Girl #5: "Samantha & The Boy Scout Disaster"

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.

Girl #4: "Megan & The Flagpole of Doom"

I. Momma's Got a Gun

It was time to bid Bowling Green farewell... for now. My dad had gotten a job in Louisville, and so the family Williams were moving to the big city. The prospect of leaving the unrelenting boredom of country life was exciting to me, although I would miss Dina and my friends greatly. I also wasn't too thrilled with starting over again at yet another strange and unfamiliar school, because I had come to like the one in Bowling Green so well. As quaint as that school had been, I was worried I'd be swallowed up whole, like Pinocchio by the killer whale, at a city school.

My dad had to start his new job fairly quickly, so he went ahead up to Louisville, leaving us to do the actual moving part. My mom wasn't used to being home alone, and it didn't do well for her nerves. Although we lived in the middle of nowhere, which made a home invasion seem highly unlikely, the fact that we lived in the middle of nowhere, where nobody could help us, or hear us scream, made it all the more frightening a scenario.

One night, while we slept, there was a loud knocking at our front door. Mom woke me up, her eyes wide in terror, with a shotgun in her hand. She told me not to be afraid, and to follow her to the kitchen to stand-by at the phone in case the police had to be called. The door continued knocking, as mom slowly crept up to it, shotgun in hand. When she got close enough to the door, she pumped the shotgun menacingly, which made the knocking abruptly stop. There was a space of silence, as the person on the other side of the door weighted his options, before I imagined he slowly backed away and made a run for his car, wherein he backed out with such urgency, it spit out a torrent of rocks from our gravel driveway. My mom and I both exhaled in relief, and keeping the gun in one hand, she immediately called my dad, who was staying at my aunt's, to tell him what had happened.

My dad calmly explained that the man was not a burglar at all, but the man that my dad had actually borrowed the shotgun from for quail hunting. He was supposed to have come by earlier, but had been running late. It was no wonder that he had run off at the sound of his own shotgun being pumped, as it was a particularly familiar sound to him. Despite the explanation, my mom demanded that dad come back at once and drive us all up to Louisville to live with him immediately, because her nerves simply couldn't take another night like that. So, the very next day, dad showed up, we packed up what little we could fit in our jeep, and we left the house forever, leaving behind a great many of our possessions and furniture with it. It was an entirely wasteful and stupid thing to do, which as it happens, is completely characteristic of our family. All the way up to Louisville, we all teased my mom over the shotgun fiasco. Aerosmith's "Janie's Got a Gun" was a big hit at the time, so when it came on the radio, my dad turned it up, and began singing "Karen's Got a Gun", and we all began singing along.



Now that I think about it, leave it to our family to take a song about a woman murdering her sexually abusive father, and make it into a happy family sing-a-long for a long car trip.

II. Welcome to the Dollhouse

In their haste to move, my parents, ever the responsible adults, neglected to perform a very important step whenever one plans on moving to a new city: finding a home which to move into. Being so young, I didn't fully realize that our family was, technically, homeless, nor did I much care, because we were moving into my aunt's house, where we would live with my four female cousins: Missy, Mandy, Michelle, and Melinda. After spending a year in perpetual loneliness in the country, the idea of moving into a house that was constantly buzzing with people, in a neighborhood full of kids my age, appealed to me about as much as a discovering a Jomba Juice would appeal to a man lost in the desert.

If my experiences with girls could have been considered limited at that point, I was certainly about to get a crash course. My four cousins were separated in age range to the point where it served as a helpful evolutionary chart to chronicle the process of how women go from innocent and cute to neurotic and crazy. Missy and Mandy were both in high school, while Michelle was a couple years older than me, and Melinda was my brother's age. My time in that house taught me the invaluable lesson that when girls gather into a group, or the more appropriate word would be "bloodthirsty mob", it is for the best that any male in proximity stay out of sight - in fact, get as far away as possible.

Don't get me wrong - my cousins were all sweet, fun girls, and I adored being around them, especially the two who were closer to my age. The older ones, however, tended to turn vicious and cruel when they had their friends over, such was the nature of teenage girls. Missy, for the most part, would just ignore me when friends were over, while Mandy was more apt to play pranks. I remember one time they were playing with an Ouija board, and Mandy tricked me into believing she was speaking to the Devil, who then subsequently "possessed" her, and she chased me through the house. I was terrified of my cousin for days after that, because she'd occasionally turn to me while eating, and secretly inform me that she was still possessed, so I should watch my back. Consequently, she was the one most often called upon to babysit my brother and I all the time.

The way my cousins' very personalities would transform when friends were over made me grow resentful of "groups", especially groups of teenagers, as they all seemed cocky and mean, especially to those they perceived of as weaker than them - namely, me. I grew resentful of older kids, in general, so much so, in fact, that when I watched horror movies like Friday the 13th or A Nightmare on Elm Street, it seemed to me that Jason and Freddy were performing a great public service dispatching these obnoxious asshole teenagers. I was outraged that older kids felt they were entitled to walk all over anyone younger than them, and seeing as I had quite literally been the victim of an older kid walking over me (and kicking me in the face - refer to my previous blog entry), my resentment was understandable. I was convinced that all older kids were bullies, the lot of them.

Of course, I never considered that one day I would actually be a teenager, and every bit as obnoxious, not to mention, eligible for murder at the hands of a slasher villain. I was living within the glorious and warm cocoon that was childhood, where thoughts of the future were limited to whether or not I'd have enough money for the ice cream man the next day. I think when people reminiscence on the simplicity of childhood, it's the ability to live in the now, which is inherent in every child, that we really miss.

Anyway, while three of my cousins were older girls, with lives too "mature" and "complicated" for a boy my age to comprehend or relate to, I tended to hang out with Melinda the most. It was through her that I met Megan.

III. Best Friends

The days spent at my aunt's were never dull. I seem to remember those days as if every night was a pizza party, complete with movies. I even recall watching Batman for the first time sometime around that first month of living there, which kick-started my fascination with the character and his mythology forever. That movie made such an impression in my mind, I even remember the Diet Coke commercial that played before it:



I also remember spending most of my time playing the insane library of video games my cousins had accrued. They had more video games than I had ever seen in one place before. One game I played obsessively was called Mighty Bomb Jack for Nintendo:



If something wasn't going on in the house, there was usually much to do outside of it in the neighborhood, which was always bustling with kids my age. Within the first week of living in Louisville, I befriended the kid across the street, a guy named Aaron, and we became best buds... especially because he had a Sega Genesis. A game system that wasn't Nintendo?? Heresy! Aaron was the first person I would consider my "best friend". When we weren't in his backyard, jumping around, pretending to fight ninjas, we were printing up our very own newspaper, with me as the artist, and handing them out to neighbors for 25-cents each. We always had such a good time whenever we hung out, because Aaron's family had a plush entertainment set-up in their basement, and we'd almost always have it to ourselves to play video games or watch the movie channels, which was all the more a luxury for me since my family never had the movie channels, and were generally considered forbidden because of the high risk of nudity that was on them late at night.

I had already seen naked women before - once, in an issue of Playboy I found in my parents' closet in our country house, and the second time, er, well... let's just say that when living in a house with four girls, accidentally walking in on one of them getting dressed was an inevitably. I won't say which one I walked in on, because odds are, they're all probably reading this, but I had only the briefest half second to even comprehend what was happening, before a hot curling iron was launched at my head, and I scurried the hell out of there. I didn't really understand her reaction at the time, because even though I was certainly aware of and fascinated by the major physiological differences between sexes by that age, it was no more than an idle curiosity. I was eight, and hadn't hit puberty yet, so vagina's held as much allure to me as interest rates for home mortgages. It was just a thing that girls had, for some reason, and that was sufficient enough for me. In fact, the first time I ever saw a vagina, I remember thinking that it almost seemed to... grimace. Like it was constantly worried about something. It seemed like an all around, troublesome body part (I didn't even know the half of it), and I wished girls, as a whole, luck in dealing with it.

My point is, my parents needn't have worried - movies with nudity were not as much of a priority to my friend and I as movies with shit tons of violence! The bloodier the spectacle, the better! We would stay up super late watching movies like American Ninja, Bloodsport, and Predator, so that the next day, we could talk excitedly about the movie over bowls of Cocoa Puffs (which I had renamed "Poo-poo Puffs", causing the two of us to explode with laughter... and Poo-poo Puffs), and reenact the movies outside. It was all harmless fun, and nobody was ever in danger, except maybe our imaginary opponents. I went over to Aaron's for many reasons, but there was one reason in particular that kept me coming back...

Aaron lived next door to a girl I absolutely adored, named Megan.

IV. My Little Pony

To me at the time, Megan was like an angel. She had golden, curly locks and a cute smile. Megan regularly came over to hang out with my youngest cousin, and they would play with My Little Ponies. This was one of the first (but certainly not the last) times I had ever felt nervous to talk to even be around a girl. For one thing, she was in what I considered my home - my sanctuary, the only place on Earth where I could relax and be myself in all my disgusting glory! Sure, I shared the house with four girls (not counting my aunt or my mom), but I've never had a crush on any of them, despite the fact that I was raised in Kentucky. It was uncomfortable and awkward to have a girl that I liked watch me play Nintendo, or be around when I was doing something equally as nerdy, like watching Batman for the 80th time. When I liked a girl in school, I could be a different person than I was at home - a larger than life person. So here was Megan, seeing me in all of my... mediocrity. When I would wake up, my hair completely disheveled, and walk downstairs with urine stained pants to announce to my mom in the kitchen that I had, once again, peed the bed (or, rather, the bundle of blankets on the floor of Mandy's room that served as my bed), Megan would be there. It was humiliating.

Another issue was that I was at the age where I began to notice the major differences between boys and girls, which disturbed and annoyed me. For example, I couldn't, for the life of me, understand why they all loved the movie Dirty Dancing. It seemed to me a total bore of a movie. Now Batman - that was a good movie, or better yet, Ghostbusters... which, by this point, I was totally obsessed with anything Ghostbusters. Before moving to Louisville, I used to go to a daycare called Kindercare, and we would take a field trip every year to an amusement park in Nashville called Opryland. Boys would battle girls over what music we got to listen to in the van, and it was always between the Ghostbusters soundtrack or the Dirty Dancing soundtrack. The boys were woefully outnumbered, so we would have to suffer not only listening to the Dirty Dancing soundtrack, but all of the girls badly singing along to it. It was agonizing.

So, when I moved into my cousins' house, I was suddenly surrounded on all sides by New Kids on the Block and being bombarded by multiple viewings of Dirty Dancing. I couldn't comprehend why all of my cousins insisted on pretending that these were acceptable, while they utterly refused to watch an actual good movie like Ghostbusters. I began to think that girls were either terminally stupid creatures, or that they were all simply conspiring against me - as if someday they'd go, "Ha, gotcha! New Kids suck, we were just messing with you!" To this very day, in my more agitated moments, I sometimes revert to that frame of mind. Justin Bieber's inexplicable rise to popularity has not helped.

Megan was no exception. She was into all that stuff as any girl at the time was. This was something I hadn't experienced with Dina, who seemed to enjoy the same things I did. How was I supposed to even talk to someone who was so profoundly different from me? Most of my attempts to talk to her were met with conspiratorial giggles with my cousin, or just plain indifference. One day I was drawing in my sketchpad, when I struck upon an idea. I remembered how Jessica, the girl in my kindergarten class, seemed impressed by my artistic ability, which had grown quite a bit by that point. Megan was really into My Little Pony, and she would often play My Little Pony with my cousin. I had grown reasonably good at drawing horses, so I drew a picture of Megan's favorite My Little Pony character and gave it to her as a gift. She seemed excited and flattered by the gesture, not to mention impressed by my drawing skill, and it seemed that I had at least won her good graces for a time... until Greg showed up.

V. Leader of the Pack

Greg was an older kid that began hanging out with my cousins on regular basis. I can't remember exactly how old he was, but I want to say he was a high school Freshman. Greg had the classic handsome features, such as well tanned skin, an athletic body, and a chiseled, square jaw that melted most girls' defenses instantly. He looked like one of the jocks in Revenge of the Nerds, which was one of my favorite movies at the time, so it's no wonder I drew that comparison. If there was one thing that movie taught my young, malleable mind, it's that the word "jock" was only two words away from being "jerk", and Greg was most certainly that.

He would swagger in, causing girls of all ages to get so excited that they would gather around him like he was goddamn Johnny Depp. Even my aunt seemed charmed by this guy. In reality, he was probably not as much of a jerk as I remember, but I resented him because he commanded so much admiration with little to no effort, based mostly on his good looks. It didn't matter that they guy had almost no personality. In fact, this almost seemed to appeal to girls more because it made him into a sort of an "everyman", so they could project whatever idealistic personality traits they wanted. The one trait about him they all seemed to agree upon was that he was funny, which simply wasn't true. In my mind, Bugs Bunny was funny; Gallagher was funny; Pee-Wee was funny; this guy never said anything funny, yet girls laughed at any weakly thought out joke he threw out, and it drove me nuts! Not for the last time, I considered the possibility that women, as a whole, were conspiring against me.

Greg would sometimes play basketball with the younger kids, which all the girls found endearing and sweet, even though he played as if the game were being held in a state penitentiary. That guy threw elbows like ninjas throw stars, and he'd play it off as if it were an accident. He was crossing cats, faking kids out so that they'd lunge for the ball, only to eat pavement. As all the girls fawned over him, I was screaming in my head, "Did you not SEE him dunking the ball on my HEAD???" It didn't matter - Greg could do no wrong.

I personally began having an ax to grind with him because Megan was crushing on him just as hard as anyone. In retrospect, of course Greg was no real threat to me in regards to Megan, seeing as he was in high school, and she was eight. Nevertheless, I hated how unfair it was that while I had to work for her attention, this guy got it effortlessly. If only my current self could travel back in time to warn my 8-year-old self that such was life, so better get used to it or face living a long, bitter existence, my child incarnation might not have taken such drastic measures to demand attention.

VI. Say Hello to My Little Friend... an 8" Flagpole

My family was having a grill out, and it seemed like everybody we knew in the neighborhood was over. This included all of my cousins, some of their friends, Megan, my friend Aaron, and... stupid Greg. Of course, we he finally sauntered up, everyone showered him with affection and bombarded him with hamburgers or hotdogs for his perusal. I just sat on the driveway, smoldering in jealousy, quietly eating my hamburger with Aaron, who was very much cognizant of my hatred for Greg, so he wisely allowed me to smolder away in silence.

Eventually, Greg got up, stretched, and announced he was going to play basketball. He asked if I wanted to play, to which I answered "No" and continued silently eating my burger. He then asked if I would eat my burger somewhere else, instead of the basketball court, to which again I answered, "No". He shrugged and told me that they would just play around me. The game started up, and in no time, of course, the basketball ended up on my plate of food, exploding it everywhere, the majority of it getting on me. Before going any further, I want to take a moment to acknowledge that, yes, I was being an obstinate little ass, but in that moment, I felt a sense of self-righteous pride that this guy wasn't going to tell me what I'm going to do. So one can imagine how stupid I felt, covered in baked beans, ketchup, and potato chips, knowing that this was my own fault for not moving out of the way, all the while listening to everyone laughing at me, including the enemy, Greg.

The most painful of all, though, was seeing Megan laugh at me. This sight mobilized the anger that had been simmering in me for weeks. My entire body began shaking, and my vision blurred not only from the tears welling in my eyes, but from pure rage. I had never been this angry before in my life, not even after being trampled on by Daryl the Albino. So I picked up the basketball and launched it at Greg's stupid, perfect face. He dodged it easily, and was even more amused than before. "Whoa, what's his problem?" he asked, as if he had not just witnessed my lunch exploding into my face.

One of my cousins, I can't remember which, said, "Oh, just ignore him, he's just jealous because he likes Megan."

My eyes flashed in betrayal, and my rage was replaced with shock, panic, and fake outrage. "What? No, that's ridiculous!" I sputtered, hysterically trying to seal the truth back up in a bottle, like it was a mischievous genie intent on ruining my life.

She only continued, "He drew all these pictures of My Little Pony for her, it was so cute!" This elicited a fresh round of laughter. Greg offered an insincere "Awww" of mock sympathy. Now I had enough. It was one thing to be the object of ridicule, but to take something that was supposed to be a gesture of romance, and turn it against me hit me to close to home. I wanted to completely thrash Greg, but I knew I didn't stand a chance. It seemed I had no other choice but to walk away, and I did just that... until I saw something shining to me from the grass in the afternoon sun. It was a long, 8-inch metal flagpole. I had been using it as a prop in most of my imaginary adventures for some few weeks, and it had become the bane my uncle's existence because he'd have to move it out of the way every time he tried to mow the lawn, but he'd only see it after nearly destroying his lawnmower running over it. I picked up the pole, testing it's heft, my tears splashing on the hot metal. Truth of the matter is, I didn't think about using the pole as a weapon, nor did I think about much at all, except making the pain go away. I turned back to Greg, who gone back to shooting basketball, while the girls had stopped laughing and chatted amongst themselves.

Nobody saw me coming, as I charged at Greg, much like Don Quixote tilting at a windmill. As Greg turned around to face me, I clumsily swung the pole, which was much too long and heavy for me to swing very fast, but it hit Greg in the eye, bringing him to his knees as he shouted out a curse. Everyone stopped what they were doing, to slowly digest what had happened. I dropped the pole, surprised that I had actually not only hit Greg, but brought him down. I had little time to be jubilant of my victory, as Greg, now absolutely enraged, stood back up, picked me up by the scruff of my shirt, and threw me into some nearby thorny bushes. Even though the bushes scratched the shit out of me, I had the most curious reaction to it all... I was laughing. My laughter only provoked Greg more, and he came towards me with violence in his eyes, screaming "You think it's funny? You think it's funny?" Thankfully, my cousins, finally snapping out of their shock, pulled him away, helping him to nurse his eye, while I continued laughing in the bushes. Aaron gave me a hand out of the bushes, and we ran back to his house, the both of us laughing our asses off in amazement at what I had done.

"You were like a Jedi or something!" he exclaimed, as I treated my cuts with rubbing alcohol, which burned hellaciously, but I was too happy to care. I agreed that what I had done was very Jedi-like, and Greg should count himself lucky I hadn't used a lightsaber. There was little to no aftermath to my "fight" with Greg. My parents were so much angry as surprised, if only because I had never gotten into a fight before that; I had mostly just gotten my ass kicked all the time. My cousins were upset with me for a time, but being the capricious teenagers that they were, they moved on fairly quickly. Greg stopped coming over as often, and when he did, he wouldn't say a word to me, which was all the better. As for Megan... believe or not, I had somehow won her respect that day, and after a week or so, found myself being invited to her house to watch movies, with my cousin Melinda always present, of course. Megan was never my official girlfriend, but I began to not care after awhile, as I had a new crush rapidly developing at school.

Although I look back on that day, disturbed by the violent lengths I had gone to protect my pride in front of Megan, my flirtation with violence as the answer to all my problems was only beginning. This would kick off an era in my life I'm not proud of - the era of The Foot Fist Way.

Girl #3: "Dina & the Raging Albino Clown"

I. Mud in my Eye

We moved out to the countryside, right outside of Bowling Green. This was my first time moving anywhere, and quite frankly, the concept blew my mind. Up till then, I had not considered that it was possible for us to simply pack our things and move into another house, and the prospect excited me. I was especially excited by the idea of going to a new school, as I was none too thrilled with my old one, especially after an incident during the last week of my classes. I had been standing in front of the school, waiting for my parents, precariously teetering off the edge of the front stoop, admittedly making a good target of myself for potential bullies, when I suddenly felt two hands shove me, and I seemed to float for a few seconds, like Wile E. Coyote, until I finally plummeted face down into a large mud puddle. Since screaming in terror is the natural reaction when falling a few feet, I not only found myself totally caked in mud, but a large amount of it ended up in my mouth. That officially answered the question I had much pondered, even while staring at the mud from the comfort of my stoop pre-fall: mud did not taste a thing like chocolate. No, sir.

I also learned something else that day - it was my first lesson in how cruel the world could be. We all have that singular moment in our lives when we first discover this, and our innocent perception of life, which is nurtured by bedtime stories and Mr. Rogers, is irrevocably shattered. I remember feeling a sense of shock and betrayal after I hit the mud, and I wondered, "How could someone do this to another person? What did I do to deserve this???"

My parents arrived to find me standing in front of the school, covered in mud, crying my eyes out. It wouldn't be the first time they would drop me off somewhere, only to pick me up an emotional wreck, but let's not get ahead of myself...

II. My New Friend Nintendo...

The new house might as well have been a castle, compared to our old one. This one had a basement! I was also getting my own room for the first time in my life, which was a prospect that thrilled me to no end. My grandparents gave me an old school desk for the occasion, which I thought was the most amazing gift anyone had ever given me at that point in my life... until I got a Nintendo...

Life in the country can be really lonely and dull. We didn't have cable, so no more watching MTV like I used to in the old house. The only kid that lived close to us was a little prick down the street who I hated to hang out with, but I did anyway because he had this magical device known as a Nintendo. At that point, I was already infatuated with video games. In the old house, my uncle would sometimes pick me up from school, take me to Wendy's for a frosty (another food item I hypothesized mud tasted like, and was terribly wrong), and then we'd go to the arcade, where I watched him play video games in profound fascination. My uncle was the kind of gamer that people would stop and watch because he was so good at them. His two favorite games were Ikari Warriors and Punch-Out (the original arcade version):





I hardly ever played anything, because quite frankly, the arcade games intimidated the shit out of me. They were loud, flashy, and only adults seemed to know how to play them. Then one day I went over to my grandparents' and my grandpa was playing Ghosts n' Goblins for the Nintendo. I was astounded to see a video game on the television! Here was something I could sink my teeth into! The controller was so sleek, and intuitive... and the game was easy enough to figure out: zombie rise from the grave, you stab said zombies with javelins. Easy-peezy. Whereas arcade games were for grown ups, Nintendo seemed more... benign. After I was introduced to Super Mario Bros, well, that was about all she wrote...

The point I'm getting at is, living in the country, there wasn't much for me to do. My imagination tided me over for so long before it wasn't sufficient. I didn't have any friends to play with. So I desperately wanted, no, NEEDED a Nintendo. I couldn't stand being at the mercy at the little asshole kid that lived down the street any longer. Finally, one fated Christmas, my grandparents gave me a Nintendo, and one of the first games I rented was The Legend of Zelda...

I loved The Legend of Zelda, despite the fact that I had no clue how to play it. I loved the golden cartridge, which made the game seem like a treasure dug up from the tomb of some forgotten king. What I loved most of all, though, was the story... well, the story that is provided by the instruction manual. The game itself didn't have much of a narrative, but that was all the better, because it allowed me to create a story of my own.

The main aspect of the game I found interesting, though, was that the protagonist, Link, seemed no older than I was! Up to that point, my only heroes were He-Man and Optimus Prime. I had never considered that someone my age could be considered a hero, yet here was Link, a young boy, sword in hand, on a dangerous quest to save a beautiful princess from an evil wizard, and as the one playing the game, I was helping him along every step of the way. It had a profound effect on my outlook of the world that served as a direct counterpoint to the mud puddle incident: the world could be cruel, but not if someone has the courage to take up their sword, as it were, and defend innocent people from getting pushed into mud puddles.

III. Dina's Love Letter

I started school not long after we moved into the new house. I had become so bored with being isolated in the country, and since this was before I had a Nintendo, the boredom was nearly unbearable. So, in a complete departure from my initial dread of school when I first started, I embraced the prospect of having something to do, and other kids to play with.

The school I went to was as simple as one would expect a public elementary school in the country to be. It was a normal school, not some archaic one-room building like in a Mark Twain novel, but it was small, which made it a lot less intimidating than my previous school. The teachers were mostly nice, and the other students welcomed me into their fold surprisingly quick. I enjoyed my classes, especially reading. Living in the country definitely showed me the value of learning to read, if only to have something else to do that will bide my time. Once I grasped the fundamentals of reading, I read voraciously. My parents could not keep up with my appetite for books, which lead to me begging for money whenever the Book Fair would come to my school (one of my favorite events of the YEAR), only for me to either receive enough money to buy maybe one book, or just plain no money at all. The Book Fair was an organization that would come to school annually, and sell a wonderful variety of books, school supplies, and fruit shaped erasers (yes, I was still infatuated with them at the time). I really can't express to you how excited I was on Book Fair day, so you can imagine how crushed I would be when I wouldn't be able to buy anything because my parents couldn't afford it.

It wasn't that my parents were negligent assholes - they were just kids themselves! My mom had me at sixteen, and my dad was about nineteen. So, when we moved out to the country, they were still in their early 20s, and both working crappy jobs: my mom was working in a home for juvenile delinquents, and my dad had quit a job as a janitor for a hospital to work 3rd shift at a bakery that made cookies and shit for Kroger. So, two kids, a house they were renting, and a car they were making payments on, it's a wonder they could afford clothes for us, much less books. However, my mom, being proud that I was so into reading, would slip me a five with my lunch money from time to time when Book Fair came around.

I excelled in reading class - so much so, that I began earning privileges, such as being allowed to play boardgames or draw if I finished my assignments early enough (which I almost always did). The only other person in the class who read at my level was a girl named Dina. I had met Dina on my first day of school and sat next to her at breakfast. I had a crush on her almost immediately. She had curly brown hair, big brown eyes, and freckles that accentuated each cheek, especially when she smiled. We became fast friends, and now that I think about it, I don't think I've had a relationship with a girl, before or since, that was as simple and easy as that one ended up being (not that our 3rd grade romance would be remotely considered a "relationship").

We grew closer as we played each other in various boardgames during class. I had begun developing quite the sense of humor by then, showing all the signs of a class clown in progress. I had such a hard time relating to people as a child, but I began to notice how my dad would always be the center of attention at social functions because of how funny he was - and he was really funny! My dad was so good at relating funny stories that people would be out of breath laughing so hard. It hadn't really gelled yet as a life lesson, but I began to see that other people valued humor, and that it was important to be funny if I was to have any friends.

Dina loved my jokes, which mostly consisted of drawing funny pictures of people in class, or just things I made up on the spot. We used to play a card game called Old Maid, and the teacher made the deck herself. The actual Old Maid card was a comically horrendously drawn stick figure, sashaying on the face of the card, sporting a hat with a flower on it. The picture made us both laugh so hard, we would make quite a spectacle of ourselves in our little corner, forcing the teacher to give us reproving glances from time to time. I would often hide the card up my sleeve, only to unleash it on Dina when she least suspected, causing her to erupt in fits of uncontrollable giggling.

One day, we were playing Tic-Tac-Toe, when during her turn, she wrote a little note on the game sheet that read: WOULD YOU BE MY BOYFRIEND - YES/NO/MAYBE. I was utterly shocked. I couldn't believe this angel, this princess, would want me as her boyfriend! With shakey hands, I wrote, in very large letters: HELL YEAH!

This made us both laugh so hard the teacher made us sit back at our desks.

Of course, we weren't really in a relationship in the mature sense of the word. "Boyfriend" or "girlfriend" were just titles we didn't entirely understand. As a matter of fact, Dina had two other boyfriends besides me, which I didn't mind at all, and neither did they. It's weird, now that I think about it, how monogamy has almost corrupted our innocent minds into believing that a person ought to belong to another person, and that's how it is. In reality, and I speak from the standpoint of someone currently living through a situation where monogamy has spoiled a friendship (long story, all of which will undoubtedly be told on here in the future), the fact that such a wonderful person, that makes you feel happy at all in this humdrum world, even exists should outweigh who they are currently existing with. All Dina and I knew was that we enjoyed each others' company immensely, and that was all that mattered.

IV. The Albino Strikes

Everyone remembers their very first bully, but not many had one quite like mine. My first bully was like something a villain from Batman. His name was Daryl. He was a freakishly tall, ghostly pale albino kid, with close cropped white hair, eyes which seemed to be perpetually squinting, and a bulbous, red nose (the only part of his body with any pigmentation), which gave him the overall look of a circus clown. In fact, my usual retaliation to his taunts was to call him a circus clown, which would make the class erupt with laughter, but Daryl to erupt with barely contained rage.

Daryl hated me for several reasons. Firstly, he was an older kid who had been held back in 3rd grade twice by that point. So he was dumber than shit. He would spend most of the time in class disrupting our lessons with strategically placed fart noises, which was about the only contribution he would make in the class. He refused to do homework, take tests, or do anything else that remotely resembled being cooperative. So, being that I was one of the best students in the class, he targeted me as the antithesis of everything he stood for. This resulted in almost every word I'd say during class being very poorly mocked by him, until he would be asked to leave the classroom. That was the only good thing about Daryl - he was almost never in class, because he would either get kicked out, or he'd have to attend the "special class" for asshole kids. Thankfully, I only had to deal with him sparingly, and my clown jokes were usually enough to shut him down. I was smarter than him, funnier than him, and certainly more well liked, and he hated me for it.

What he hated me the most for, though, was that Dina was my girlfriend. You see, Daryl had a crush on Dina too, but like most other girls, or humans for that matter, she thought he was cretinous slug and refused to talk to him. It's funny, now that I think about it, girls are a lot smarter about that staying away from assholes before puberty than they are afterward. Go figure. It infuriated him to no end that she liked me more than him, and eventually, one day, the anger boiled over.

During class one day, Daryl's jealousy had made him cross a line, and he turned his attention to Dina. The teacher had left to run copies, while we took a quiz. Daryl started off by mocking her, his usual opening salvo, before he upped the ante by throwing spit wads at her. Dina's face became beet red with anger and humiliation, made all the worse by her naturally sweet disposition, which made it difficult for her to put Daryl in his place. Her mild pleas for him to stop, coupled with her pouting, only made her a more satisfying target. I, on the other hand, did not have a sweet disposition, and I did not like seeing my girlfriend bullied by this asshole. So, in front of the class, I told Daryl to cut it out. He laughed, and observed in front of everyone, "Look at Craig, defending his girlfriend." He had used the tried and tested move of using the word "girlfriend" as a word to defame someone, and kids being kids, everyone giggled at this. I guess every idiot has to get laughs some day. Daryl's shameless harassment of Dina, mixed with his rare, successful taunt, infuriated me so much that I shot back without thought, or care, of the consequences. I stood up and screamed, with an almost manic tone of righteous zeal: "YOU'RE JUST ANGRY BECAUSE DINA DON'T DOESN'T LIKE CLOWNS, BOZO!"

This caused a hush to sweep over the class, followed by a chorus of "Ooooooh!" Feeling the momentum on my side, though, I continued, "Go back to juggling balls, or throwing balls in buckets, or whatever it is you CLOWNS do with balls!" The class laughed at my provocative use of the word "balls", and the battle of wits was done, with me as the victor. However, Daryl looked as if he was ready for a battle of a different sort, right then and there, but the teacher walked in, and we all resumed taking our quizzes, as if that had been what we were doing the entire time.

I had not felt like I was in any danger the rest of that day. Daryl went to his special ed classes, we all went to lunch, spent another hour in class, before going out to recess. Dina and I spent recess walking the track together, enjoying the spring weather, when I noticed one of my friends, his eyes wild with fear, frantically pointing behind me. I turned to see Daryl, snarling with rage, sprinting across the field like a rabid bull, his normally snowy white skin now turned a lava red that matched his clownish nose. Like a freight train, he barreled toward us with such speed, it would have been impossible to get of his way, and it looked for all the world like he intended to hurt both of us! I didn't have much time, but I had enough time to think. As time slowed down, and Daryl slowly, but surely, made his way to us, I closed my eyes, and asked myself, "What would Link do in this situation?"

Yes, I really did ask myself that.

Opening them, I imagined myself in Link's brown and green garb, sword in one hand, and shield in the other. The Legend of Zelda theme swelled to a crescendo in my head, fueling the part of my brain that was either responsible for acts of bravery, or acts of incredible stupidity. Without a moment's further consideration, I shoved Dina away, right as the albino tank collided with me. Despite my visualization of having a shield, unfortunately, my shield-less arm did not absorb the impact - my entire body did. I flew, for what seemed like several, blissful seconds, before I landed on the ground, and all the air left my lungs. Most of my memory of this event is hazy, probably due to the foot that Daryl delivered to my face as a parting shot before running away.

I don't know how many of you have ever been kicked in the face, but it's not as fun as martial arts movies make it look. My head rang like a bell and my vision swam as I fought with my brain for consciousness. I had gotten lucky - in reality, Daryl's foot hadn't made full contact with my face, but just sort of strafed it. If that albino bastard had played soccer, I wouldn't be typing this right now. As the ringing subsided, I could hear Dina screaming epithets at Daryl, who retreated, laughing the whole way. She helped me up and stumbled by her side to a teacher, whereby she explained what had happened, and the teacher, after making sure I was okay, went off in search of Daryl. Dina sat with me, as I fought to regain my bearings, and she nursed my mouth, which had begun bleeding. She told me that I had done a really brave thing, and that if there was anything she could do to repay me, she would do it. Ever the opportunist, I asked for a kiss on a cheek - mind you, I had no interest in kissing girls yet, but from the cartoons I had watched, it seemed like the perfect way to treat an injured hero. Dina giggled, kissed me on the cheek, and I felt a second wind of energy go through me like a wave. It was like whenever Popeye ate his spinach, and his muscles would ripple with strength. I jumped up, and whooped in victory, despite the copper taste of blood in my mouth, feeling like I had lost the battle, I had won the day.

V. Good-bye Dina...

My parents were called about what had happened, and they were furious... well, my mom was anyway. Dad became more determined to make me play football so I would toughen up and never have that happen to me again. They demanded that Daryl be put into a different class than me, which was a moot point. It turned out that he had a history of violent behavior, and kicking the face of a fellow student was the last straw. Daryl the Albino Clown was taken out of school and sent to a juvenile equivalent of Arkham Asylum, where ever the hell they send crazy delinquent Batman villains-in-training.

However, Daryl could have stayed for all the difference it made, because by summer, we ended up moving again. My dad got a job in Louisville, and we were moving in with my aunt and uncle until a house could be found. It pained me to leave behind a small school that I was excelling in; the new friends I had made; and more importantly, my first "real" girlfriend, Dina. She gave me a school picture that she had signed the back of as a farewell gift, and included her phone number for me to keep in touch.

Although I was truly fond of her, I never called her.

Girl #2: "Laura & The Forbidden Treehouse of Mystery"

"What do you think is in der, Cwaig?" asked my new friend, Matt, in reference to the treehouse we both stared at in awe.

Matt was a physically deformed kid in my class. He had small Muppet-like ears, thick glasses like mason jars, and a long tube in his neck that he used for breathing. My mom, sensing how lonely I was in school, and knowing Matt's mom, began setting up play dates for us. When I met Matt, I was a little freaked out, if only because I had never seen someone with a gaping hole in their neck, but it didn't take long before I came to find that we shared a lot of the same interests: we both enjoyed playing Nintendo and we were both avid Ghostbuster fans. In fact, I began to enjoy going to over to Matt's because he'd always have a new Nintendo game or Ghostbuster toy to play with. I felt a little guilty for using Matt mostly to have access to a Proton Pack, but he enjoyed my company, and, I had to admit, I enjoyed his. He was my partner in crime - especially in this story.

But maybe I should back up a bit...

***

It was my second year of Kindergarten. I was held back because I spent my first year playing with toys and not paying attention to class. I remember the first day of my second year of school well, because I didn't understand that I had been held back. I simply followed my friends, Jessica and Matt, into the classroom for 1st-grade students and sat next to them like normal. The teacher did role call and then asked if there were any names that she hadn't called. I meekly raised my hand, and told her my name. The teacher made a call to the office, nodded, hung up, and told me, point blank, that I had been held back. The kids in class had a great laugh at my expense, as I walked out in shame, convinced I'd never see my friends again. This turned out to be true in Jessica's case.

So, there I was, in Kindergarten again, absolutely confused as to why I was still there. My teacher, Mrs. Honey, whom I had been calling "Mrs. Hey" because I couldn't be bothered to remember her actual name, carefully explained that if I wanted to make it to 1st-grade next year, I needed to pay better attention - particularly to what her name was. So I buckled down that year, and focused on work, which almost entirely consisted of art projects. I was beginning to develop a knack for drawing, which I showed off with great gusto, particularly to my new friend, Laura, who sat by me in class. Laura had brown hair, which she wore in a ponytail almost everyday, and she was constantly impressed with my artistic ability - consequently, the only girl in my LIFE who ever would be. I was only too happy to oblige, drawing anything she requested, from dinosaurs (my favorite subject to draw) to ponies, I could do them all. Laura had a thing for unicorns, and my ability to pull forth these creatures of myth and place them into the reality of a drawing made me a demigod in her eyes. She would sit next to me everyday as I drew, or colored, or did anything remotely artistic.

Then one day, she simply decided she was bored with that, and started sitting next to a kid named Mike. Mike was a little show-off, twirp who I happened to hate. He was a textbook overachiever, with rich and supportive parents who helped him every step of the way. He was the kind of kid who got to go to space camp every year. For our class Halloween party, he came dressed in a furry, full-bodied mouse outfit, as costume so elaborate he might as well walked off the set of Sesame Street. Meanwhile, Laura had dressed like unicorn, although her costume only consisted of a pitiful unicorn horn and normal clothes. I had begged and pleaded my parents for a Transformers costume, imagining myself stomping into class looking like Optimus Prime, and somehow transforming myself into a semi-truck, so that I could run over Mike, back up, and run over him again. What I got was a Transformers mask, and some kind of plastic pajamas with the Transformers logo on the front. I looked nothing like the robots in the cartoon, and what's more, some other kid in class came in dressed exactly like me. Stupid Mike had one the day in his mouse suit. I still have picture of myself trying desperately to impress Laura with my costume, only for her to be completely oblivious of it. My Transformer face is looking at the camera in grim, robotic supplication for help that will never come.

***

The situation was dire. I was all but erased from Laura's existence. Mind you, being as young as I was, I had no romantic interest in Laura. It just felt good to have someone paying attention to me. It filled me with a sense of bravado, that was all but alien to my usually shy disposition. So, there I stood, on the school playground, at recess. My friend Matt and I were staring at a new treehouse that some people that lived next to the school had built. Like any boy my age, I was absolutely fascinated by the very concept of a treehouse. It was possible to build a house in trees? Why didn't everyone live this way???

I had never been into a treehouse, and had only seen them on TV, or in movies. This treehouse was by far the most elaborately built one I had ever seen. A ladder led straight up to a tiny deck, and there was a little door that went into the house. The windows were tinted and dark, adding even more mystery and allure to the place. Since the appearance of the treehouse, all the kids at school would sometimes stop and stare, wondering what kind of treasures it contained. I daresay I was more obsessed with it than any kid in school.

"What do you think is in der?" Matt asked again, in his peculiar cadence.

"I don't know," I said, my eyes fixated on the house. I turned around to see Laura playing with stupid Mike, and I suddenly felt my blood boiling. Then I had an idea. I called over Laura. She ran over, with stupid Mike in tow, and I proclaimed my bold plan to climb over the school fence and explore the mystery treehouse, not unlike how Christoper Columbus proclaimed to Queen Isabella of Spain his intention to explore a faster route to India.

"You can get in trouble," Mike smugly pointed out.

"Pfft, you're just chicken!" I fired back. "Matt and I will explore the treehouse, just you watch!"

"Huh?" Matt exclaimed, suddenly aware that he was conscripted by me to undertake this mission.

***

After helping each other over the chain-link fence, Matt and I looked up at the treehouse. "Whoa... that's... that's a lot higher than I thought," I said. I looked across the fence to see Laura watching with expectation. Mike snorted that he was getting bored, and ran off to join a game of kick ball. Laura begin looking after him longingly. My morale quickly returned, and I announced: "Alright, here I go!"

I started up the ladder. It was a relatively easy climb, and I got to the miniature deck with little to no effort. I looked down at Matt's progress; he was still at the bottom. "Matt! Climb up!" I instructed.

"I can't!" He whined. "We're gonna get in twouble!" His throat tube made the gargling noise that it makes when he was truly in distress.

I rolled my eyes. "Alright, fine, I'll do this on my own, and you'll just miss it!" I opened the door and peered inside. The spring sunlight stabbed into the confining space of the treehouse, revealing the largest collection of He-man and Transformer toys I had ever seen. "By the Power of Grey-Skull..." I said breathlessly. I crawled into house, and slammed the door, as if afraid that my discovery would alert every kid on the playground, and they'd all fill the house until it exploded into shards of timber, toys, and children.

I dived into the harem of toys, and quickly began cataloging the ones that I owned versus the ones that I wanted. I wasn't going to steal the toys. Although my morals made plenty of room for breaking and entering, I wasn't some stinking thief... although the Starscream transformer was tempting... I had broken my Starscream within minutes of owning it because I didn't know how to transform it. I snapped out of my toy reverie enough to remember my original reason for being in the treehouse in the first place. I opened the window of the treehouse to wave at Laura, but she and Matt were both gone. Well, that took the wind out of my sails. Bah, I still had He-man and was that... the full Castle Greyskull set? It wasn't long before the struggle between good and evil on Eternia became my foremost priority, while the need to be at school became a distant memory.

***

Hours later, I strolled into school, feeling pretty proud of myself, and also feeling confident that I had learned a valuable lesson from the experience: if you see a treehouse, go inside, for it may be full of wonders beyond imagination. I wouldn't realize until adolescence how true that maxim would be, as treehouses would often by the favorite spot that all of my friends would hide porn. Isn't that the natural way of it, though? Out with the He-man figures, and in with the Hustlers. I suppose nowadays treehouses have wifi for such activities.

As I walked the halls of school, I began to notice that it was curiously devoid of students... of people, in general. I entered my classroom, and was greeted with the sight of the principal, my teachers, the police, and my parents, all looking at me with shock. "WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN???" My mom exclaimed.

I stood there, my hands in my pockets, sheepishly looking around, before muttering that I had been in a treehouse. My answer caught everyone by surprise and they just stood there in bewilderment, before chewing me out all the same. It would be much like if you confronted a pack of wolves by dancing the Macarena, they'd probably be puzzled at first, even a little spooked, but they'd eat you all the same.

But, oh, it was worth it.

***

My stunt had bought me a little bit of outlaw cache with Laura, but it mattered very little, because she moved away after Kindergarten, and after first grade, so did I.