I. Chaos Theory in Progress
On a cold, February day in 1990, presumably before Global Warming began capriciously blending spring weather with Winter, a baby was being born... Of course, I had no idea at the time who she was, or what role she'd play in my future, but that's the funny thing about life: a bullet can be fired in 1990, take several years to reach its target. This particular bullet was named... well, she was never too keen on her real name, and at this particular point in time, probably not keen at all about me using it in this blog. So I will call her by the alias "Ariel", because of her affinity for The Little Mermaid.
Her name was Ariel and I only bring her up now because, only a mere couple blocks away from her house, my family was moving out of my aunt's place and into our own home...
II. My Ric Flair Hair. Woooooo!
I didn't have a sense of time as a child, which is something that is common to most children. So, while it felt like we had lived at my aunt's for months, it had actually been only a couple of months. My parents found a small house only a block away for us to move into, which excited me immensely for two reasons: 1.) My nerves had about as much as they could stand when it came to living in a house full of girls, and 2.) all the friends I had made, such as Aaron, and a kid that lived down the street named David, whom we only hung out with because he owned a trampoline, were just a quick bike ride away.
Before moving to Louisville, I wasn't a very violent kid. I had been in scuffles, most of which resulted in me being soundly beaten, but for the most part, I tried to avoid conflict. However, I was already intimidated by the prospect of attending a "big city school", believing that it would be like East Side Highschool in Lean on Me:
Thankfully, that turned out not to be the case, however, it was still a much larger school than I was used to. I didn't make many friends, and what little friends I had only associated with me at all because I could draw them a decent picture of Wolverine to put on their binders. I wasn't so much picked on as wholly ignored, which was actually worse, because anything I said in class, or in social situations, that was considered remotely stupid seemed to be amplified by my classmate's suddenly realization that I even existed. It took months just to get people to refer to me by my real name, as they were instead calling me "Ric Flair", after the professional wrestler, because of my platinum blond hair.
Admittedly, I also tended to style my hair exactly like in the picture above, so maybe the nickname wasn't totally unwarranted, but it still hurt my feelings nevertheless. I suppose I could have considered it a complement to be compared to one of the greatest wrestlers of all time, but somehow, I doubted that flattery was the intention behind the nickname. Instead of being upset, though, I actually did a very smart thing: I researched who Ric Flair was, and used it as a way to socialize with my peers. I began to follow professional wrestling, and even enjoyed it quite a lot - the surreal theatricality of the "sport" appealed to me greatly.
I had a hard time getting into normal sports, like football and basketball, because they all seemed too boring to me - they usually just signified the end of Saturday morning cartoons. Professional wrestling, however, wasn't a sport in the sense of the word I was used to - it was a spectacle involving warriors from the future (Legion of Doom) facing off against corrupt cops (Big Boss Man) and zombies (The Undertaker). Professional wrestling was an epic, ongoing saga involving larger-than-life characters, while football was... a bunch of faceless guys knocking into each other over and over, until somebody wins. Yawn. I knew wrestling was "fake", being that didn't matter. Even though other sports were real, they didn't seem to play for any stakes that really mattered, whereas watching Hulk Hogan face off against The Ultimate Warrior for the Championship belt was presented as if nothing more could matter on the face of the Earth.
The other name I was called was "Casper", in reference to my pale complexion. There was one particular instance, at the public pool I used to swim at, where a pack of neighborhood bullies kept calling me "Casper", and continuously attempted to jump on me from the high dive. I eventually had to retreat to the safety of my mom nearby, who was keeping an eye on me, but didn't realize I was being picked on. I didn't want to get her involved, which would only make me look like more of a weiny, so when she asked why I wasn't swimming, I just shrugged and told her I was bored, while I struggled to keep from crying.
So that's what I had going for me at the time: a minor talent in drawing comic book characters, a little knowledge of wrestling, Ric Flair hair, and the skin of Casper the Friendly Ghost. All of that, coupled with my innate social awkwardness, made the odds of me being very popular low indeed. Which made it all the more difficult to impress my newest crush, Samantha.
III. The Misleading Love Letter
Samantha sat in front of me in my homeroom class. She had sandy blond hair, perpetually tanned skin, and a tall, athletic frame due to being an avid swimmer. I knew she liked to swim because she we went to the same public swimming pool, and she was there without fail every time I went... even the time I was being bullied, of which she witnessed every moment.
She reminded me of Patty Mayonnaise in Doug:
Doug Intro (1991-1994) by TheBumperMan13
Don't even get me started in the role that Doug, and the rest of the Nicktoons, played in my life around this time... in fact, I think I'll go further into that in my next blog. What drew me to Samantha, in particular, was that she was a tomboy. I was having a lot of difficulty relating to girls because I found them to be so alien to my sensibilities. However, Samantha was a girl who enjoyed the same kind of things that I did, which was such a rare breed of female that I thought they only existed in movies... particularly Jenny Lewis' character in The Wizard.
The Wizard was one of my all-time favorite movies, and one that I rented so often, I might as well have bought it. I liked the movie because it was the only movie to celebrate something that was very dear to my heart: video games. The movie is about a young boy, played by Fred Savage (who I idolized at the time, for whatever reason), who escorts his kid brother across America to play in a video game tournament in California. They eventually meet up with a world weary, young girl played by Jenny Lewis, who is now an incredibly talented musician, who helps them figure out ways to fund the trip. What I liked so much about her character was that she never seemed... girlish. She was a confident, resourceful, and independent character, who liked video games. She didn't seem as vapid and dumb as most of the girls I had encountered up till then. Although I hadn't realized it yet, and silly though it may sound, her character became the model for what would become my "type".
Samantha was very much cut from this mold. She mostly hung out with the boys, and spent recess playing kickball with so much panache, that she was typically one of the first people picked for a team. I, on the other hand, having absolutely no latent athletic ability, wasn't even chose last - by the time it got to me, the two teams would try to draft anyone within visual range to play, and failing that, they would trade players with each other, so that whichever team had the misfortune of getting me wouldn't be too top heavy with sucky players. In all fairness, I was a mediocre athlete on the best of days. When I played soccer, I was infamous for being the kid that kicked the ball in the wrong goal while the game had been stopped due to a foul. That particular performance, and my tendency to stare off in space as the ball rolled right by me, led most of the parents to believe that I had autism. These kids weren't familiar with my embarrassing record in sports, but my performance in any sporting activity usually spoke for itself.
My complete inability to play sports, which verged on the uncanny, was my primary obstacle in getting Samantha's attention. To her, I was just a bookworm... well, to her and most of the school, which was fair, because I was a bookworm. I had a book with me everywhere I went, which is a habit I still have today. It may seem silly, but it don't seem so silly when I'm waiting in a long line at the post office. I've caught more than a few jealous glances from people who were no doubt wishing they had thought to bring a book.
My point is, I wasn't even on her radar. We barely spoke in class, and the only interaction I had with her is still something I consider one of my Top 10 Most Embarrassing Misunderstandings (a sordid list, if there ever was one). I was sitting behind her in class, admiring the nape of her neck, for lack of anything else to admire at that time, when she suddenly turned to face me. Our eyes met -my blue, bombardier eyes, and her's chestnut brown- and she did something that made my heart leap into my throat. She handed me a note. Before any of us could speak, she snapped back around to avoid scrutiny from the teacher. Breathless, I held the letter reverently, before opening it ever-so-carefully, much like Charlie slowly opening the winning candy bar in Willy Wonka and the Charlie Factory.
The letter was as succinct as Dina's almost two years prior, simply asking: "Do you want to be my boyfriend? Yes/No/Maybe" My heart flew into my brain, causing my eyelids to flutter in ecstasy. I tapped Samantha on the shoulder and, while holding the letter to my chest, whispered: "Yes! Yes! A million times, yes!" She looked at me, confused at first, then glanced at the letter, and realized what had happened.
Red-faced, and utterly annoyed, she hissed at me that the letter was meant to be passed behind me to its intended receiver, who was some kid who played soccer. She pointed out that instructions were clearly written on the back: "Pass to John", with a helpful arrow drawn to emphasize the point. I was crestfallen, not only because of having my newly aroused hopes be totally dashed, as if the Easter bunny had smashed a basket of colorful Easter eggs against the wall and handed me the gooey mess, but I had also made quite the ass of myself.
The solution seemed simple though: I had to engage in more "manly" activities in order to impress Samantha. Sports was automatically out, since the spectacle of me already failing at simple games like Four Square was doing my image more harm than good. Then an idea struck me like lightening: Boy Scouts.
The Boy Scouts seemed like the perfect organization for me, as I was quite fond of the outdoors. I often wandered about the woods behind my grandparents' apartment, pretending to be Luke Skywalker on the forest planet of Endor, searching for a hidden Imperial base, with a long stick standing in as my lightsaber. Most of the time, I didn't even need to entertain myself with fantasy to enjoy the serenity of nature. I would just walk aimlessly about, carefully inspecting, and mentally cataloging, anything that caught my eye, whether it be an interesting plant, or a wild animal. My family went on camping trips every year, without fail, and I always enjoyed those as well. The point is, I loved the outdoors, and definitely saw the value of learning what the Boy Scouts had to offer in terms of coexisting in nature.
Also, the idea of wearing a uniform, emblazoned with the badges of my achievements, really appealed to me. Why did I think this would work? Quite simply, because Samantha was, herself, in Boy Scouts. Yes, she was such a tomboy that she refused to be in Girl Scouts, and her parents petitioned to get her in Boy Scouts. The reason being because Samantha didn't feel challenged by what Girl Scouts had to offer, and felt like Boy Scouts catered to her needs more. By the 90s, having a girl in Boy Scouts wasn't unprecedented, so she got in without much of a fight. When I walked into school wearing that uniform, proudly displaying all the skills I was capable of, Samantha would realize that I was worthy of her affections.
That was the plan anyway.
IV. Be Prepared... for Pain
Boy Scouts was a hassle from the get-go, made all the more worse by my dad's constant whining about all the things we had to buy for it. I don't know how things are now, but back then, one couldn't simply buy Boy Scout equipment at K-Mart. We had to drive all the way out to the Louisville branch of the Boy Scouts headquarters, or whatever, and buy everything directly from their store. This included my uniform, several badges identifying what troupe I belonged to (which was had to buy individually), the Boy Scout handbook, a pocket knife (a purchase I particularly looking forward to), and a fire starting kit which included two pieces of flint. There was probably more, but I can't remember exactly, however, I do remember my dad getting increasingly upset with each purchase, questioning whether or not I actually "needed" a fire kit, when I could simply borrow some other kid's kit. With the exception of the uniform, my dad would attempt to justify his frugal philosophy of "share and share alike" (not to be confused with a moral philosophy of any sort) to nearly every piece of equipment on my list. Luckily, the sells man who helped us find everything we needed, was able to convince my dad that it was not only essential, it was mandatory, that I have all of these things. He grudgingly shelled out the money, giving me a sideways glance that unmistakably said: "You better stick this Boy Scout thing through, or so help me..." It's the same look he was infamous for giving when one of us, not necessarily excluding my mom, dared to stray from the Kid's Menu in any given restaurant.
I should have surmised that Boy Scouts wouldn't work out after the first meeting. We met in a fairly sizable church basement. The fact that we were in a church was not promising to me. My parents never forced us to go to church, although my mom wanted us to have some semblance of Christian upbringing. To that end, she would send me to the occasional Vacation Bible School, which I actually quite enjoyed, as I liked history, especially when it involved larger-than-life characters and mythical beings that went on smiting rampages. I found the idea of a God comforting, but curious: Who was this God and where did He come from? If the Bible is the word of God, why does it just stop? Why did God not continue having people transcribe his word all the way up till now? I had many questions, and as you can imagine, nobody had much in the way answers. In fact, I noticed adults got quite irritable with my questions regarding God, in a way that suggested that they had asked similar questions once-upon-a-time, and have since let it go. Once I read the Bible, or at least, my Children's Bible, I grew tired of churches, and found them to be boring places, where nothing but boring things happened, and people couldn't answer simple questions, such as the origin story of this God they all seemed to like so much.
The first Boy Scout meeting was just as boring as I expected anything being held inside of a church would be. What's worse, Samantha wasn't even in my troop, nor even was my friend Aaron (who joined the Scouts at the same time I did). The only people from my school was a little snot named Jeffrey, and some tall doofus named Ray, both kids I wasn't particularly fond of. All we did in that first meeting was go over chapters of the handbook, as if I were in school, and then we learned how to tie knots with ropes (none of which I could master, nor did I want to). Had I the word in my lexicon, and inclination for cursing, I would have thrown my rope down and announced, "Man, this is some BULLSHIT!" Instead, I played along, hopelessly flinging my rope about in tangles, and wondering if the next meeting would be the real meeting, as opposed to this meeting, which was so absurd as to only be a joke. I had be led to think Boy Scouts climbed mountains and went river rafting on a regular basis, not sat in church basements, playing with ropes.
The Scout Master was a tall man, with a gaunt face, complete with a bushy, Ned Flanders mustache. His size made him look rather gangling in his Scout Master uniform, which was a larger version of the Boy Scout uniform, except with shorts and a State Trooper hat. He was a mostly taciturn man, with a surprisingly volatile temper, and he held himself with the air of someone who took little, if any, pride in his position as Scout Master.
The next meeting was as bad as the first. This time we read more from the handbook, and watched a video about avoiding sexual molestation. I'm not kidding. At that point in my life, I still wasn't even sure what sex was (some might say I'm still unclear on the subject). All I knew was that it involved my penis, which I already well aware that it was the most sensitive part of my body. One thing that I did know, however, was that sex was an activity adults engaged in - like drinking beer, cursing, and playing poker. It shocked me to my core to think that there could possibly exist adults who wanted to have sex with kids. The video was especially alarming, as it also explored the possible scenario of being molested by one's own parents. What??? I remember the video even made the simple act of hugging seem sinister. About a week after that particular meeting, I remember being wary of any contact with adults, for fear that they may suddenly become seized with the irresistible need to molest me... even though I was still unsure what being molested entailed exactly. All that I knew is that it seemed an altogether unpleasant experience that would be better off avoided.
The rest of the meetings would turn out to be just as lame, until we finally began preparation for the big camping trip. Now this was more like it! By this point it was nearly September, and Summer was giving way to Fall. At this time, every year, the Boy Scouts had an annual camping trip they went on where they would compete with other troops for badges. We would be camping for three whole days. All of our meetings up till then consisted on planning the trip out, so finally, we were giving the goddamn handbook a rest. Before long, we all met in the church parking lot to depart for our trip...
V. Camp Kill Yourself
My first mistake, besides going on the camping trip, or even joining Boy Scouts, was not packing suitable clothes for cold weather. It was only September, and it had been warm up till then, so I didn't expect the temperature to drop as dramatically as it did. It was at this point my parents probably should have checked the forecast and made sure I at least brought a jacket, but they were so anxious at the prospect of having the house alone (my little brother was to visit with my grandparents, the lucky bastard) that they gave it no mind. In terms of other clothes to wear, we all figured my Boy Scout uniform alone would suffice... for five days... in the woods. So, in essence, I packed absolutely nothing for this trip. As one could well imagine, this would bite me in the ass in a big way. The Boy Scout motto was even "Be prepared", and I couldn't even do that right... this didn't bode well.
Day 1
We arrived at the camp grounds to a sea of Boy Scouts, all them putting up their tents in a frenzy. As we slowly wound our way through the grounds, I spotted Samantha, in full Boy Scout uniform, hammering a spike into the ground. Many of the boys I was with grimaced at the sight of a girl in Boy Scouts, seeing it as offensive to the spirit of the organization. I closed my eyes and hoped that we would cross paths a some point during this trip. When we arrived at the spot that was to be our camp, we immediately began setting everything up. The weather warm, though it drizzled rain all day, creating a rather grim mood for what was supposed to be a fun trip. After we finished, we grilled out burgers, under the supervision of the older Boy Scouts (known not as "Boy Scouts", anymore, but as "Venturing"). Then we attended a Scout wide bonfire orientation ceremony, which would kick off the week. Despite how the rest of the week would go, I had a decent enough time that night.
Day 2
I awoke the next morning to the sound of rapping on the tent I was sharing with Jeffrey and Ray. I hadn't gotten much sleep, as overnight, the weather suddenly took an icy turn, and my teeth were rattling. The flap of the tent unzipped and the Scout Master poked his stern head inside to announce that breakfast was being made, so we needed to either get up, or be hungry until lunch. I sluggishly walked to the large tent that was designated as the "Mess Tent", wearing my now wrinkled uniform that I wore to bed in lieu of anything else to wear. The Scout Master looked me up and down, and asked, "Did you sleep in your uniform?" I affirmed that I had, explaining that I had neglected to pack any other clothes. He rolled his eyes, and looked to one of the older kids with an expression like "Do you see what I have to deal with?" He then assessed me again, and asked, "Did you at least bring a jacket? It's going to get cold this weekend." I said that I did not. He threw up his hands in exasperation, and said something to the effect of, "Well, you know the motto is 'Be Prepared', yet you packed nothing for a camp trip. I guess you're going to have to experience the consequences of that mistake, because I don't have extra jackets or clothes for you, and we can't call your parents from here. Now go sit by the fire." I took my plate of breakfast (which was homemade donuts) and ate them sullenly by the now smokey ruins of the campfire.
Later that day, we attended our first competition, which was a fire starting contest. We had to start a camp fire, using nothing but our wits and what we could find in around us, before any of the other troops. All we were allowed to use were are flint rocks, to strike a spark. My troop gathered together what materials we could, and proceeded to pitifully attempt to start a fire with our rocks. We were a hopeless bunch. A couple of other troops had already begun to kindle small flames, while kept banging rocks together with little to no success. Finally, Ray took out a pack of matches he had brought with him, lit a piece of trash we found on fire, and began using that start the fire. The Scout Master spotted us cheating, marched over to where we were, picked up the mildly blazing embers of our fire with his bare hands, and in a fit of rage, not to mention poor forethought, threw the flaming mess into nearby brush. I stared in awe, as I had never seen someone hold fire in their hand, and I began to suspect my Scout Master was a Terminator cyborg. He yelled at us to go back to the campsite, before he threw us next. All the other Scout troops watched, including Samantha, as we trudged away from the competition in disgrace.
As the day wore on, only getting colder as the sun went down, I began to find I had another possible crisis developing in my intestines. There was nothing that one would consider a bathroom anywhere near our campsite. The only thing that remotely resembled a toilet was in a ramshackle shed that looked like Jason Voorhee's summer home, containing an uneven hole cut into the floorboards, leading down into a dark abyss of what I assumed to be shit. Toilet paper? Please - that was the least of your problems if you used this thing for anything other than possibly disposing a body where nobody would ever find it. I wasn't so much worried about wiping my butt as I was worried about my butt getting bitten by the venomous rats that elected to stay behind, while the others scurried away at the sight of a human. Those particular rats stay behind for a reason - because they are not afraid to bite someone's ass off. So, when it became clear to me that taking a shit would be more hazardous than it was worth, I decided it would be best to hold it for the duration of the trip... which, in case you forgot, was to be 5 whole days. Holding one's bowels for just one day is the kind of unpleasant experience that doesn't have to be repeated in order to learn from it.
At the end of that day, I was not only cold, but spent most of my time hunched over, as my stomach churned like a cement truck full of slowly hardening concrete. That night, I slept poorly to say the least.
Day 3
The morning started with a large hand grasping my ankle, pulling me forcefully out of the tent, as if the tent was giving birth to me the wrong way. Dazed and confused, in every sense of the phrase, I sat up, looking around me to see all of my fellow Scouts snickering at my plight, and I looked up to see the Scout Master tower over me, his hands crossed in his favorite pose of disapproval. "We told you to get up two times." He stressed the last two words in a way that suggested outrage. "You missed breakfast. Now get up. You aren't on this trip to sleep all day." I stood up, futilely trying to clean the dirt off my uniform from being dragged out of the tent, and feeling the painful growl of a stomach that was not only hungry, but desperately needed to discharge some waste.
I began considering that maybe I should request to be sent home early, as this trip wasn't working out well for me, but I was simply too afraid of the Scout Master to do it. However, an kindly older man, who was the head honcho of the Louisville Boy Scouts, visited out campsite from time to time, so I figured it would be best to wait and ask him. Until then, today's activity was to prepare chili for a competition later that night. The chili would also be our dinner. The vile concoction that we eventually ended up making could not be called "chili" for several legal and moral reasons. For one, chili is supposed to be edible, while this stuff was neither edible nor, I wager, biodegradable. The smell alone kept grizzly bears far away from our camp, while at the same time, seemed to lure the rats from the shit shed closer, possibly because it smelled so similar to their home. I'm not certain what went wrong with the... chili-like substance, other than that we were children that didn't know the first thing about cooking, and the only adults with us... didn't know anything either. Now that I think about it, the older kids and the Scout Master didn't have a cooking merit badge among them.
While we all had a jolly laugh over the chili disaster, we quickly sobered up when we realized that our options were to eat it, or not have dinner. A feeling of despair crept on us that was probably not dissimilar to the one that went through the crew of the Titanic when they realized they were going down. Some kids caved immediately, and began shoving such large quantities of it in their mouth, they hoped it would overload their sense of taste. Others tried a different strategy, which involved using milk to wash it down, as if it were bitter medicine. A shot of tequila as a chaser would have probably done the trick. I didn't think my ailing stomach could take a dose of radioactively disgusting chili, so I opted not to eat. So, all that day, the only thing I had eaten was a bologna sandwich for lunch and a soda.
That night, as I tried to shake myself to sleep, my tent mates decided to have a discussion about death. They wondered what happened after one died, and if a heaven or hell truly existed, or if we simply lay in a coffin forever, as maggots feasted on our flesh. They wondered what the Apocalypse would be like, and if it was going to happen either tomorrow, or even during our lifetime. As they carried on this increasingly morbid discussion, which also involved the "what if" scenario of our tent falling down the hill it was perch precariously on, causing us to get lost in the woods, I began thinking of my parents. I wondered what they were doing right then, and if they were having fun. I began wondering what my brother was doing at my grandparents. Then, because of the discussion of death, I began to wonder... what if I never saw them again? What if I died during this camping trip? I already felt like I was going to freeze to death. What if I somehow get hopelessly lost in the woods? It was already a nightmare scenario that plagued my mind ever since reading Gary Paulson's The Hatchet. I began crying. I attempted to hide it at first, silently sniffling to myself, but I felt so utterly miserable that it came out in a full gale, and both my tent mates fell into a stunned silence, before going to sleep to the sound of my sobbing.
Day 4
I had to leave. I could not stay another day on that hellish trip. I wanted to see my parents again. I wanted to use the bathroom. I wanted to take a bath. I wanted to peel that GODDAMN uniform off and wear clean clothes (a luxury, I realized, that I had taken for granted all these years). I wanted to play Megaman 2, and watch The Wizard for the 1,000th time. Most importantly, though, I wanted to LEAVE.
I didn't need a wake up call that morning, as I was on a mission. The older Scout Master always came by in time for breakfast, and just like clockwork, he stood with my Scout Master, having a discussion about basketball. I stumbled over, nursing my stomach, and coughed to get their attention. The older man gazed down at me and didn't hide his alarm at the state of me. I could imagine, with my wrinkled, dirty clothes, my sickly look, and dirty, tousled hair, I probably looked more pitiful than a Charles Dickens character. "Please, sir, can I go home?" I asked, putting as much meekness in my voice as I could muster, and adding a few coughs in for extra measure. It was my finest acting work, if only because I didn't need to act that much at all.
"Good Lord, Scout, are you sick?" he asked, with sincere concern, which was a refreshing change from my Scout Master's usual tone. I nodded an affirmative. The older man looked at my Scout Master. "Where's his jacket?" It was explained that I didn't bring one. "In this weather? My God, no wonder he's sick! I want him taken home immediately - immediately." My Scout Master snapped to, and ordered one of the Venturing Scouts to drive me back to Louisville and have my parents pick me up from the church where we usually held our meetings. As I rode in his car, passing all the other Scouts preparing for the day, I felt like the only survivor of a horror movie. I also felt the most overwhelming sense of relief, only rivaled by when I finally got to use the bathroom.
I elected to not go into detail with my parents about the miserable conditions of the trip and opted to stick with my "I got sick" excuse, which after not shitting for 3 days, being malnourished, and exposed to relentless cold, was not far from the truth. I also wanted to quit Boy Scouts, but did not express this desire to my parents, for fear that my dad would be furious at paying out so much money for nothing. I had quit most of the extracurricular activities I ever tried in my life - soccer, football, even karate. If I quit Boy Scouts, I feared my parents would collectively throw up their hands in resignation that their son was just plain no good at anything. Plus, I still wanted to use Boy Scouts as a way to get closer to Samantha. Since joining, I hadn't been able to wear my uniform to school yet, because I was too embarrassed and wanted to wait until I had some merit badges to show off.
I went to the next meeting, with a freshly cleaned uniform, and the resolve to stay in Boy Scouts to the bitter end. I never suspected that end would be that very night, and that it wouldn't be "bitter" so much as "traumatic".
VI. The Circle
We went through the usual motions: reading the handbook, practicing our knots, and some other exercises. Towards the end of the meeting, we all just hung around, talking in groups. Somehow, the conversation got to the subject of why I had left camp so early. I told everyone that I had gotten sick. "No, it wasn't," Jeffrey piped in. "You left because you missed your mommy and daddy." Everyone laughed so readily at this, I immediately suspected that there had already been much speculation behind my back as to the cause of my shameful, premature departure.
Nevertheless, I denied the accusation. Jeffrey continued on: "Please! He was in the tent, crying every night like a fag!" A chorus of "oohs" went around at the use of the word "fag", which was like the atom bomb of insults in a group of boys. When that word was used, all bets were off - this was personal. With the initial, first use of the word, the others took the opportunity to use it as well. All around me, boys were snickering, and muttering things like, "Pfft, Craig's such a fag." and "Did you run home to cry to your mom, faggot?" Someone pushed me, and as I turned to confront him, someone else pushed me as well. I began to realize that they had surrounded me in a tight circle, and I was being pushed like a pinball, bouncing bumper-to-bumper. I was in a grip of such panic and confusion, it must have been similar to what Caesar felt when he was being brutally assassinated in the Senate (though that was... probably slightly worse, I imagine):
The insults rapidly devolved into the chant "Faggot! Faggot!" and pushing devolved into tearing at my shirt. I remember thinking so many things as it happened. I remember glimpsing the Scout Master watching it all transpire, his arms crossed, and doing nothing to help. It reminded me of the evil karate instructor from Karate Kid:
I also remember thinking, "How could this happen in a church? I thought churches were supposed to be the safest of places??" I caught of glimpse of Jesus, crucified, and looking down on the onslaught, with as much concern as the Scout Master. Where was God when awful things like this happened? Just watching and doing nothing about it.
I finally managed to tear myself away from the circle, and, curiously, kept my composure long enough to walk quickly to the table where we kept our coats, grab mine, and walk out the door, as the boys catcalled and laughed their asses off. I didn't have a plan, nor any idea where to go, just as long as it was away from there. Fortunately, right as I walked out the door, my mom was arriving to pick me up. I walked right into her, and she tried to grab me, which made me explode into a hysterical fit of screaming and crying. She kept asking me what was wrong, but I was in such a state of mind, that I still didn't even realize she was my mom. I just kept struggling to get away, and screaming. Finally, I recognized her through the blur of tears in my eyes, and we hugged, as she tried to calm me down. I tried to explain what happened, but it all came out in shakey, one word sentences. "Boys. Pushed. Me. Couldn't. Get. Away. Calling. Me. Names. Couldn't. Get. Away." I was hyperventilating, and mom had to calm me down some more.
When she finally did, she escorted me back into the church basement, marched up to the Scout Master, and in full view of my tormentors, screamed at the Scout Master, saying something to the effect of: "How DARE you just STAND here and let my son be bullied by these NO GOOD ASSHOLE KIDS!" At that point she turned to them. "AND YOU LITTLE MOTHERFUCKERS OUGHT TO BE ASHAMED OF YOURSELVES!" Mom continued her verbal assault at the Scout Master, who seem genuinely afraid, which was the first time I had ever seen him express emotion other than rage. My mom threatened to sue, have him fired, sent to prison, and all sorts of scenarios, turning to the other Boy Scouts to let them know they would be held accountable as well, going so far as to threaten to send them to jail for assault. "I WILL CALL THE POLICE RIGHT NOW, SO HELP ME!"
I stood there, the whole time, covering my face with my coat, so the kids couldn't see that I was still crying, despite the joy I felt at finally having someone to defend me. The Scout Master finally coaxed my mom to calm down long enough to apologize and order the other Scouts to apologize as well, which they did, in unison, with absolutely zero sincerity. I just continued hiding in my jacket. The Scout Master offered to my mom that I would still have a place in Boy Scouts if I wanted to come back, and ensured that this wouldn't happen again.
"Shove it up your ass," was my mom's counteroffer, as she walked me out of that church basement for good. The next day, I threw away my tattered uniform.
VII. Retaliation
That night, I stayed up thinking about what happened, and why. I had allowed myself be a victim. I should have stood up for myself - fought those boys. Even if I had gotten beaten up, I still would have walked away with a sense of pride that I stood up for myself. What happened in Boy Scouts was symptomatic of my problem in general - in my desire to fit in, I let people walk all over me. I thought about the "flagpole incident" with Greg over the previous summer and how good it felt to make a stand. I didn't enjoy the actual violent act of hitting Greg, but I had definitely felt a sense of euphoria from expressing my anger. I made a decision that night, while I closed my hand in a tight fist. I wasn't going to take it anymore.
After the weekend was over, I was back in school. I spotted Jeffrey in the hallway, in his Boy Scout uniform. When he made contact with me, he smirked, and said something to a boy next to him. I threaded my way through the hall towards him, and very casually, smashed his still smirking face with my trapper keeper. More shocked, than hurt, he fell down, whereby I hunched down in his face and hissed, "Who's the faggot now?" I then tore one of his badges off his shirt, handed it to a totally bewildered Samantha, and walked away.
A new era had begun. I was officially going to be a badass now.
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