The Ozette Raccoon Incident, pt. 3

Although the fury of the storm had abated, its lingering presence kept us nailed in place within the falsely comforting confines of the shelter. Though only trapped inside by the weather for only a few hours, dementia and hostility set in with alarming rapidity. A Buddig-fueled psychosis settled on our embattled group of campers, and behavior that started out as merely erratic and unpleasant quickly spiraled out of control.

I can remember being first shocked and dismayed as I realized that Cabin Fever had descended upon us with such lightning speed. Then (as is the Way of the Fever), all perspective departed me and I became not only convinced that I was the only one thinking clearly, but angry at the others. Still, I was hardly the worst offender.

That honor fell to Justin, who served as the prime example of The Guy You Aren't Going to Tell Next Time You're Planning to Go Camping. To explain why, I first have to take a detour down Wetwipe road. The one bit of sanity - and sanitation - in our possession was a cylinder of wetwipes that someone, undoubtedly KillJoy, thoughtfully brought along. (It didn't do much to balance out her buzz-killing presence, but I'll give credit where it is due.) No matter how foul and grumpy you felt, the cool, faintly antiseptic freshness of a pristine wetwipe did wonders for your mood. You'd swear it was removing not only grime and Buddig grease from your face, but your sins as well. For a few moments, at least.

Of course, even a pleasure as transcendent as the wetwipe eventually turned against us.

Every few mintues, it seemed, someone would request a wetwipe – they were about the only thing you could get Buddig slime off your hands and cheeks with. Unfortunately, what began as a polite request: "Could I have a wetwipe, please?" soon degenerated to "Gimme a wetwipe," and finallly just "Wetwipe." Justin, who was annoying even under the best of circumstances, instantly latched on to the opportunity that had presented itself.

"Wetwipe. Wetwipe. Wetwipe. Wetwipe. Wetwipe. Wetwipe," he repeated, over and over, with the sparkling eyes and facile grin that he usually reserved for when he knew his picture was being taken. "Wetwipe! Wetwipe! Wetwipe! Wetwipe! Wetwipe! Wetwipe!" For the first minute or two, we just ignored him, but in the dank and gloomy confines of the storm shelter, this amazing display of patience was bound to crack.

"Shut the FUCK UP!" shouted someone, it doesn't matter who.

"Wetwipe! Wetwipe! Wetwipe! Wetwipe! Wetwipe! Wetwipe!" He redoubled his efforts.

After 5 consecutive minutes of "Wetwipe! Wetwipe! Wetwipe! Wetwipe! Wetwipe! Wetwipe!" it was clear that violence was called for. "Fucking! shut! up!" I screamed, and started hitting him as hard as I could in the arm. Later, I wished I had just cut to the chase and punched him in the nose, but I wasn't thinking clearly either. Remarkably, this didn't seem to slow him down a bit. He simply absorbed the punches by tipping over sideways, still repeating "Wetwipe! Wetwipe! Wetwipe! Wetwipe! Wetwipe! Wetwipe!" as he rolled over. Even KillJoy crossing her arms and giving him The Look, which usually instantly curbed whatever juvenile behavior he was engaged in, had no effect.

Finally, order was restored by threatening to cut him out of the Buddig loop. But the damage was done, and a simmering air of hostility permeated the camp. It was clear now that it was everyone for themselves. Packs were retreived and jealously guarded. Food, booze and dope were jealously hoarded. Suspicion and paranoia reigned.

It was just the opening the raccoons were waiting for.

to be continued

¶ Tuesday, September 14, 2004