sneezed, then wiped her nose with her arm.

“Uh, no thanks.” Rupert and I backed away.

The next spot we found seemed a lot safer. It was a troop of Girl Scouts. The leader invited us to join them at the fire.

“This looks better,” Rupert said.

“It'll be fine,” I said.

But then they started singing.

“Yibby dibby boopsie doopsie. Walla wango bimmy gap!”

“Huh?” Rupert whispered.

“Campfire song,” I explained.

“Zoomy gloomy, walla woomie, give your head a snap!”

With each line, they made strange gestures with their hands. Rupert looked at me. I shrugged. I'd been a Girl Scout for three weeks, once. I forgot they were so big on weird songs and hand gestures.

The second verse was the same as the first. So was the third. And the twentieth. By then, I was ready to rip my yibby dibby ears off my walla wango head.

I snuck away from the firelight, pulling Rupert with me. None of the girls seemed to notice. As we escaped, we could hear them singing a new song in the distance. This one was a list of fast-food restaurants, beginning with Pizza Hut. I could just imagine the hand gestures.

“Mr. Dwerkin isn't looking all that bad,” Rupert said.

“Yeah. At least he hasn't sneezed on our food yet. Let's head back. We'll survive, as long as we sit upwind of him.” A day in the woods hadn't helped the whole lunch-meat thing.

I followed the sound of his guitar back to our campsite.

“Awesome. You got here just in time. The fire's perfect. We're ready for my favorite part. Let's tell scary stories.”

“No!” Rupert clamped his hands on his ears. “I don't like scary stories.”

“Maybe tomorrow.” I stood up again and looked at the tent. Going to sleep early and hungry would be better than listening to some ridiculous story.

“You can't go to sleep and waste this great fire,” Mr. Dwerkin said. “Besidesâwhile your parents are away, I'm in charge.” He walked over and pulled Rupert's hands away from his ears. “And I say we're telling scary stories.”

I thought about running away. But there was nothing around us except all sorts of campfire weenies cooking weird stuff, singing mind-numbing songs, and melting marshmallows into submission.

“It will be okay,” I whispered to Rupert as Mr. Dwerkin took a seat. “He'll just tell us one of those old stupid urban myth things and then scream at the end.”

“This really happened,” Mr. Dwerkin said. He leaned close to the fire, so the flames made him look even creepier than normal. “This boy took this girl out on a date. And they went off to park on the side of the road. Then the
boy turned on the radio, and they heard that an escaped killer was out there. But guess what?”

“He had a hook for a hand?” I guessed.

Mr. Dwerkin glared at me. “Hey, who's telling the story? Me or you?”

“Sorry,” I said.

“Can you listen for five minutes without interrupting?” Mr. Dwerkin asked.

“Sure.”

“Promise?”

I nodded. Mr. Dwerkin looked at Rupert. He nodded, too.

Mr. Dwerkin started telling a new story. “There's an empty house next to a graveyard at the end of a dead-end street.”

That's when I noticed the trees rustling behind him. A dark shape moved into view.

“A bear!” I screamed.

“Nice try,” Mr. Dwerkin said. “But leave the spooky stories to the experts. And please stop interrupting.”

“Butâ”

“I said stop interrupting.” He stared at me for a moment, then continued with the story. “My friends dared me to go into the house â¦ .”

I got up. So did Rupert. I backed away a step. So did Rupert. “There's really a bear behind you,” I said, pointing to the shape that was rising up a foot or two away from Mr. Dwerkin and batting at the dangling sack of food.

Rupert pointed, too. “Honest. Just look.”

“Right. I'm going to fall for that old trick from a couple kids who don't even know how to build a campfire. No way. Besides, bears are afraid of fire. Now, will you let me finish?”

I backed off a couple more steps. The bear gave up on the sack. It went back on all fours and sniffed the air, then looked over at Mr. Dwerkin and licked its snout. It didn't seem to be scared of the fire at all.

“I'm not going to let you miss the story,” Mr. Dwerkin said. “You need to finish what you start. And show some respect for your elders. It's for your own good.” He started shouting the story. I guess he was determined to make sure we heard it.

Rupert and I scurried farther into the woods, but we were still close enough to hear the ending.

“And then I saw the ghost!” Mr. Dwerking shouted. “And the ghost grabbed me and then â¦”

“Is this where he screams?” Rupert asked.

“Probably.”

“I became the ghost!” Mr. Dwerkin shouted. The end of the story was followed by a scream. It was a loud scream and a long one. A lot longer than I'd expected.

“Stupid story,” I said. “But I have to admit, the scream was pretty good.”

“Yeah. That's the one part of it he did right. But I'm still not going back right now.”

“Me, either. Want to go see what the Girl Scouts are doing?”

“You think they're done singing?” Rupert asked.

“Nah. Those songs last forever. But at least they don't act like they know everything.”

BOOK: The Curse of the Campfire Weenies

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