The kid’s name was Bobby.
My name used to be Bobby,
especially to my mother.
I sat next to Bobby at
the first meeting of Boy
Scout Troop 101 sponsored
by the Methodist Church
in the next neighborhood
over from mine. I had
heard about Bobby in his
Levis with the large
turned-up cuffs and his
short-sleeved shirt with
the rolled up sleeves,
one holding a pack of
cigarettes. I just sat
there and stared at him.
He looked at me and snarl-
ed, “What are you (He drag-
ged out the ‘you.’) lookin’
at?” “Nothing,” I said,
quickly looking away in
fear. He was smaller than
I was but he was wiry and
sported a Duck’s Tail flat-
top to my crew cut. I
worried that he would be
waiting for me after the
meeting perhaps with a
couple of his buddies
from his neighborhood
to “pants” me, that time-
honored tradition of
having one’s pants pulled
off and thrown up in a tree.
As I stepped out the door
of the educational wing, I
heard my mother call,
“Bobby!” I had been a highly
decorated Webelos, having
earned the Arrow of Light
badge in Cub Scout Pack 203
sponsored by church in my
neighborhood, but I never
went back to a meeting of
Troop 101 in the Methodist
Church in Bobby’s neighbor-
hood and I never became
a Boy Scout.