Toasted Marshmallows

By Veronica L Krug

Divorced and unemployed engineer, Richard Darling Senior, purchases an abandoned Boy Scout retreat near the Blue Ridge Mountains of North Carolina and partners with old buddy, Dingo, to turn it into a senior citizen summer camp. He convinces his twenty-one year old son, Junior, to help run it, but rowdy seniors, inexperienced counselors, a bear,

• Language: English
• Publisher: Veronica Krug
• Release date: Mar 31, 2023
• ISBN: 9781088106853

Veronica L Krug

The author has a masters in art and reading from Kent State University and has authored several books.She received an honorable mention from The International Screenwriters' Association for her screenplayabout Lorenzo DiMedici, which she has now made into a novel after many years of research.She taught middle school art and reading for 24 years and was a recreation director for 10 years before that.She draw huge mandalas on the beach in her spare time.

Book preview

Toasted Marshmallows

By Veronica Krug

Copyright @ 2023

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner without the expressed written permission of the publisher except for the use of quotations in a book review or scholarly journal.

This book is dedicated to all those who still have fun, no matter your age.

Age is not how old you are, but how many years of fun you’ve had.

--Matt Maldre

You can’t help getting older, but you don’t have to get old.

--George Burns

Chapter 1

Toasted Marshmallows

A Wave Goodbye

Richard Darling Senior plods down the hall carrying the assemblage of his past thirty-five years. A droopy spider plant peeks over the edge of the open cardboard box. Also inside, three ball point pens rattle in a ceramic cup, a few books randomly stacked with one titled; How to be a Successful Manager and Still be Liked, and lastly, a framed photo of Richard’s son, Junior when he was five. He’s sitting in a rowboat holding a fishing pole in one hand and waving to the camera with the other; a big gap-toothed grin on his face.

The security guard walks behind him. Keep moving.

Co-workers in their cubicles gaze at Richard with pity smeared over their faces. He hates that look, like he’s on his way to the electric chair. Allen, a guy he knows will be laid off tomorrow, waves sheepishly.

Richard peers into the container. I think I’m missing a few things.

The security guard maintains his I’m doing serious shit voice. Anything pertaining to the company was left.

Even my Excellence in Management plaque?

It’s company property.

Christ on a cracker, this is crazy. I’ve worked for this company for thirty-five years and this is my send off?

It’s for security.

He wants to tell him to secure this and flip him off. It wasn’t all my fault.

The officer shrugs, blinking in boredom.

They’re going to erase any sign I worked here?

It’s a green company now. Fuck fossil fuel. So, they don’t need you no more.

Richard Darling Senior was the regional manager for PS Energy in their fossil power division in Morganton, North Carolina and dealing with big staff reductions in his department since the company said it was going green. Actually, the company lost a shit load of money when the Altoona boiler blew after ill-fitting pipes were installed.

You know that’s not it. I’m taking the fall for Altoona, but you know the pipefitters were in too big of a hurry to get back on line. They had the wrong sizes and rigged them to fit anyway, and I took the blame. Richard struggles to open the door. No help from the guard.

I don’t give a shit.

One good shoulder to the door and it swings open. Richard stands against the open door while the guard stands inside, arms crossed. Right, your job is to get my ass out of here. I’m not going to choke up.

Allen slips past the guard and holds the door for Richard. He follows the now unemployed to his car. Listen, I feel bad for you. Those assholes don’t know their ass from a hole in the ground. He nods toward the building. Ain’t like it used to be. Now the place is run by little college shits.

Richard tosses the box onto the back seat of his car. Allen?

Allen holds his hand out for Richard to shake. Yeah?

You’re gettin’ laid off tomorrow. He gets into the car instead of shaking Allen’s hand.

Allen stands agog. Hand still hanging out. What?

Just a heads up. Sorry, man. Richard starts the car.

Head down, Allen shuffles back to the building. The guard steps out with a hand on his hip like it’s on some invisible gun.

No send off, no retirement party, nothing…but a son of a bitch security guard watching him drive away. Richard opens his window and leans out. I know what PS Energy stands for now—Piece of Shit! He lifts a middle finger at the officer, turns onto the main road, and leans back in his seat.

Richard’s heart thumps in his throat. At least his son, Junior, will be there for him. Richard Senior’s ex-wife, Marilyn, hasn’t lived with them since the divorce five years ago when she needed to go find herself. She found herself all right, working in the San Diego Zoo. She specializes in primates—monkeys and gorillas. She said she prefers them to men any day which disturbs Richard. How can living with monkeys be better than me? He’s grateful Junior chose to stay. He’s the last family Richard has left and probably spoiled Junior since he’s twenty-one now and seems to have no interest in striking out on his own.

So much to think about. What am I going to do? Richard Darling Senior decides to take a detour on his way home. Driving through the Blue Ridge Parkway is serene and curvy. He turns on the radio to a classical music station and breathes deep. The refrain of the bass cellos run in perfect rhythm of the road.

Up ahead he spies a familiar sight. It is the entrance sign to the Boy Scout Camp he attended every summer when he was a kid. The wooden clapboard sign stenciled Lake Whatchawanna used to be bright red, but now the letters are burnt-toast brown. He slows the car and turns into the drive. A mile from the main road the camp reveals its splendor to him. A chain-link gate stops his progress; a huge For Sale sign attached to it. Richard exits his car and approaches. A chain hangs from the latch holding the gate closed, no lock secures it. He slides the chain out of the latch and pushes against the barricade. The gate swings open with a metal-to-metal screech.

Surrounding a weed infested lake are several small cabins bereft of any paint--their roofs crumbling and stained of pine tar. Vines grow around columns supporting the roof of a large mess hall. The windows of the hall are grimy but unbroken. An empty swimming pool is toward the back of the property encircled by longleaf pines. Richard walks to the edge of the pool and considers the dingy water line. Memories flood his mind.

chapter 2

A Good Scout Remembers

Thirteen-year-old Richard Darling stood with his toes dangling over the swimming pool. He pulled at the waist of his red Speedos. They snapped back against his thin frame with a TWACK! One of the boys in the pool called to him. Hey, Dick, get in here. We need another player.

Richard leaned over the water just before diving in. It’s Rich, not Dick.

The boys were playing Greased Watermelon Football. The oily fruit slipped out of one boy’s hands. Richard swam big strokes through the water and grabbed the melon, its slick buoyancy hard to hold onto. Paddling toward the goal, he’s jumped and pushed underwater, the melon slipped from his grip. Hands and feet flailed above, making it impossible to surface. As the last bit of oxygen escaped, adrenalin kicked in, and he lunged to the surface gasping for air pushing one of the boys away.

Dang, Rich, you didn’t have to shove me so hard. It was his buddy, Dingo, doing his best dog paddle to stay afloat. He got the nickname when one of the boys said Australian dogs, called Dingoes eat everything. They’ve even been known to devour babies. Richard doesn’t remember what Dingo’s real name is anymore.

I was drownin’!

Tweeet! A whistle blew, signaling the boys to get out of the pool. Dingo hustled to get out of the water. Lunch! I’m starving.

Richard figured starving to Dingo was going more than two hours without eating. He didn’t know where the guy put it all. Dingo was big, but not nearly as big as all the food he put away.

Before they could eat lunch, the boys had to learn how to build a fire in order to earn their camping and cooking merit badges toward Eagle Scout rank. Why that was important, Richard and Dingo didn’t know. They were teamed up and the first ones to get their fire going.

Dingo opened a cooler sitting nearby. Yes! Where are the hot dogs?

A Scoutmaster placed his hand on the lid and shut it. You don’t grill hot dogs for your camp cooking badge.

Dingo’s stomach growled loudly.

In an Australian accent, Richard said, Dingo needs to feed before he eats a baby.

Dingo and Richard laughed, but the Scoutmaster was not amused. Instead, he moved on to demonstrate a campfire meal. He picked up a box of foil and rolled out a long sheet, spreading it out on a flat rock. He pulled out a penknife (all the boys had their own as part of their survival kit), opened the cooler, and took out a hamburger patty wrapped in plastic, potatoes and corn on the cob cut into three-inch chunks.

The Scoutmaster unwrapped the meat. Lay your patty on the foil like this. Then, place the corn beside it. He cut the potatoes into quarters. Then, put your potatoes on top, and sprinkle it all with a bit of salt and pepper. The fat from the meat will keep it all moist. Wrap it in the foil like this, then, place it in the hot ash of your fire. The Scoutmaster wedged the wrapped food under a log in the fire. Wait about fifteen minutes or so.

Dingo slapped his forehead. Oh man, I gotta wait that long? Where’s that watermelon? Crap! He hurriedly bundled his food, cutting his potatoes in half. As Dingo tucked the dish into the fire, Richard is carefully peeling potatoes with a penknife.

What are ya doin’? Dingo asked.

I hate potato skins.

By the time you’re done we’ll all be in bed.

I got this. Richard wedged his wrapped food into the fire.

Twenty minutes later, the boys were told they could retrieve their meal, the aroma of roasted meat wafted into their noses. Dingo tore his open to find half of it burned to a crisp, the odor of a charcoal grill grate before cleaning. It was a big contrast to the warm metallic scent of the other half, which was raw. Oh man, I’m gonna starve. He stared at the dish a moment. Screw it. Dingo snatched a plastic fork, mixed the ingredients together with it, and drowned it all in ketchup.

Richard’s came out perfect—the burger medium. The potatoes had a bit of a crunch, but they were good. The corn had a lovely, toasted glaze baked on by the fat of the meat giving it a sweet savory flavor.

As Dingo gnawed on a raw potato, he gazed at Richard’s meal. Hey, I’ll give you five bucks to trade.

*

Fifty-six-year-old Richard chuckles at the memory. There is no way he can wear those Speedos now. He would be lucky to get them over one thigh. Richard pats his stomach and runs a hand through his thinning hair. At least the grey at my temples make me look sophisticated, but he knows he’s more of a chubby grown-up nerd. His eyebrows give him a constant worried look. A penknife half buried in the dirt catches his attention. He picks it up, brushing off the detritus. The knife won’t flip out of its nest of plastic and metal, rusted closed from years of exposure. He tosses the knife in the air and catches it. What I’d give to have those carefree days back.

He contemplates the open gate. The For Sale sign firmly secured to it. I got a good severance package coming. Why not? Hmm… He rubs the penknife in his hand, pacing, and stops on the bank of Lake Watchawanna, staring out over the reedy water. His eyes grow wild. That’s it. I have the perfect plan. Bet I can get this place for a song.

Richard Darling Senior pockets the knife.

Chapter 3

The Plan

Richard Darling Senior runs into the house and finds his son, Richard Darling Junior, in front of the TV. He has a game controller in his hands and stares intensely at the screen. Senior gazes at his son who reminds him of his ex-wife. The way he’s sitting on the edge of his seat…Marilyn would sit that way when she watched a good movie. Junior looks more like her, which is a relief. If his son wasn’t so fascinated with video games, he’d have all kinds of girls chasing after him. The kid even has a Pac Man tattoo eating little white squares up his bicep. Junior keeps his lustrous brown locks short and spiky with a little bit of peach fuzz on his jaw a cat could lick off. He could put a bit more weight on his bones too. He’s two inches taller than me, for cripes sake.

Richard pulls the penknife from his pocket and holds it toward his son in victory. Look what I found, he yells over the noise of video battle.

Junior takes a quick glance. Looks crusty.

It should, it’s older than you.

Wow. Junior is deadpan, focused on battle.

Man, does it bring back memories. Richard pulls on the blade to open it. It still won’t budge. Ugh, I can’t get it to open.

That perks Junior’s ears. He pauses his game. Challenge accepted. Lemme see it. He turns toward his father, palm open.

When the knife is handed to him, the young man turns it in his hands and studies how it is put together. Standing from the couch, he walks into the kitchen closely followed by his father. Junior opens a bottle of olive oil and pours a little over the pocketknife, massaging it into the crevices. He wipes it off and opens the knife. Red-orange rust coats the blade. Junior, examining it as a doctor would a patient’s boo boo, asks his father for an old toothbrush. He retrieves one and hands it to his son, slapping it into his open palm. Junior brushes into the channels the blades rest inside of and blows on it gently. Bits of debris fly out.

A bowl, Junior demands. And vinegar.

Got it, Richard Senior obeys. He watches his son in amazement while he pours vinegar into the bowl and drops the open knife into the solution. Small bubbles form on the blades of the little pocketknife.

Junior dries his hands on a dish towel. That’s it for now. Tomorrow, we’ll polish the rust off and sharpen the blades.

Richard pats his son on the back. That’s great, son. Where did you learn to do that?

Junior shrugs and shuffles back toward the living room where the video game awaits—battle in pause. Richard Senior observes the mess in the kitchen—olive oil splotch on the counter, rust and dirt specks on the floor, sink, counter, windowsill, and a puddle of vinegar on the floor. Bottles sit open, the lids nowhere to be seen, greasy dish towel in a heap beside them.

Senior finds the lids when he picks up the towel. I just wanted to open the knife. He follows Junior into the living room. Dick, I didn’t get a chance to tell you, my news.

Junior picks up his game controller and turns to his father sighing loudly. How many times do I have to ask you not to call me Dick? I hate it. I mean, come on.

Senior points to himself. You’ve always been a Dick to your mother and me.

The two men stare at one another for an awkward moment. Richard tilts his head to one side and gives his son the best fatherly look he can and says the word, Junior, slowly with purpose.

I hate that one too, but whatever. I’m tired of that old joke.

Senior crosses his arms and locks his jaw. If you got out of the house now and then, you wouldn’t hear it.

Glaring at his father, Junior asks, So, what’s the news? I got a game to get back to.

I got you a job. His father’s smile is wide and genuine.

Junior jumps to his feet and drops the controller. The pause button hits as it falls to the floor, resuming battle. What? He yells over the din.

Senior cups his hands to the sides of his mouth. You’re going to run a summer camp. I’m going to buy Camp Whatchawanna!

Whatchawhatta? Junior grabs the remote and shuts off the TV. What are you talking about?

Richard Darling Senior bursts forth his plan, sure his son will be excited as he is. That’s where I found the knife. I spent summers there as a Boy Scout. You did too.

Once. I hated it.

Finding the knife was a sign. After I got riffed, I was going home the back way when…

Wait a minute, Dad. Junior holds up a hand to make his father stop talking. Riffed? Doesn’t that mean you’re fired? Dad.

Richard window wipes his arms to brush away that thought. No, no, I wasn’t fired. It’s a reduction in force. Now I’m free to invest in the Boy Scout land. I’ve always wanted to have my own summer camp, and you’re going to help me run it.

Dad, please, I don’t know anything about running a summer camp. I don’t believe you. How can you think I’d be good with kids…and camping? Junior plops onto the sofa rubbing his hair, making it stand on end. Can’t you just get another job somewhere?

Where? Richard rubs his hands together doing his best to remain patient.

Junior shrugs. I don’t know…like Home Depot or somethin’?

His father squares his jaw. Listen. I am too young to retire, and too old for another engineering job. No one’s going to hire a fifty-six-year-old. I’m stuck in employment neverland. He paces and blocks the television, preventing Junior from resuming his game. And I’m not going to Home Depot. You are going to work. Richard Senior emphasizes each point of his argument with a finger slapped onto the palm of his free hand. One, you’re good at tinkering. Two, you can solve any problem. Look how good you are at gaming. Three, you’ll have a team of counselors, cooks, and a nurse to help you. And four—this is best of all, it’s not for kids. In fact, no kids allowed.

Junior leans back and tilts his head toward the ceiling, closing one eye in thought. No kids?

Nope. No supervision needed. You just manage the staff and maintain the grounds.

Well, then, who is going to the camp?

Adults…all adults.

Adults? An adult camp? Junior face palms. Oh no, how gross.

No…no. Senior laughs. Not that kind of adult camp. It’ll be for senior citizens who want a peaceful outdoor retreat from nagging families, loneliness, and nursing homes. It’ll be a place where they can relive their youth…safely, of course. So, everything will be in a slow easy pace. Simple…you’ll finally have a job and I’ll manage the money. Got it? It’s genius.

Junior’s brows knit, causing a deep furrow between his eyes. Seniors? Senior citizens? Dad, you serious?

Yeah. Remember when your grandmother lived with us? She was easy, and calm, and nice…

Our neighbor, Mr. Jerk, is an asshole.

Senior waves the comment away, swatting at a gnat. It’s Mr. Kirk, and he isn’t the norm.

I’ll say, he even chases birds out of his yard.

Think about it. I mean, just because you get old doesn’t mean you still wouldn’t enjoy reliving your youth a bit. Senior’s are kids in old bodies.

Junior smiles crookedly. Like you?

Senior runs a hand through his remaining hair and sighs, I’m not a senior citizen yet, but yeah, I think it would be fun. Junior, I need a job and I’m not going to be the fall guy ever again for an irresponsible company. I gotta prove to myself, and the bastards who put me out to pasture, that I can run my own successful business. What better way than a camp for senior citizens? They’re loaded with experience. Heck, they’ll probably show us how to run a camp.

Why me? Maybe I’m planning to go back to school, or…or…move to California an’ hang with Mom. Junior sits, staring at the blank TV screen.

You barely graduated high school and you have shown no interest in college. All you do is sit here and play stupid video games.

They’re not stupid. Get real.

Do you really want to go to California? Senior sits across from Junior, sorrow in his eyes.

Junior leans back on the couch, shaking his head. I don’t know. His eyes back to his father. I didn’t mean to hurt you, I just…you’ve never done anything like this. Is it worth risking it all?

Senior smiles. I think it’s safer than the stock market right now. He glances at the television and back to his son. Tell you what, there’ll be a TV in the office. You should have plenty of time to play your games. Sorry I called them stupid. Richard Darling Senior reaches out to shake his son’s hand. Partners?

Junior pumps his father’s hand in return. Why not? I’ll give it a shot.

Senior reaches into his shirt pocket to retrieve a crumpled piece of paper. I got the number here. He pulls a cell phone from his jacket. I’m gonna call the real estate office right now. Tingles work their way up from his legs to his chest. He taps on the screen.

chapter 4

The Sale

Richard Darling Senior and Richard Darling Junior stand side by side in front of the dining hall at Camp Whatchawanna. They are both holding travel mugs of coffee. A mat of messy hair reaches out like knotted fingers from underneath Junior’s hoody. He leans against a tree. Senior is clean shaven wearing a neatly pressed suit and tie, a leather briefcase at his side.

Junior rubs his eyes. Kinda early, aren’t we?

Senior squints toward the building noticing the loose gutter forming a V against its side. I want to see the place before the auction starts.

Wish you coulda just bought the place.

Senior strolls toward the cabins. Junior pads behind. Yeah, somehow I missed the part about an auction. He stops, causing Junior to almost bump into him and points to the sky. But it’s a good thing. If no one else shows up, we can get this place for a song.

Ahead, the rustic clapboard cabins sit in a row by the lake pretty as a postcard, each with a petite cozy porch. Some of the roofs are covered in moss. Morning glories wrap around railings, the forest staking its claim.

Senior steps onto a porch and pushes against its pillar. He jumps up and down. Good bones. He enters the cabin. Junior dumps what remains of his coffee and follows. A strong odor of damp wood reeking of long neglect assaults their noses. The floor creaks under their steps. Four sets of wooden bunks topped with old, grungy mattresses fill the room. Senior searches for the source of the stink. He places his hand on top of a corner bunk. The mattress, damp and black with mold, tears under the weight of his hand. He looks up at a charcoal ring on the ceiling where rain has been seeping. He wipes his wet hand on his son’s jeans.

Junior jumps. Dad! Gross!

Senior brushes his hands together. We’ll have to fix that.

Ya think? Junior storms out of the cabin.

Senior moseys outside and down the steps. Let’s check out the mess hall.

Walking up the lane toward the hall, Richard Senior imagines what Camp Whatchawanna could be--lovely flowers lining the walkway; trees shading the benches by the water; the coo of Mourning Doves as the seniors toss them bread, and the smell of fresh baked cookies. It’ll be serene,