Camp Nai! Nai! Nai!

I was sitting in my friend Susannah’s living room, enjoying a slice of chocolate cake, when her Siamese cat brushed up against my calves. Out of the blue, she asked, "Want to come with me to adult Jewish summer camp?"

I nearly choked on my bite of cake. "Adult Jewish summer camp? Isn’t that just Tulane or Sarah Lawrence? Isn’t that just Israel? Or even the entire world?"

Susannah gave me a look as if I had two heads. "No, silly, it’s like Jewish summer camp but for adults."

"Let me get this straight," I tried not to laugh, "people are so afflicted with arrested development that they’re willing to pay to relive their summer camp days?"

"Yes,"she nodded enthusiastically, "don’t be such a buzzkill. We’re still young. Well, you’re way younger than me, and single. It could be fun."

"Susannah, I don’t have a car."

"I can drive us! Please come with me."

"How much does it cost?"

"Five hundred bucks."

"Fine," I decided, sighing, "I’ll go with you to adult Jewish summer camp."

Two weeks later, on a long weekend, Susannah drove us up to camp. I sat in the passenger seat of her faded blue Saab, watching the landscape blur past. When I asked if I could knock myself out with melatonin during the ride, she said yes. I offered to pay for gas at the start, but she refused.

Susannah clutched the steering wheel like it was her lifeline. She always had to be in control, holding onto the ten and two of everything in her life.

We passed the rolling Pennsylvania hills and remnants of industry—abandoned buildings, boarded-up storefronts, and rusting machinery. Weeds grew through cracks in the pavement, reclaiming the empty parking lots. Rows of neglected mill houses lined the streets, and we bumped over potholes. I noticed a playground with corroded swings and a broken slide, but I saw a group of children playing in front of their grandparents, who sat on their porch, watching time peel by with a resigned air.

"Look at this place," I remarked. "It's like time forgot it."

"Yeah, but who knows?" Susannah replied, her smile forced and hopeful. "Maybe the camp will be different. Maybe this is where I'll finally meet someone special."

"You really think you'll find Mr. Right here?"

"Why not?" Susannah laughed, though it sounded hollow. "Stranger things have happened. Besides, it's not just about finding a guy. It's about having fun."

I raised an eyebrow, doubting her sincerity. The likelihood of the town rebooming seemed as slim as Susannah’s chances of finding love at the camp. It wasn't because she was a bad person, but because she never knew how to chill.

Susannah’s voice wavered, her grip tightening on the wheel. "I'm thirty-three, single, and surrounded by couples. What if I never find someone? What if I end up alone, forever?"

"Okay, okay," I said, trying to calm her down. "I just don't want you to get your hopes up too high."

"I don't have a choice," she muttered, more to herself than to me. "I need this to work. I need to feel like I'm not completely alone in this world. What if this is my last chance?"

Upon arriving at the camp, it stood out as an oasis in that Rust Belt town.

There was a sign that read, "WELCOME TO CAMP NAI! NAI! NAI!"

Everyone received flower crowns upon arrival, and we quickly became involved in cheesy icebreakers with beach balls and chalk. The campers were predominantly young professionals from metropolitan areas, educated, a bit dorky, upper middle class, and Jewish.

Everyone was horny and down bad.

Meanwhile, I wasn’t actively seeking anyone. Still reeling from my feelings for Ben, I kept my options open. I preferred not to set my future in stone just yet.

When Kabbalat Shabbat came around, we had the option: an egalitarian service for Susannah, and orthodox for me. Later, at Shabbat dinner in the cafeteria, everyone gathered together but quickly separated into cliques at different tables.

A well-dressed guy waved at me, "Hey, I spotted you across the mechitzah. Come join us."

I joined them. "What’s your name?"

"I’m Avi. You know, we have nametags," he teased.

I had forgotten about the nametags—I seemed to be the only one without. People asked for my name, so I gave it, but didn’t mention my conversion process. When they asked about my background because I don’t look Ashko in the slightest, I smoothly stuck to my usual fabrication: I claimed I was the daughter of two Egyptian Karaites loosely involved in the Lavon Affair. Instead of going to Israel, they ended up in San Francisco, later settling as doctors in North Carolina, leaving behind their Karaite roots.

I had repeated this story so often that I almost believed it myself—a rarity, as I’m usually a terrible liar.

"This is the cool kids’ table," announced the guy next to Avi, a tall six-foot-four with green eyes and thick brown hair—probably the only "hot guy" at camp. His nametag read "Avrumi."

Beside him sat a pretty blonde named Katie.

It was indeed the cool kids’ table, though that didn’t say much, considering Susannah sat at a different table with attendees mostly in their late twenties or early thirties. I was probably the youngest person there.

I doubted our camp fees went toward the food, which was lacking to say the least. Everything had raisins—pasta salad, cookies, chicken, carrot salad, ambrosia, potato salad, even some of the challah.

At lunch, the bologna for sandwiches was rotten.

As a result, many of us turned to alcohol, and there was even an underground black market for better drinks and decent food.

One afternoon rolled around, and as Avi and Avrumi exited the gym, they spotted me heading in. Avi pulled me aside and whispered, "Hey, meet us at cabin seventeen when you’re done."

"But that’s the boys’ cabins," I protested. "I can’t just barge in like that."

"No worries, I have a cabin to myself. You can crash there," Avi assured me.

So after my workout, I made my way to Avi’s cabin. Katie and another girl whose name escaped me were already there. We took shots of Patron XO Cafe liqueur and savored cheese pizza—the first decent food we'd had in days. Avi regaled us with stories of his Persian family from Great Neck and his rise as a real estate developer in South Florida, while lamenting the superficiality of women.

"How did you manage to get pizza here, Avi?" Katie queried.

"There’s a helipad on the campgrounds," Avi confessed with a smirk. "I asked Siegelman for a favor. But let’s keep this our little secret, ladies. No one else can know."

Suddenly, Robbie Finkel, a fellow camper who resembled a llama with astigmatism, stumbled into cabin seventeen.

"Whoa," Robbie exclaimed. "Sorry, wrong room. What’s going on here? Pizza?"

"Get lost, Finkel," Avi snapped. "You’re in the wrong cabin."

"Can I hang out with you guys?" Robbie persisted.

"No," Avi replied firmly. "You didn’t get lucky at Camp Ramah as a kid, and you won’t here at Camp Nai Nai Nai."

Robbie adjusted his glasses nervously.

"You’re pretty harsh on Robbie," I interjected, feeling compelled to defend the underdog. "I almost feel sorry enough to pity fuck him."

"Well, you’re not going to,"Avi shot back. He was right—I wasn’t about to sleep with Robbie. Truth be told, I wasn’t fond of Avi either; his self-assured demeanor and fixation on wealth, coupled with his man-boobs and beaver face, didn’t sit well with me.

I wanted out of there; it felt like an eighties high school flick directed by some perv. But anyway, my dearest former friend A— there was an obstacle course race with mud, and I ended up covered in mud in just my bra and panties, along with Avrumi.

"Wanna shower with me?" he asked.

"I thought you were shomer negiah?"

"Nope, I am kind of frum and from Flatbush," Avrumi admitted. "So, I just present myself that way."

Then he leaned in, whispering, "Don’t worry. I share a cabin, but it is empty right now."

So, I followed him to cabin fifteen, and we rinsed off. Avrumi handed me a blue gummy bear, knowing it would give me a high, just as we heard the door outside the bathroom rustle.

"Wanna go to the lake?" he asked me. It was more like a pond, but I nodded. He opened the bathroom window, and we sneaked out in our undergarments to the pond.

When I went out to the pond with Avrumi, I knew that the gummy bear I was given would make me high, and I had consented to it, but I thought it was a weed gummy bear, but I don’t think it was a weed gummy bear. I think it was an LSD gummy bear.

We sat on a dock by the pond. The planks beneath us felt slick and cool. The water lapped gently against the sides, its rhythm distant and muffled. The fog was dense and pulsating, a living entity. Trees lining the pond's edge were apparitions, their branches skeletal fingers. The dock’s far end disappeared into the fog, making it impossible to tell where wood ended and water began.

Sound vanished into the mist, muted to a dull throb. Avrumi's voice came stretched thin and hollow. The usual camp noises—the rustling leaves, the distant laughter—seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once.

Shapes moved in the fog, neither human nor animal.

I was cocooned in a damp towel that snuck down my throat.

I didn’t remember the act, the union of our bodies. The touch was filtered as though through gauze. I only remembered the fog, I knew his manhood was small, and I only remembered correcting Avrumi every time he called the pond a lake. "It's a pond," I insisted.

I barely remembered heading back to my cabin. I stumbled over thick, overgrown roots and had skinned knees.

The final evening of adult Jewish summer camp arrived, and still reeling from the events of the previous night, I pushed it aside to enjoy the party. The centerpiece was a mechanical shark, a departure from the usual bull, drawing everyone into a line eager for their turn. As I watched from the sidelines, participants were swiftly ejected within seconds, followed by laughter and a retreat to the grilled food. When my turn came, I mounted the shark, feeling the rough, rubbery texture beneath my thighs as I gripped tightly. With a nod from the operator, the shark began its frenzied, bucking gyrations. Instinctively, I moved in sync with the machine, my focus sharp and body perfectly aligned. The crowd responded with a mix of hushed awe and wolf whistles as I defied expectations, staying on far longer than anyone anticipated. Seconds stretched into a minute, muscles straining and heart racing, fueled by their stunned admiration. With a final, violent lurch, the shark flung me off, and I landed in a breathless heap on the padded floor.

I scrambled to my feet and found Avrumi standing before me. Trying to keep it light, I said, "Did you see that? I mastered the shark. I stayed on for a whole minute. I've got great balance."

"Uh, you did really well," Avrumi replied, his tone hesitant. "But the operator deliberately slowed it down. Also, umm, you weren’t wearing any underwear, and your… uh, you know."

"Oh no," I groaned.

"Oh yes," Avrumi confirmed. "And everyone loved it. Katie's pretty upset. She's been telling everyone your… assets are fake, but I defended you. She still doesn’t believe me."

I spotted Katie across the party, sipping a sangria with two friends. Storming up to her, I confronted her loudly, "Hey Katie, I heard you were wondering if my tits were real. You're welcome to find out for yourself."

Laughter erupted nearby, and Robbie chimed in, "Oh my gosh, I'd pay to see that."

Avi cut in sharply, "Shut up, Finkel!"

A few minutes later, Avrumi approached me, looking annoyed. "Why did you do that to Katie?"

"She's spreading rumors," I retorted, "But I guess that’s more memorable than whatever happened last night."

The next morning, it was time to head home. I arrived ten minutes late to Susannah’s Saab, and she immediately tore into me, "You’re late! That’s incredibly disrespectful. I have work tomorrow!"

A switch flipped in my mind. Susannah and I barely spent time together during adult Jewish summer camp. She felt abandoned, and I knew that feeling well.

I know what it feels like to be the floater friend, always trying to invest in friendships that often feel unrequited. People frequently recognize the absurd expectations of modern romance but rarely discuss the challenges of maintaining friendships, especially in an age of geographical transience and the neglect of Dunbar’s number. Romance is mostly limerence, while friendships are products of proximity and circumstance. When pressed, most relationships are merely acquaintances.

I take my friendships seriously and feel disappointed when they don't reciprocate. I often misattribute closeness, assuming that because a friend isn’t actively thrashing me or berating me like my immediate family, they genuinely love me. But they probably don’t think much of me at all. Maybe they care a little at best. I’m the friend fiftieth on their list, while I place them second or third on mine.

This misattribution leads me to fill my hole(s) with men, confusing intimate eroticism with the altruistic love, or agape, that should come from a parent to a child. Susannah shares a similar struggle. She is the friend who checks in but remains a satellite, her neurotic tendencies pushing people away, making it hard for her to keep friends.

Many women claim to uphold sisterhood, but how many female friendships are built on a solid foundation beyond brunch, gossip, travel, exercise, and work? How many survive after one friend gets married or pregnant? This isn’t just about women. The sight of a lonely person—man or woman—strikes me deeply. My parents can't live without each other, despite having little in common. They are each other's best friends.

On some level, I know that if I want to lock down a man, I have to pretend to be pleasant and lovable because I am aware of my annoyingness. Maybe if I drain a man’s balls and fill his stomach, then the man will like me more than my father ever did.

But at the same time, I know I don’t want to settle for a man in an age where every menial domestic task could be outsourced to a migrant or a machine.

I worry about being left behind after aging or illness, and most men aren’t even good providers anymore, basically useless. I doubt they’d help around the house. And I also kind of fear men, and on some level, detest them because I wish I was a man because I don’t like most women either. So, what’s the point? And also, my parents don’t deserve grandkids. The world would be better off ending that line. The world already has a biomass of one hundred million Egyptians…

"You were just hanging out with those guys the whole time!" she accused, interrupting my internal monologue.

My suspicions confirmed, I decided not to divulge what happened. I doubted she would understand, especially since she hadn’t found Mr. Right at camp.

I apologized profusely and tried to calm her down in the car, but as I did, my phone rang. It was my then-not-even-my-boyfriend. We liked each other a lot, but we hadn’t made anything official, so I kept certain things to myself.

"Hello?" I answered nervously.

"You’re not a cocktail waitress," he stated flatly.

"What?" I replied, taken aback.

"Stop pretending," he insisted, "You’re not a cocktail waitress."

I sighed deeply, realizing it was time to come clean. "Yeah, you’re right."

"Why didn’t you tell me?" he demanded.

"Because we’re not even official," I explained. "You refuse to label us. I like labels. They make things clearer."

Deep down, I knew labels were superficial. It’s odd how relationships can complicate things. I never really grasped the concept of "partner" or "boyfriend-girlfriend." There’s no sacred bond; it’s like people are content with being homunculi.

What's the use of being a man's girlfriend anyway, when he enjoys all the perks of having a wife without any of the commitment? He can lease then release at any time.

Exclusivity ought to come with a ring.

"Well, you’re so young and far away," he reasoned. "But are we exclusive?"

"I have another confession," I blurted out. "I’m at adult Jewish summer camp, and I had an encounter with a guy. I don’t remember much because I was given a gummy bear. It felt empty and awful."

"What?! But you knew it would fuck you up so what kind of excuse is that?"

"It’s not an excuse. I’m explaining what happened, but hey, at least you’re better endowed. That other guy would need to jerk off with a pair of tweezers," I said, attempting to lighten the mood.

"Are you ashamed of your job?" he probed.

"Honestly, waiting tables and other service jobs can be degrading, if not worse," I defended. "At least men worship you in that environment. The outside stigma is the worst part."

"I think you’re deluding yourself."

The rest of the car ride involved Susannah listening as I stood my ground against this man from Toronto, intimate yet not official. We agreed to discuss things later when tensions were lower and understanding was more possible.

After the call was over, Susannah started bawling about how no man would ever love her, and how unfair it was that men loved me, and I told her that none of these men loved me. She turned to me, her face flushed with frustration. "What’s wrong with me? I would make a great mother," she pleaded through sobs. "I know I’d make a great mother. I’m thirty-three. What is wrong with me?"

I gazed at Susannah, torn between pity and frustration. I struggled with the urge to see her as a victim, yet couldn’t find the words to soothe her. I wanted to reassure her of her wonderful qualities and her potential as a mother, but I knew her Type-A personality and constant neuroticism could drive men away. Her blunt, dykish HR energy didn’t help either. I wanted to advise her to grow out her thick red hair to a softer auburn, to amp up her sex appeal, and to dial down her intensity. But she was my ride back to North Carolina, so I lied.

"No, Susannah," I lied, swallowing hard. "Nothing is wrong with you."

We sped through the Shenandoah River Valley— winding roads traced the contours of lush, rolling emerald hills.

Making a pit stop at a local Seven-Eleven, I volunteered to grab some food for Susannah. Behind the counter stood an older white man, a rarity at a Seven-Eleven counter since 1978, his weathered face framed by glacial blue eyes, a departure from the usual Pakistanis. It took me a painstaking twenty minutes to guide him through fetching some taquitos. As our transaction neared its end, he pointed to a small pin on his apron that read, "I am deaf." It dawned on me—the strange resurgence of white men in convenience store roles after decades, not driven by necessity but by a cost-cutting strategy. They employed exotic disabilities and the small, barely readable pins as a humiliation ritual to justify fewer hours and cheaper labor.

And for the rest of the journey back to North Carolina, I resolved to salvage whatever I could of my budding yet non-existent relationship with the man in Toronto. Susannah's tears had left an impression—I didn't want to find myself in her shoes at thirty-three.

And I should have spent more time with Susannah during adult Jewish summer camp.

Sometimes, I wonder if she’s married now.

I tried looking her up, but I couldn’t find her anywhere.