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American
Auschwitz
By
Clifford W. Lazar
Copyright Ó
1985, 2002, by Clifford W. Lazar
Chapter 3 - Second Evening
"Since when does women's lib mean that young girls go on overnight
survival trips with adolescent boys?” Judy challenged. She was ironing her
white cotton tank top that she planned to wear braless with her gold chains.
”Two months of no cheese cake and no chocolate-filled croissants to
wear this,” she thought.
Sid was stretched face down on the bed, arms around a pillow, enjoying
Rachel's rubbing Solarcaine on his reddish back. Lifting his head, he winced as
the sunburn on the back of his neck wrinkled to the point of cracking open.
"Yeah, I thought women's lib meant that the wives were free to take
ceramics or yoga and have their kids raised by illiterate Guatemalan Indians.
The richest kid on the block can't speak English, but he knows five Latin
American aboriginal dialects and has two recipes for curare!"
"Sid that's not what I mean. Neal's
just eighteen. He shouldn't be
spending nights with god-knows-what kind of girl in a tent."
"Mom, we're studying survival, not reproduction, and for all I know
there won't be any girls," he croaked.
Neal had finished packing his rucksack and set it on the floor next to
the door. Now he was methodically putting an edge on his hunting knife
by rubbing the new-chromed blade edge in a circular motion against a grinding
stone. His mother, who had been
intent on her ironing, looked over to him as he spoke.
"Oh, my God! What are
you doing?"
"Sharpening my hunting knife. I
bought it at the camp store. The
salesman told me I should sharpen it. So
I bought this whetstone. I got this
hatchet, too," he said holding it up over his head.
"Knives, hatchets! Sid,
talk to your son!"
Sid groaned as he twisted, causing Rachel to wince in sympathy.
"Neal, make sure you oil the stone or it'll plug up."
"It's O.K. Dad, I spit on it first."
"Neal! Sid! Oh my God!"