Camp Damascus(13)
Saul gazes straight down the lens, his showmanship immediately palpable. “Purpose. Community. Connection,” the man offers with stalwart confidence. “You’re gonna grow here, but you’re also gonna have a lot of fun.”
The screen cuts back to Pastor Bend, who’s standing in a modest outdoor amphitheater surrounded by lush forest. There are bleachers positioned on either side of him, and they’ve been divided down the middle with men on the left and women on the right. Pastor Bend stands tall at the center of it all, addressing the camera directly once more.
“Behind me are more than three hundred Camp Damascus graduates, but over the last thirteen years we’ve helped thousands of young people go on to lead healthy, normal, heterosexual lives in the presence of God,” he passionately explains. “The facts speak for themselves: we are the most effective ex-gay ministry on the planet, boasting a 100 percent success rate. In the long history of Camp Damascus, there has not been a single reversion to same-sex attraction.”
The screen fades to a long, slow pan across the bleachers, prompting me to recognize a few notable faces from my own high school mixed in with others from across the globe.
This is the only issue I have with this commercial. With a 100 percent success rate, there’s no need to hire actors, yet the handful of acquaintances who ended up in this crowd shot claim they never went to Camp Damascus. A few of them did actually go, but when I prod about what it was like to shoot this commercial they always have trouble finding the words.
Must’ve been amazing.
“So call the number below and begin the process of embracing a better life for you or someone you love,” Pastor Bend announces confidently. “With a little help, every one of us can…”
He pauses for a moment as the whole camp joins in for a raucous cheer.
“Love right!” they cry out in unison.
The commercial fades to black and my mother’s late-night program returns to the screen, an hour of preaching from an ultraliberal California pastor she probably shouldn’t be watching but tunes in for after Dad’s gone to bed.
I hesitate a moment and bask in the gratitude that suddenly washes over me. Today may have been strange, but at least I’m not dealing with the torment those poor souls at Camp Damascus are constantly battling. At least I’m not gay.
The second I register this thought, I catch an unexpected vision slinking along with it: a stowaway. The fantasy comes in a flash, a startling image of another girl and me at a diner. It feels warm and cozy as we sit across from one another, sipping coffee and giggling over some inside joke. I reach out and touch her left hand across the table, and she hoists her drink with the right. The silhouette of a cartoon crocodile is on her mug, but the thing that really draws my attention is just how beautiful and deep her dark brown eyes are, framed by a bob of jet-black hair.
As soon as the thought arrives, however, it disappears. I’m left feeling strange and uncomfortable, my mind and my body at odds with each other in their reaction to this imaginary scene of some hypothetical other life.
I remind myself that 94 percent of people report having intrusive thoughts.
Moving on, I quietly turn to the cupboard, opening it up and pulling out a tall glass. I fill the cup with tap water, listening to the pitch of the faucet’s soft hiss for timing, then turn back around and creep toward the stairs.
I only get a few steps before halting in my tracks, a potent surge of adrenaline coursing through my body. A humanoid figure now stands next to the television set, tucked away in the darkness and perfectly still.
I blink a few times, staring at this mass in the shadows as I attempt to make sense of it. I’ve gone from a bright screen to pitch black so many times in the last few minutes that my vision is struggling to keep up, fighting to sort through the things that are actual threats and the things that are nothing more than a coat rack or a standing lamp.
Or is that a hanging arm and a leg? I think to myself.
My mother remains motionless on the couch, completely unaware of the tension that fills the room around her.
My body is trembling, the glass of water in my hand vibrating as I wait and observe.
“Mom” is all I can think to say, attempting to wake her up in a hushed tone.
The figure remains still, utterly motionless in the dim, flickering light of the living room.
“Mom, do you see that?” I continue, a little louder this time.
My mother stirs a bit, but she doesn’t wake.
“Mom!” I finally blurt, enough force behind my voice to pull her from her slumber.
The figure erupts toward me in a horrifyingly confident march, abruptly revealing themself and prompting a frightened shriek to escape my throat. I stumble back, dropping my glass against the kitchen tile with a resounding crash.
I immediately recognize the intruder, this glimpse in the darkness all I need to recall the woman at the falls. Her stark white eyeballs and strange, mangled grin come surging back to me, flooding my mind with abject terror. She’s wearing the same deep red polo as before, and her stringy black hair flows behind her as she rushes forward.
I stumble against the dining room table, knocking it back with a hollow skert as I fail to catch myself. I hit the ground hard, feeling the cold chill of spilled water soaking through my shirt.
Suddenly, however, my intruder alters course. The woman turns at a crisp 90-degree angle, heading toward a nearby closet and disappearing into the darkness.