Everybody knows at least something about the Boy Scouts Of America. A Boy Scout hikes through the woods and camps in the open. He has an acquired respect for all forms of life and is at one with nature. The birds and animals and fish are his friends. He is trained to be especially thoughtful of the weak and helpless and to offer assistance at the drop of a hat. He understands that aiding his fellow man is more important than personal gains, for every person is his neighbor. In short, a Boy Scout is Mr. Rogers with a utility knife. The Boy Scouts Of America are the solid backbone of righteousness. They pride themselves as the example from which great men are created. They embody the fundamental qualities which made this country great. The standards for their behavior are strict and at all times must be in accordance with the twelve points of the Scout Law. 1. A Scout is trustworthy. 2. A Scout is loyal. 3. A Scout is helpful. 4. A Scout is friendly. 5. A Scout is courteous. 6. A Scout is kind. 7. A Scout is obedient 8. A Scout is cheerful. 9. A Scout is thrifty. 10. A Scout is brave. 11. A Scout is clean. 12. A Scout is reverent. Midway into the fourth grade, I received my calling to become a part of this undaunted symbol of humanitarianism. To join hands with the noble and courageous. To bond as a single moral thread within this canvas of unified brotherhood. Just knowing the sort of honorable characteristics these young men were comprised of was reason enough for me to enlist. At least that is what I told myself. Truth of the matter is, I had assumed the Boy Scouts were all a bunch of sissified misfits and bed wetting pantywaists with Oedipal complexes. For the first time in my life, I was going to fit in more comfortably than Cinderella's foot slid into that glass slipper. I took my vows in front of the American flag. I raised my right arm to display the universal Boy Scout hand signal and recited the Scout Oath; "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." I proudly stood beside the other boys, dressed in my little olive colored shirt and yellow scarf as they welcomed me into the fold. From out of the crowd, I was grabbed by the hand by one of the older troop members and led into a small storage room. His name was Bradley. Bradley was in the same sixth grade class with my older sister and his reputation for being a notorious juvenile delinquent was common knowledge. Usually, he was simply referred to as The Demon Seed. Not that this information was of any consequence. After all, Bradley was a Boy Scout which meant he was just as much of a misfit as the rest of us. In my eyes, it still meant he was a mama's boy. What separated him from the others was that he just happened to be a cold, cruel and ruthless mama's boy with the heart of a natural born killer. A single blue light bulb hung from a chord in the middle of the room. Ominous shadows of stored camping gear and craft items decorated the walls and floor. Each one seemed to tell a story of a past encounter with Mother Nature and of the fierce battle that was waged as these fine, young men fought for survival. Bradley positioned himself directly in front of me. "It's time for your initiation." I gave him a confused look. "I thought I just was initiated." "Don't be silly," Bradley sneered. "That was only your vow to be a Boy Scout. I'm in charge of your initiation." The blank stare of a dizzy blonde swept across my face. "I don’t get it." "It’s all very simple," he said, handing a half filled glass to me. "Drink this." "What is it?" I asked as I raised it towards my mouth. "Piss." That glass left my hands quicker than a hand grenade. "Piss?" I screeched. "You expect me to drink somebody's piss?" "It's part of your initiation," Bradley warned. "Quit being such a baby and drink it." I was aghast! This was hardly the sort of greeting one would expect to encounter from such young dignitaries of the community. This was something one did if they were dying on a sand dune in a middle of the Sahara desert or joining the Hell's Angels. "I don’t recall this being covered in the Boy Scout Handbook." Brad gritted his teeth. "That's because it ain't part of the stupid handbook. This is a private initiation into this troop and everybody has to do it." I thought of the fuzzy cheeked boys waiting in the other room. Danny with his glass eye and little Billy with his orthopedic shoes and John, the fat kid. My tongue curled up like fried bacon. "You mean everyone here drank pee?" Bradley forced the container of urine back into my hand. "That's right! And now it's your turn." I held the clear cup of liquid up to the light. "Who's pee is this anyway?" "Everybody's! Now, shut up and drink it!" Somehow, the idea that all of the boys had donated to this cause made a big difference and I began to gag. "I don't think I want to be in this troop." A large belch rose from my stomach as Brad snatched the glass from my hand. "All right! All right! Don't lose your lunch! You don't have to drink it, okay? I'll cover for you and just say you did." Bradley disappeared into the darkness and returned carrying a strange wooden contraption. It was made of two pine boards attached at one end by a rusted hinge. The manner in which it was constructed gave it the appearance of a makeshift clapper for a low budget skin flick. Bradley held the strange object in front of me and raised the top board, exposing three curved grooves on the inside. Dark splatter marks decorated the inner surfaces in a variety of ink blot patterns. Brad motioned with his eyes. "Stick your fingers on this." "And then what?" "Just trust me," he moaned. I looked at Brad. As far as I could ascertain, he had already violated all but one or two points of the Scout Law in the last three minutes. More importantly, he seemed about as trustworthy as Judas Iscariot. There were men sitting on Death Row with more scruples than him. I repeated his instructions. "You want me to put my fingers on the bottom board." Bradley nodded. "If you're right handed, I'd use my left." "Why, what happens once I put my hand there?" In a rather matter of fact tone, Bradley replied, "I slam the top board down on them." My hands automatically flew beneath my arms like frightened prairie dogs. "Are you crazy? Look at that thing! It could smash a marble!" "Aw, quit being such a pansy," Brad snipped. "It rarely even breaks the skin. It just hurts real bad." "Broken bones tend to do that." "C'mon! You're a Boy Scout! Stick your fuckin fingers in there!" "What's the point?" Brad locked his jaw. "To prove you've got what it takes to be in our troop." "What's the first requirement,...insanity?" "It's a test of your endurance and bravery!" I glanced at the stained surface. "It looks more like a test of my blood type." "I did it! Everybody else has done it! Why can't you?" Bradley yelled. "Oh, and if everybody else jumps off a cliff, I suppose I'm expected to do that too!" I snorted. "What do I look like, a lemming?" All at once I realized I sounded just like my father. This concept was even more frightening than the other. For a fleeting moment I considered allowing Bradley to flatten my fingers for precisely that reason. "Hey!" he snapped. "I already passed you on part of the initiation. I can't let you go without doing any of it." My face brightened. "Can I change my mind on the piss thing?" "No! Now put three fingers in there. You don't want everyone to think you're chicken, do ya?" "Quite frankly, I couldn't care less if everyone thinks I'm Rita Hayworth. And don't talk too me about chickens," I warned. "I hate chickens!" Bradley was overcome with disgust and slammed the finger guillotine together. A loud crack echoed through the air. My first thought was that Brad had pulled out a revolver and shot me for being such a pain in the ass. "Scream," he whispered. "What?" "I said, scream." I had no idea what he was talking about. "What for?" "Hurry up. You’re taking too long." "Why should I scream?" "Because I just smashed your fingers!" "No you didn’t." Bradley got this crazed look in his eyes and grabbed me by the shirt. "Yes I did, you stupid little shit! Now scream!" Truth is, Brad's behavior was beginning to rattle my last surviving nerve. I'm not so certain whether I complied out of fear for my own safety or concern for his mental health. Either way, I did manage to feigned a weak, "Aaaaah!" Brad started to shake me like a bathroom rug. "Louder!" he yelled. "AAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHH!" Bradley threw the wooden contraption on a table and stomped away. A beam of fluorescent light flashed into my eyes as he opened the door leading into the main room. The sound of young voices and laughter filtered into the dark storage area. He paused for a moment as though experiencing a sudden premonition, turned towards me and snarled, "I don't think I'm going to like you." The door slammed shut behind him. I remained in the storage room for a few minutes, attempting to compose my thoughts, as well as my physical appearance. As I massaged the back of my neck, hoping to soothe the muscles before whiplash set in, I couldn't help but consider that these were the young leaders of tomorrow. The future of our country would one day rely upon a bunch of sadomasochistic, urine guzzling, blood thirsty Boy Scouts from Bedlam. After ten weeks or more of attending our Wednesday meetings, I came to the understanding that the foundation of high ideals I had expected to find was nonexistent. This was Troop 666. They belonged on the pages of a Stephen King novel. They were not interested in learning how to make the correct knot to secure a tent. They tied everything with a hangman's noose. The only members of the troop who could build a decent fire were accomplished arsonists. Learning First Aid was unheard of. These fine young men preferred to inflict injury. Needless to say, I did not fit in particularly well but I attempted to make the best of it. I was eventually given the nickname, "Turtle" by several of the older troop members. I was called this because they could squish me into very small, confined areas without my bones breaking. That winter, I had my first encounter with camping Boy Scout style. I have no idea where this winter cabin retreat was located or what the name of it was. It would have been highly appropriate if it had been called, Camp Freezeyerfrigginbuttoff. Log cabins are insulated about as well as a cotton sheet. I was expecting a sort of ski resort atmosphere. You know, something with a sunken living room, a roaring fire and Swiss Miss hot chocolate being served by cabin boys dressed in red, white and blue knitted sweaters. Instead, we ended up eight boys to a cabin with rusty bunk beds and a dilapidated pot bellied oven. The bathrooms were outhouses, conveniently located a mere 750 yards away. Considering it was thirty degrees below zero outside, one didn't embark upon such a journey until it became a matter of life and death. We became child proteges at a training camp for Olympic marathon squatters and runners. Instead of dashing through the underbrush with a blazing torch, we tromped through the knee deep snowdrifts carrying a role of toilet paper on a stick. The combined effect of the harsh weather and outhouses created a rather peculiar night time option. Before retiring late the first evening, the Scout Master held a tin can above his head. "If any of you boys need to take a whiz during the night, you can just use this can. And bring it up close," he warned. "I don't want you guys pissing all over the floor." I had expected things to be a bit primitive and I understood we were suppose to be roughing it, but using an old coffee tin as a toilet was absolutely barbaric. I leaned towards my bunk mate, "What kind of animals does he think we are? He doesn't really expect us to pee into a tin can, does he?" "Evidently so," he replied. "I’d rather die of a bladder infection." As I laid in my bed, I began to wonder if this was how the terminology of referring to a bathroom as the can first came into being. The fact that I had chosen to not use it didn't seem to be such a monumental decision. At least, not at first. At about 2 AM, my slumber was disrupted by the sound of one of the boys stumbling around in the dark, followed by an all too familiar sound echoing through the still night air. Pish, pish, pish. In this respect, using the can was like yawning. Both are more contagious than chicken pox in a daycare center. One after another, the boys climbed out of their beds. Pish, pish, pish. All night long. Pish, pish, pish. It was like trying to sleep at the base of Niagara Falls. By morning my bladder had swollen to the size of Lake Baykal. Finally, one of the troop members woke up the Scout Master who, up until now, had been the only living creature within a sixteen mile radius to remain unaffected by the continual sound of running water. "It's full," the young Scout whispered. The Scout Master ran a sleepy hand over his face. "What?" he quietly asked. "It's full," he repeated. "What’s full?" "The can." "What can?" "You know,....the can." The Scout Master fluffed the pillow beneath his head. "Oh. Well, just put it down. I'll deal with it in the morning." The boy bent at the knees. "But I have to go." "Then empty it." "Where?" The Scout Master expelled a tempered sigh "Outside." "Where outside?" Our Scout leader's voice was showing signs of becoming increasingly annoyed by all of this. "Outside is a big place. Pick a spot." "But it’s cold outside." "Then walk your butt to the outhouse!" "But the outhouse is way at the end of,..". The poor kid didn't even get a chance to finish his sentence before the Scout Master reached up and grabbed him by the neck. Through gritted teeth, he snarled, "One more word and I'll tear your bladder out with my bare hands." I pulled the covers over my head. I'm still debating whether that statement garnered a point for honesty or a demerit for courtesy. If there was one thing my parents had taught me it was: If you want something done right, do it yourself. From the conversation alone, I was able to conclude that the young Scout barely had enough common sense to change his mind. Seconds later, I heard a loud clunk. The troop leader sat up in bed. "Now what are you doing?" he shouted. A faint voice in the darkness replied, "I dropped the can." The can was never seen again. I suspect it was probably after a very similar incident that man created the first immovable toilet. I could hear the words of its creator say to his son, "And we're gonna nail this sucker down right here!" Returning home, we all received Merit badges for surviving our three day retreat at Camp Freezeyerfrigginbuttoff. I felt that was the least we deserved. I watched as the Scout Master unloaded the mangled toboggan Bradley had smashed into a tree, drop it to the ground and drag it behind him. It was difficult to tell which of the two were in worse shape. Our second outing was during the Spring. We went to Camp Wilderness. We slept in tents this time. Now this was being a Boy Scout. Camping out under the stars, bonding with Mother Nature. Shortly after unloading the cars and erecting "Tent City" in the middle of a large grassy clearing, one of the other Scouts and I set out to explore one of the trails leading into the woods. Simply by chance, the two of us ended up standing at the edge of a small marsh. The water was crystal clear. Schools of tadpoles and small fish swam about, creating dozens of little ripples that danced and sparkled with the sun's reflection. Glossy green frogs began to leap out of the underbrush and dive into the water like it was a private swimming hole. Red winged blackbirds fluttered through the surrounding trees, singing their familiar song. I suddenly felt at ease as though I had just been reunited with an old friend. It was nature at its very best. The two of us stood in awe at the simple beauty of this tranquil and unspoiled oasis which somehow had managed to exist in man's growing world of concrete and steel. Upon our happy returned, my hiking buddy spread the word of our wondrous discovery. This had the same effect as screaming "White Sale!" in front of the League of Women Voters. Within minutes it looked like the battle at Little Big Horn. I watched in horror as they stampeded towards the marsh. The peaceful waters soon exploded with splatters of mud balls, sending the aquatic life darting back and forth in a panic stricken flight. They trampled through the reeds with the concern of cattle, hurling rocks at the birds and bombing their branched palaces. The soft banks of the pool became scarred with deep footprints and broken plant life as the boys screamed and laughed and shouted commands to one another as if they were an infantry of trained soldiers sent to destroy an outpost. Finally, the invasion ended and the boys marched back to the campsite carrying frogs as if they were captured prisoner of war. I stood for a while, looking upon the destruction they had inflicted. My hiking partner approached me from behind. "I'm sorry. I didn't know they would do that," he apologized. As I approached Tent City, I was shocked to see that things had grown progressively worse. They had bound several of the frogs to wooden crosses and were crucifying them over the campfire. I stood motionless, not certain whether I wanted to cry or mix up a batch of Jonestown Kool Aid. An escaped frog jumped on my foot and just sat there looking up at me. I bent down, picked it up and began to stroke its little head. It was as though someone had taken a match and lit a fuse. And as I watched it burn in front of my eyes, I began to hear the theme song from Mission Impossible. I instantly dropped to my knees and disappeared behind one of the tents. There was no turning back. I dashed behind enemy lines to the Styrofoam ice chest where the frogs were placed to wait out their execution. One by one, I scooped them up, stuffed them into my shirt and scurried back into the high grasses at the edge of the campsite. That was the extent of my big plan. It wasn't a well thought out plan but it was better than nothing. I eventually made my way towards the rows of tents and retreated inside. I had no sooner crawled beneath the canopy when one of the other boys opened the icebox lid and discovered someone had stolen away with the amphibians. Inasmuch as stealing is without honor, sometimes even the honorable must become thieves and liars to preserve their self respect. Once again I had a shirt full of frogs and no place to put them. Tents offer very few hiding places. There's the floor and the floor. For lack of anything better, I threw them into my suitcase and closed the lid. My tent flap lifted up with a violent swing. It was Bradley. "Someone stole our frogs!" he growled. "Good! They're not your frogs anyway." "Fuck you, Turtle! If I find out you had anything to do with this, I'll tear your nuts off." I felt my testicles rise as Bradley dropped the tent curtain. Bradley had no sooner left when my hiking buddy poked his head through the door. "Did you steal the frogs?" he whispered in amazement. I glanced around and silently nodded my head. His eyes widened with fear. "What did you do with them?" "They're in my suitcase." He made a sour look and crawled inside the tent. "Well, where did you put your clothes?" "They're in my suitcase. Why?" I didn't see the big deal but by the way my friend acted, you would think I had just thrown afterbirth into a blender. His upper lip lifted up like an automatic garage door opener and he made this "EeeYeuck!" sound. "Stay here and guard them," I said. "Where are you going?" "To find the Scout Master." The high ideals and moral values I had attributed to the Boy Scouts were damaged beyond repair. I now understood that I was stranded two hundred miles from civilization with a gang of escaped midgets from San Quentin. Part of me feared word would leak out that I was responsible for ruining their fun and I would awaken to find them assembling a crucifix built specifically to my proportions. Instead I awoke to the screaming wails of one of the other troop members. I poked my head outside the tent. The Scout Master and several of the boys were huddled around the fat kid. He was crying and holding his shirt up. I figured the little bastards had branded him during the night. It turns out a wood tick had crawled into his navel and was setting up a condo suitable for Architectural Digest. I was stupefied. I sat down and wondered what sort of kid inspects his belly button? I could have had a crop of Pampas grass growing out of mine and I still wouldn’t have noticed. And I could see mine. I don't wish to be cruel, but this kid's navel looked like the Holland Tunnel. You'd have to go in there with a kerosene lamp and excavation tools to find anything. We were immediately placed on "Wood Tick Alert". Everybody ran into their tents and stripped. I had eleven. Which started me thinking. If the fat kid had one embedded in his navel, what was to stop them from entering other dark caverns of the human body? And who would know? I certainly didn"t have the sort of nerve it took to walk up to one of the guys and say, "Excuse me, but do you think you could do me a favor and see if I have a wood tick stuck up my ass?" The wood tick problem was beyond anything I have ever experienced. During our three day stay at Camp Wilderness, I ended up with thirty-seven of the little cannibals. It was just like Mother Nature to strike back with a vengeance and deservedly so. It is one of the cosmic laws. What goes around, comes around. Instant Karma's gonna get you Gonna knock you right on the head You better get yourself together Pretty soon, you're gonna be dead. *1 Every morning, I would waken and stare up at the roof of my tent. Little wood tick shadows crawled all over it. It looked like L.A. traffic during rush hour. And wood ticks were not the only problem. The next day, my hiking pal and I discovered a lake with a small wood rotted dock. A mysterious chain stretched into the water from one of the support beams. We rolled up our shorts and waded into the murky pool to investigate. As we pulled up the chain, a large wire cage came into view. It was filled with unrecognizable dead stuff. It sort of reminded me of The Blob except it was brown and gray and black. A shiver ran up my spine as I let the cage fall back into the water with a loud splash. It was a bad omen. Ever since the frog incident, our excursion to Camp Wilderness had steadily gotten worse. "That's gross! I'm getting out of here," I said as I turned and headed for land. I had only taken a few steps when I heard my friend say, "You have a black thing on your leg." With every step he would add, "Ooh,..and another one. Ooh, and another one." I got out of the water and looked down at my legs. I flashed a horrified look to my buddy in the lake. "LEECHES!" I cried. It was sort of a religious experience. I had never seen anyone walk on water before. We both sat down on the shore and attempted to pull their black globby bodies off of our legs and from between our toes. Due to their numbers, I figured we had about thirty seconds before we were sucked white. Anyone who has ever had a leech attach itself to them will tell you that removing them is not an easy task. It's like trying to grab hold of an uncooked egg. I was just thankful we hadn't plunged in up to our waist. For a leech, I would not have hesitated in the least to drop my drawers and submit to a rectal probe with a sand blaster. That was to be my last outing with the troop. I can't say that I felt any great loss by bidding them all farewell. Contrary to the moralistic values advocated by the Boy Scouts Of America, I was disenchanted to discover that they didn't so much as qualify as being civilized. By the end of our weekend retreat, Camp Wilderness had been raped and pillaged enough times to call for a state of emergency. All in all, two boys had gotten themselves lost, two more were sent home, the Scout Master had scrawled his resignation in blood and one of the boys had to be rushed to the hospital. He was chopping firewood and split his foot in two with the ax. According to our handbook, we were suppose to be able to chart a course by the location of the stars. Even with a compass in hand, most of us couldn't navigate our way through a bus terminal. Furthermore, these fine young examples of righteousness could no sooner bond with nature if they were each handed an open gallon of Super Glue and pushed down a hill. In regards to the Boy Scouts of America, I had never been more wrong about anything in my life. As a matter of fact, everything I had ever heard or read or been taught was little more than lip service and misguided propaganda. Although I remained a loyal and dedicated Boy Scout throughout the coming winter months, I resigning my olive shirt and yellow scarf the following Spring. It wasn't as though I left without any insights from the ordeal. For as the Duchess said to Alice, "Tut, tut, child! Every thing’s got a moral, if only you can find it." *2 Admittedly, there was not a lack of accomplishment. I learned all about knots and nature and what was morally right and wrong. Yet none of that really seemed to matter at the time. To me, it was really no different that being invited to a birthday party and then discovering the cake was baked by Oscar Meyer. And as all the little children line up with their party hats and paper plates for a chunk of that sweet desert, one thing becomes painfully obvious. No matter how thin you slice it, it's still baloney. *3 *1. Instant Karma by John Lennon *2, Alice In Wonderland by Lewis Caroll *3. Alfred Emanuel Smith