Russell had leaned in close to whisper this in my ear so the den mother, Ms. Womack, who also happened to be Billy's mother, wouldn't hear him.
"So what?" I replied.
"He said he would teach us some if we want," Russell explained. "Finish your craft so we can go outside."
We were working on Mother's Day soup can pen holders for our mom's, which involved removing the soup can label and replacing it with a new, hand drawn label. It was a confusing task in relation to the adventures I expected to be having in the Cub Scouts, and the dining room in the tiny apartment was cramped and hot, so the invitation outside to learn karate was motivational. I hastily signed my label in crayon, wrapped my can, and got the checkmark from Ms. Womack.
We slipped out the kitchen door into the small grassy area behind the apartment building. Billy's brother was a 5th grader, and he seemed to be at least a foot taller than the rest of us. He was standing underneath a streetlight, and a small circle of 3rd graders had already formed around him. Billy was walking around the inside of the circle asking for a volunteer to step up for a lesson from his big brother. A kid named Ronnie, who I thought seemed pretty tough, stepped into the ring. Billy's brother immediately snapped a front kick into his mid-section, and Ronnie doubled over and fell down.
We scattered. I ran toward the parking lot where I saw my mom in her Volvo station wagon waiting to pick me up. I saw Russell's mom in her Toyota Tercel, but no sign of Russell. I looked back to see Russell still standing under the streetlight in a karate stance facing Billy's brother, with Billy in the middle acting as the referee.
I don't know how that match ended because that was the last time I saw Russell, Billy, or Billy's brother. When I got into the car I explained to my mom that I didn't think that scouting was for me. She agreed.
As a side note, something very close to this actually happened. So I realize I have immediately failed the "fiction" aspect of this assignment. But it was amazing to me how perfectly the characters of Billy and Russell fit into an actual episode from my past.
I'm glad you didn't get kicked in the stomach, Aaron. I feel like the overlap and/or collision of different juvenile activities (Boy Scouts/karate, cheerleading camp/science camp, little league baseball/piano lessons) could be a rich source for stories, both fictional and nonfictional.
I can hear the young voices echoing in fractured and uncertain unison as I climb the rickety carpet-stained stairs of this 150 year old Whitesburg church. I am here again, like every Thursday night, to try to help wrangle a room full of 2nd grade boys. I know this matters and that the work is good work and I’m so grateful for the new den leader who stepped up so I could take a break from the main role. Being assistant den leader is still considerable work but, my heart doesn’t race when I’m running late from getting my own family ready.
“I will do my best…”
I’ve done my best to get to know these families and help each scout find their own voice in our meetings over the last two years. They were Tigers and now they are Wolves. Both aptly named, as these animals are fierce and dangerous (at times), even when they are just little cubs. Sometimes I wonder what the future holds for these young people. Especially for the ones life has dealt an unfair hand.
“To do my duty to God and my country…”
This country seems harder and harder to grow up in. Our Wolf scouts come from four local elementary schools which run the gamut from poverty to privilege. Funny thing is the best behaved and most engaged are those society has deemed “impoverished”. They aren’t impoverished in all the ways that matter, at least in my opinion.
“And to obey the Scout law…”
Breaking the scout law is something most adults would say they do on a daily basis. It seems to be a very high standard for any group and a worthy one to aspire to. This scout law comes from a law higher than the law of the land. Feels akin to the law of God but then, without the key component of a Saviour who kept the law perfectly. Asking these boys to “help other people at all times” assumes they have been helped and have an overflow to offer.
I enter the small Sunday School room aware of all the thoughts and feelings swirling inside my mind. This den of Wolves has more than outgrown the room. I wish these winter scout meetings could happen outside like the rest of the year but the earth is soggy and the sky is dark so we’re stuck inside whittling bars of Ivory soap with plastic knives.
Billy Womack is boasting about the new iPhone he got for his 8th birthday and other parents mumble in the general direction of their sons to discourage the desire for a similar gift for upcoming birthdays. If his dad wasn’t the scoutmaster, the parents would likely offer some tech-savvy advice to him about the dangers of social media for young children. But, the Womacks tend to do what they want and get away with it. And then there’s little Russell, sitting in the corner, unsure of how to participate. Even when parents were supposed to stay and supervise, he always attends alone, dropped off by his grandfather and nearly never in uniform.
At the close of the meeting with soap shavings adorning the old hardwood floors and crudely carved images in bars of soap, the scouts circle up and practice the Scout Law once more.
On my honor
I will do my best
to do my duty
to God and my country
and to obey the Scout Law;
to help other people at all times;
to keep myself physically strong, mentally awake, and morally straight.
It’s a high bar which I’m sure the entire room will try and fail to reach countless times each day. I do hope to keep in touch with this room full of wolves - I hear eventually they will one day stealthily grow up in their sleep and become men.
Billy Womack couldn’t understand why the weekly scout meetings had to be held at the old Lion’s Club building. It smelled of old cigars and beer. The dark wood-planked walls pocked with holes was supposed to create an atmosphere of rugged life in the old west, but Billy found it hard to be swept up by this theme when the club was flanked by a bougie coffee house and a Shoe City.
“Let’s get out of here,” Billy whispered to Russell.
“What? We can’t get out of here. We have to stay here until the meeting is over. Your dad is the scout master and our ride home! You think he won’t notice we’re gone? What’s your problem?”
“How can you stand these meetings?” Billy asked. “It smells like a giant hamper of old man socks in here. These badge activities are like the arts and crafts lessons my great grandma goes to at the old lady home. Come on, let’s go hang out at the park until it’s over.”
Russell pierced his lips together in annoyance as he glared at Billy. Billy cocked his head to one side and batted his eyelashes until Russell cracked a smile.
The two boys scooted out of their metal fold up chairs and started walking towards the boy’s bathroom, which was right next to the back exit. Billy was in the lead as they walked slowly toward the bathroom door, but at the last-moment Billy took a hard left and dashed out the exit. Russell hesitated and then defaulted into the boy’s bathroom. He stood there shaking and trying to plot his next move. There was pinging against the bathroom window that was high above the sinks and cracked open.
“Russell! Russell!” Billy yelled from the other side of the window as he tossed pebbles at the glass.
“What?“ Russell answered.
“Climb out the bathroom window you egg laying chicken!”
Russell rolled his eyes and began climbing onto the bathroom sink. He gripped the window and opened it wide as he stuck his upper body out and folded in half at the waist over the sill. He hung there unable to get his leg over.
“My way was a lot easier you featherless poltroon! Just because you’re stuck doesn’t mean I’m going back in there. Don’t make me go back in there,” Billy laughed.
“Hi Russell,” the scout master said as he entered the bathroom.
“Hi Mr. Womack,” Russell automatically answered.
Billy ran. Russell froze as he slid his body back into the bathroom and stared down at Mr. Womack from the top of the sink. Mr. Womack stood and smiled as he reached into his pocket.
I guess Billy kept going all the way to New Mexico?
That image of one boy running out the door and one climbing out the window gives you a lot to work with. It's two different approaches to being bad. I love it.
William Womack was restless. Pack 382 had assembled in the Whitesburg Community Center, but instead of learning how to start a fire or field dress a bear, they were studying for a test. A test! Billy’s father, the Scoutmaster, had them looking at flash cards to prepare for the “Flags of Our Country” merit badge.
Billy was paired up with Russell, who was at least a foot shorter than Billy and probably liked studying flash cards.
Russell had a stack of cards. Each had a colorful flag on one side and the name of its state on the other, along with some facts like the Capital and the State Flower. “Who should go first?” Russell asked.
“I don’t care,” Billy said. “I think it’s stupid.”
“Isn’t this your dad’s idea?”
Billy didn’t answer, but his glare told Russell to leave that subject alone.
“Um,” Russell offered, “I guess I’ll show you one and you try to guess what state it is.”
“Whatever. Fine.”
Russell held up a picture of a pennant-shaped flag, and two things became immediately apparent: Billy had never studied State Flags before, and Billy was fascinated by State Flags.
“I thought flags were rectangles,” he said, abandoning his feigned disinterest.
“I guess this one isn’t. It’s Ohio.”
On they went, through the Lone Star of Texas and the bizarre patterns of Maryland, until Russell held up the last card. Its flag was goldenrod, with a lone red symbol in the center, lines emerging north, south, east, and west from a circle in the center.
“I like that one,” Billy said, now fully engaged. “That’s a cool thingy in the middle.”
“This state is called the Land of Enchantment,” Russell read.
“What is it?”
“New Mexico.”
“New Mexico,” Billy repeated. “I like that one. I’m gonna go there one day.”
Later, Billy failed his Flags of Our Country test miserably, but he got one flag right. The one he would never forget.
The troop gathered for the closing flag ceremony, and Billy winced a little, embarrassed by the statement he knew was coming, the one his father liked to say at every meeting like he was that guy in Hill Street Blues.
“And remember boys,” Scout Master Womack admonished, “Stay out of jail.”
“Glug glug,” said Russel. The boys had managed to sneak off from the troupe and Russell was presenting a bottle he had swiped from his stepdad’s house. Russell was plying all his worldly-wisdom (he had an older brother in college) to convince Billy and Stephen that he was a seasoned liquor drinker. So far he had gingerly taken a few “sips,” though Stephen said the vodka hadn’t actually made it down the neck to his lips.
“Let me have a drink,” said Billy. Russel had not let either of the other boys touch the bottle.
“Not yet,” Russel said. “You’ll probably hurt yourself. I need to show you how to do it.”
“The ‘way to do it’ has got a whole lot more talking and less drinking than I’d expected,” said Billy.
“Now shut it,” said Russel, but it was clear that he was losing his sway. He needed something drastic. Suddenly he raised the bottle and tilted his head back and started to chug.
Billy and Stephen gasped.
After several loud gulps, Russel lowered the bottle. It was clear that he was a bit surprised, and very pleased with himself.
“How you feeling?” said Stephen.
“Went down like water. I told you I know how to put away— wait Billy no—“
But Billy had snatched the bottle and raised it to his lips.
“Phlblepbg!” said he.
“Can’t hold his liquor,” said Russel to Stephen with a knowing nod.
“‘Went down like water,” Billy exclaimed, “you id, that’s because it IS water!”
Russel spluttered. Billy handed the bottle to Stephen who took a careful confirmation sip.
“You wouldn’t know vodka from your own pee!” Billy guffawed.
“Your brother must have beaten you to it!” said Stephen.
“Pretty good water though, ain’t it?” said Russel in a last attempt to salvage his dignity.
The dark-haired boy with bronze skin hadn’t completely understood what his father had meant with those words, but the rue mixed with frustration in his dad’s tone of voice when he came home from his first day of work earlier that week was more than enough to give pause to a twelve-year-old arriving at his first Boy Scout meeting.
“Welcome to Troop 13,” a pot-bellied man said, rising from his chair to greet the boy and his mother who stood hesitantly at the open bay door of the garage. The mother gave the man a polite smile and an awkward curtsy, stammered a “Thank you,” followed immediately by a “No speak English,” and then abruptly pivoted and walked back to the Ford Pinto parked in front of the home, engine still sputtering.
“No problem, ma’am,” the man replied. “We’ll take care of your little uh..
niño,” he added, retrieving the Spanish word for boy from a near-forgotten corner in his mind.
“Well,” he said, bending down to look the newcomer in the eyes, “What–Is–Your–Name?” He spoke the words as if the boy were deaf.
“Billy,” Jose said, lying.
“Nice–To–Have-You–Join–Us–Billy,” the man continued, now using hand gestures like some sort of improv sign language. “Come–and–Take–A–Seat–And–Meet–Your–New–Friends!”
Jose had noticed around a dozen other boys his age sitting in a circle of cheap, plastic, folding chairs – all wearing the customary, army-green shirt and shorts combo with red and yellow neckerchief - the same uniform he was wearing. As he and his mother were walking up, he’d heard good-natured groans and a spattering of guffaws after one of them offered, "What do you call someone with no body and no nose? Nobody knows." But all fell silent and looked up, as soon as he’d arrived. They all wore drop-jawed smiles and traded wide-eyed looks with each other that seemed to indicate that Jose himself was the lead line of the next joke, and they were all hoping that one of their number would drop a riotously funny punchline.
The pot-bellied Scout Patrol Leader pointed to the last empty chair in the circle. It had been left empty, because it had a bent leg that made the chair list precipitously to one side. Jose stood in front of the chair, wondering first and foremost if it would support his weight. He heard a muffled giggle behind him, but he didn’t dare turn around.
“You can have my seat, Billy,” said a small, thin, blonde-haired boy to the right of the broken chair, and without waiting for a reply, the little boy hopped up, sat in the unwanted chair, and gestured for Jose to sit in the one he’d just vacated.
“I’m Russell,” the boy said, offering his hand with a smile that seemed genuinely kind and welcoming.
Too dumbfounded to speak at first, Jose gave the boy the firm handshake that his father had taught him to use, sat down, and finally replied, “N-nice to meet you.”
“Y’all are breakin’ the law, y’hear? Put that right back where you found it.”
One boy looked up sideways, squinting at the shadow on the boardwalk, trying to determine what authority the voice wielded. The other kept right on with his work, scanning the surface of the water for the next cast of his net. Two turtles were already scuttling in the rolling cooler at his side.
“Booooyyyys! Russeeeellll! Biiiillllly! Time to get started. C’mon back up here.” Another command wafted down the hill; both boys knew the force of this voice and grudgingly packed up the paraphernalia scattered in the reeds. The leaning shadow had gone, apparently assuming other authorities would carry out the law, and that no further intervention was necessary.
By the time Billy scrambled up the hill, Russell had already told the others about their finds, and ten eager sets of eyes watched him tug the cooler into the pavilion. “There you are, Billy. No, boys, sit back down. We’re already starting late and turtles—even illegal ones—will stay put until the meeting is over.”
The boys could hear the scrabbling noises coming from Billy’s cooler, and the knots tied that day would have failed to contain the most passive of prisoners. As soon as they were released, the whole troop gathered around to peek inside. Two red-eared sliders looked up just as curiously as the ring of boys looked down; where would this new relationship take them?
Wildlife violations! So that's where Billy's and Russell's lives of crime started?
My guess is that Billy got in trouble in New Mexico for being in possession of an illegal Gila monster. Russell probably got busted for fishing with sticks of dynamite.
"Billy's brother knows karate."
Russell had leaned in close to whisper this in my ear so the den mother, Ms. Womack, who also happened to be Billy's mother, wouldn't hear him.
"So what?" I replied.
"He said he would teach us some if we want," Russell explained. "Finish your craft so we can go outside."
We were working on Mother's Day soup can pen holders for our mom's, which involved removing the soup can label and replacing it with a new, hand drawn label. It was a confusing task in relation to the adventures I expected to be having in the Cub Scouts, and the dining room in the tiny apartment was cramped and hot, so the invitation outside to learn karate was motivational. I hastily signed my label in crayon, wrapped my can, and got the checkmark from Ms. Womack.
We slipped out the kitchen door into the small grassy area behind the apartment building. Billy's brother was a 5th grader, and he seemed to be at least a foot taller than the rest of us. He was standing underneath a streetlight, and a small circle of 3rd graders had already formed around him. Billy was walking around the inside of the circle asking for a volunteer to step up for a lesson from his big brother. A kid named Ronnie, who I thought seemed pretty tough, stepped into the ring. Billy's brother immediately snapped a front kick into his mid-section, and Ronnie doubled over and fell down.
We scattered. I ran toward the parking lot where I saw my mom in her Volvo station wagon waiting to pick me up. I saw Russell's mom in her Toyota Tercel, but no sign of Russell. I looked back to see Russell still standing under the streetlight in a karate stance facing Billy's brother, with Billy in the middle acting as the referee.
I don't know how that match ended because that was the last time I saw Russell, Billy, or Billy's brother. When I got into the car I explained to my mom that I didn't think that scouting was for me. She agreed.
As a side note, something very close to this actually happened. So I realize I have immediately failed the "fiction" aspect of this assignment. But it was amazing to me how perfectly the characters of Billy and Russell fit into an actual episode from my past.
I'm glad you didn't get kicked in the stomach, Aaron. I feel like the overlap and/or collision of different juvenile activities (Boy Scouts/karate, cheerleading camp/science camp, little league baseball/piano lessons) could be a rich source for stories, both fictional and nonfictional.
That’s funny. My parents live in Carroll County Virginia and I feel like this event could have just as easily happened in that jailhouse.
“On my honor…”
I can hear the young voices echoing in fractured and uncertain unison as I climb the rickety carpet-stained stairs of this 150 year old Whitesburg church. I am here again, like every Thursday night, to try to help wrangle a room full of 2nd grade boys. I know this matters and that the work is good work and I’m so grateful for the new den leader who stepped up so I could take a break from the main role. Being assistant den leader is still considerable work but, my heart doesn’t race when I’m running late from getting my own family ready.
“I will do my best…”
I’ve done my best to get to know these families and help each scout find their own voice in our meetings over the last two years. They were Tigers and now they are Wolves. Both aptly named, as these animals are fierce and dangerous (at times), even when they are just little cubs. Sometimes I wonder what the future holds for these young people. Especially for the ones life has dealt an unfair hand.
“To do my duty to God and my country…”
This country seems harder and harder to grow up in. Our Wolf scouts come from four local elementary schools which run the gamut from poverty to privilege. Funny thing is the best behaved and most engaged are those society has deemed “impoverished”. They aren’t impoverished in all the ways that matter, at least in my opinion.
“And to obey the Scout law…”
Breaking the scout law is something most adults would say they do on a daily basis. It seems to be a very high standard for any group and a worthy one to aspire to. This scout law comes from a law higher than the law of the land. Feels akin to the law of God but then, without the key component of a Saviour who kept the law perfectly. Asking these boys to “help other people at all times” assumes they have been helped and have an overflow to offer.
I enter the small Sunday School room aware of all the thoughts and feelings swirling inside my mind. This den of Wolves has more than outgrown the room. I wish these winter scout meetings could happen outside like the rest of the year but the earth is soggy and the sky is dark so we’re stuck inside whittling bars of Ivory soap with plastic knives.
Billy Womack is boasting about the new iPhone he got for his 8th birthday and other parents mumble in the general direction of their sons to discourage the desire for a similar gift for upcoming birthdays. If his dad wasn’t the scoutmaster, the parents would likely offer some tech-savvy advice to him about the dangers of social media for young children. But, the Womacks tend to do what they want and get away with it. And then there’s little Russell, sitting in the corner, unsure of how to participate. Even when parents were supposed to stay and supervise, he always attends alone, dropped off by his grandfather and nearly never in uniform.
At the close of the meeting with soap shavings adorning the old hardwood floors and crudely carved images in bars of soap, the scouts circle up and practice the Scout Law once more.
On my honor
I will do my best
to do my duty
to God and my country
and to obey the Scout Law;
to help other people at all times;
to keep myself physically strong, mentally awake, and morally straight.
It’s a high bar which I’m sure the entire room will try and fail to reach countless times each day. I do hope to keep in touch with this room full of wolves - I hear eventually they will one day stealthily grow up in their sleep and become men.
I like what you're doing with point of view, Alice. It's a whole different story when it's told by the assistant den mother.
Billy Womack couldn’t understand why the weekly scout meetings had to be held at the old Lion’s Club building. It smelled of old cigars and beer. The dark wood-planked walls pocked with holes was supposed to create an atmosphere of rugged life in the old west, but Billy found it hard to be swept up by this theme when the club was flanked by a bougie coffee house and a Shoe City.
“Let’s get out of here,” Billy whispered to Russell.
“What? We can’t get out of here. We have to stay here until the meeting is over. Your dad is the scout master and our ride home! You think he won’t notice we’re gone? What’s your problem?”
“How can you stand these meetings?” Billy asked. “It smells like a giant hamper of old man socks in here. These badge activities are like the arts and crafts lessons my great grandma goes to at the old lady home. Come on, let’s go hang out at the park until it’s over.”
Russell pierced his lips together in annoyance as he glared at Billy. Billy cocked his head to one side and batted his eyelashes until Russell cracked a smile.
The two boys scooted out of their metal fold up chairs and started walking towards the boy’s bathroom, which was right next to the back exit. Billy was in the lead as they walked slowly toward the bathroom door, but at the last-moment Billy took a hard left and dashed out the exit. Russell hesitated and then defaulted into the boy’s bathroom. He stood there shaking and trying to plot his next move. There was pinging against the bathroom window that was high above the sinks and cracked open.
“Russell! Russell!” Billy yelled from the other side of the window as he tossed pebbles at the glass.
“What?“ Russell answered.
“Climb out the bathroom window you egg laying chicken!”
Russell rolled his eyes and began climbing onto the bathroom sink. He gripped the window and opened it wide as he stuck his upper body out and folded in half at the waist over the sill. He hung there unable to get his leg over.
“My way was a lot easier you featherless poltroon! Just because you’re stuck doesn’t mean I’m going back in there. Don’t make me go back in there,” Billy laughed.
“Hi Russell,” the scout master said as he entered the bathroom.
“Hi Mr. Womack,” Russell automatically answered.
Billy ran. Russell froze as he slid his body back into the bathroom and stared down at Mr. Womack from the top of the sink. Mr. Womack stood and smiled as he reached into his pocket.
I guess Billy kept going all the way to New Mexico?
That image of one boy running out the door and one climbing out the window gives you a lot to work with. It's two different approaches to being bad. I love it.
William Womack was restless. Pack 382 had assembled in the Whitesburg Community Center, but instead of learning how to start a fire or field dress a bear, they were studying for a test. A test! Billy’s father, the Scoutmaster, had them looking at flash cards to prepare for the “Flags of Our Country” merit badge.
Billy was paired up with Russell, who was at least a foot shorter than Billy and probably liked studying flash cards.
Russell had a stack of cards. Each had a colorful flag on one side and the name of its state on the other, along with some facts like the Capital and the State Flower. “Who should go first?” Russell asked.
“I don’t care,” Billy said. “I think it’s stupid.”
“Isn’t this your dad’s idea?”
Billy didn’t answer, but his glare told Russell to leave that subject alone.
“Um,” Russell offered, “I guess I’ll show you one and you try to guess what state it is.”
“Whatever. Fine.”
Russell held up a picture of a pennant-shaped flag, and two things became immediately apparent: Billy had never studied State Flags before, and Billy was fascinated by State Flags.
“I thought flags were rectangles,” he said, abandoning his feigned disinterest.
“I guess this one isn’t. It’s Ohio.”
On they went, through the Lone Star of Texas and the bizarre patterns of Maryland, until Russell held up the last card. Its flag was goldenrod, with a lone red symbol in the center, lines emerging north, south, east, and west from a circle in the center.
“I like that one,” Billy said, now fully engaged. “That’s a cool thingy in the middle.”
“This state is called the Land of Enchantment,” Russell read.
“What is it?”
“New Mexico.”
“New Mexico,” Billy repeated. “I like that one. I’m gonna go there one day.”
Later, Billy failed his Flags of Our Country test miserably, but he got one flag right. The one he would never forget.
The troop gathered for the closing flag ceremony, and Billy winced a little, embarrassed by the statement he knew was coming, the one his father liked to say at every meeting like he was that guy in Hill Street Blues.
“And remember boys,” Scout Master Womack admonished, “Stay out of jail.”
What boy scout could resist The Land of Enchantment? Thanks for the story, Mark!
“Glug glug,” said Russel. The boys had managed to sneak off from the troupe and Russell was presenting a bottle he had swiped from his stepdad’s house. Russell was plying all his worldly-wisdom (he had an older brother in college) to convince Billy and Stephen that he was a seasoned liquor drinker. So far he had gingerly taken a few “sips,” though Stephen said the vodka hadn’t actually made it down the neck to his lips.
“Let me have a drink,” said Billy. Russel had not let either of the other boys touch the bottle.
“Not yet,” Russel said. “You’ll probably hurt yourself. I need to show you how to do it.”
“The ‘way to do it’ has got a whole lot more talking and less drinking than I’d expected,” said Billy.
“Now shut it,” said Russel, but it was clear that he was losing his sway. He needed something drastic. Suddenly he raised the bottle and tilted his head back and started to chug.
Billy and Stephen gasped.
After several loud gulps, Russel lowered the bottle. It was clear that he was a bit surprised, and very pleased with himself.
“How you feeling?” said Stephen.
“Went down like water. I told you I know how to put away— wait Billy no—“
But Billy had snatched the bottle and raised it to his lips.
“Phlblepbg!” said he.
“Can’t hold his liquor,” said Russel to Stephen with a knowing nod.
“‘Went down like water,” Billy exclaimed, “you id, that’s because it IS water!”
Russel spluttered. Billy handed the bottle to Stephen who took a careful confirmation sip.
“You wouldn’t know vodka from your own pee!” Billy guffawed.
“Your brother must have beaten you to it!” said Stephen.
“Pretty good water though, ain’t it?” said Russel in a last attempt to salvage his dignity.
Man, was i relieved when it turned out to be water. Also, "He can't hold his liquor" is a pretty funny line coming from Boy Scouts.
There’s a reason it’s called Whitesburg!
The dark-haired boy with bronze skin hadn’t completely understood what his father had meant with those words, but the rue mixed with frustration in his dad’s tone of voice when he came home from his first day of work earlier that week was more than enough to give pause to a twelve-year-old arriving at his first Boy Scout meeting.
“Welcome to Troop 13,” a pot-bellied man said, rising from his chair to greet the boy and his mother who stood hesitantly at the open bay door of the garage. The mother gave the man a polite smile and an awkward curtsy, stammered a “Thank you,” followed immediately by a “No speak English,” and then abruptly pivoted and walked back to the Ford Pinto parked in front of the home, engine still sputtering.
“No problem, ma’am,” the man replied. “We’ll take care of your little uh..
niño,” he added, retrieving the Spanish word for boy from a near-forgotten corner in his mind.
“Well,” he said, bending down to look the newcomer in the eyes, “What–Is–Your–Name?” He spoke the words as if the boy were deaf.
“Billy,” Jose said, lying.
“Nice–To–Have-You–Join–Us–Billy,” the man continued, now using hand gestures like some sort of improv sign language. “Come–and–Take–A–Seat–And–Meet–Your–New–Friends!”
Jose had noticed around a dozen other boys his age sitting in a circle of cheap, plastic, folding chairs – all wearing the customary, army-green shirt and shorts combo with red and yellow neckerchief - the same uniform he was wearing. As he and his mother were walking up, he’d heard good-natured groans and a spattering of guffaws after one of them offered, "What do you call someone with no body and no nose? Nobody knows." But all fell silent and looked up, as soon as he’d arrived. They all wore drop-jawed smiles and traded wide-eyed looks with each other that seemed to indicate that Jose himself was the lead line of the next joke, and they were all hoping that one of their number would drop a riotously funny punchline.
The pot-bellied Scout Patrol Leader pointed to the last empty chair in the circle. It had been left empty, because it had a bent leg that made the chair list precipitously to one side. Jose stood in front of the chair, wondering first and foremost if it would support his weight. He heard a muffled giggle behind him, but he didn’t dare turn around.
“You can have my seat, Billy,” said a small, thin, blonde-haired boy to the right of the broken chair, and without waiting for a reply, the little boy hopped up, sat in the unwanted chair, and gestured for Jose to sit in the one he’d just vacated.
“I’m Russell,” the boy said, offering his hand with a smile that seemed genuinely kind and welcoming.
Too dumbfounded to speak at first, Jose gave the boy the firm handshake that his father had taught him to use, sat down, and finally replied, “N-nice to meet you.”
Nicely done, Amy! This gives me hope that their reunion in the Carroll County jail will lead to good things.
Thanks, Alice, for taking what I was thinking: the high standards, helpfulness, and impossibility of the Scout Law.
“Y’all are breakin’ the law, y’hear? Put that right back where you found it.”
One boy looked up sideways, squinting at the shadow on the boardwalk, trying to determine what authority the voice wielded. The other kept right on with his work, scanning the surface of the water for the next cast of his net. Two turtles were already scuttling in the rolling cooler at his side.
“Booooyyyys! Russeeeellll! Biiiillllly! Time to get started. C’mon back up here.” Another command wafted down the hill; both boys knew the force of this voice and grudgingly packed up the paraphernalia scattered in the reeds. The leaning shadow had gone, apparently assuming other authorities would carry out the law, and that no further intervention was necessary.
By the time Billy scrambled up the hill, Russell had already told the others about their finds, and ten eager sets of eyes watched him tug the cooler into the pavilion. “There you are, Billy. No, boys, sit back down. We’re already starting late and turtles—even illegal ones—will stay put until the meeting is over.”
The boys could hear the scrabbling noises coming from Billy’s cooler, and the knots tied that day would have failed to contain the most passive of prisoners. As soon as they were released, the whole troop gathered around to peek inside. Two red-eared sliders looked up just as curiously as the ring of boys looked down; where would this new relationship take them?
Wildlife violations! So that's where Billy's and Russell's lives of crime started?
My guess is that Billy got in trouble in New Mexico for being in possession of an illegal Gila monster. Russell probably got busted for fishing with sticks of dynamite.
The origin story for how Billy ended up in New Mexico! I love it. Thanks, Rachel.