part 8:
Election Night at 192
by Michael D. Quadrozzi
©1998 by Michael D. Quadrozzi and Matthew Atanian
Boy Scouts ½ created by Matthew Atanian
Election Night at 192
by Michael D. Quadrozzi
©1998 by Michael D. Quadrozzi and Matthew Atanian
Boy Scouts ½ created by Matthew Atanian
At 5:57 on a wet and darkening Wednesday afternoon, Bill Hughes had his head through the sleeve of a plaid flannel jacket and had just fallen down a full flight of stairs.
He didn't know why he was always late to scout meetings. Well, actually he did. It was because every Wednesday before every meeting he waited until the last possible second to get his things together and usually ended up running around frantic until he fell down the stairs and bruised his knee.
Hughes rubbed his bruised knee and looked at his digital watch.
"Crap," he said.
He was upset because he lived in the town of Palmer, Massachusetts. Well, living there wasn't the thing that bothered him. Palmer was a perfectly normal if rather hilly New England town. The thing that bothered him was that it took a good half-hour to get anywhere from Palmer. Especially to Springfield, where Troop 192 held its weekly meetings.
First of all, he would have to get his head through the appropriate opening of his jacket. Struggling on the floor, feet kicking wildly in the air, he managed to get both arms through both sleeves, but now the jacket was inside out over his head.
Hughes sighed. He was quite clearly going to be late again.
Meanwhile, roughly 17 miles away in East Longmeadow, another perfectly normal if not very hilly New England town, Mike Quadrozzi had most of his body out his front door when he suddenly remembered something incredibly important.
"Hat!" he said, turning around mid-step to run back into the house to get his repulsively lived-in baseball style Troop 192 red hat. Returning to the door, he reached around the knob to lock it and just before closing the door behind him he smacked himself in the forehead.
"Book!" he said, remembering something else he had forgotten. He dashed back inside to get his Boy Scout Handbook. On the way back, he continued dashing right into his living room sofa because he'd also forgotten his—
"Binder!" It was on his desk in his room.
After retrieving this last bit of necessary equipment, he convinced himself he had everything he needed and stepped out the door, which he locked and shut behind him. A thought struck him, and he reached into an inner recess of his coat.
"Pen!" he said, holding it up defiantly just to make it clear it was the one thing he hadn't failed to remember to bring. Finally prepared, Mike walked down the few steps to his driveway and his mother's idling car.
Just before he reached the car, the driver's side door was thrown open and his mother yelled, "What do you think you're doing?"
Mike was confused until he looked down and realized that the reason he was cold was that he didn't seem to be wearing any pants.
He was standing in his driveway in his blue and green striped shorts.
In October.
"Well," he said, "I'll be right back."
At that exact moment and just a few miles away in the Springfield suburbs, Troop 192 Senior Patrol Leader Bill Gelinas was having his butt sniffed by a dog.
It was his dog, actually, and although he enjoyed doing many things with it, this was not one of them. This wouldn't normally have happened except for the fact that he was a dog himself at present time.
He hadn't set off to have his behind inspected. It had just happened. He was in his back yard, and was trying to figure out a quick way not to be a dog because he had to get to the scout meeting in a little while, and he knew for a fact that he couldn't show up at the church as a small black German Shepherd.
He had to think.
Hot water. That was the trick. But where did a dog get hot water?
His problem was instantly solved as a pot of hot water with a bunch of carrot pieces in it was emptied over his head and he became his human self. His dog scampered away, shaking off the water.
Bill's mother, who had dumped the water out the window after she'd finished boiling the carrots, stuck her head out the window to look at him, sitting wet and naked and with carrot pieces stuck all over him on the grass.
"I don't want to know, Bill," she said. "Just get dressed for scouts." She had long ago ceased being surprised at any of the bizarre things her son did on a daily basis. In fact, this particular event scored pretty low on the Bizarre-Stint-O-Meter.
Bill blinked and hurried inside his house to get dressed.
In a different section of semi-urban sprawl, Aaron Abdowmassy was screaming.
It wasn't a high-pitched girly scream of fear or a guttural yelp of pain. It was one of those hellish, red-faced spasms of rage that Aaron had perfected over the years by having two immature younger brothers who were his constant tormentors.
The youngest of the demon spawns was jumping around the Abdowmassy living room holding the sketch Aaron had been working on yelling fifth grade insults at him.
"Derek," Aaron managed between clenched teeth, "If you give me that back right this instant I promise I'll have a much harder time killing you."
His sibling laughed a high-pitched imp laugh. "No way, fart brain!"
Aaron opened and closed his fists a few times. "Derek—"
His brother began singing to himself.
Aaron picked up a football from the rug and threw a perfect forward pass that caught Derek on the left side of his face, knocking him off the couch onto the floor.
The little person lay on the carpet, looking up at his brother. A number of expressions, among them pain, anger and a sulking "what-did-I-do?" look flicked across his face before he finally settled on an evil delighted grin.
The tears came, and then a yell to end all yells: "MMOOOOOOOMMMMM!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"
Aaron's mother rushed into the room. "Aaron, what did you do?" she demanded to know, bending down to her whimpering offspring.
"Oh, come on, now!" Aaron said, "It was his fault! He always does that!"
As usual, his mother took the devil child's side. "I don't want to hear it, mister. It's almost six o'clock! Go get dressed for scouts!"
Smouldering, Aaron stomped off to his room, his brother's grin dancing in his head.
Meanwhile, (did you ever imagine so many things could happen at the same time?) at 257 Sparrow Drive in Springfield, Massachusetts, veteran scout and self-made man on the fringe of disturbing behaviour Matt K. Atanian was sitting peacefully by his television stirring a freshly poured glass of iced tea.
People could scurry about, bombs could explode, civilizations could rise and fall; it didn't matter. As long as there was iced tea and tall glasses, Matt Atanian's world was okay.
And unlike so many other members of Troop 192, he was pretty calm and relaxed. In fact, since he lived no that far from the Church in the Acres, he still didn't have to even put his shoes on for another fifteen minutes.
Just the right amount of time to enjoy a perfectly chilled glass of iced tea, Matt thought lazily as he watched Hawkeye and Honeycut hit the dirt, hoping to avoid the latest wave of enemy shelling.
He took a sip.
It wasn't quite there, yet. After all, you can't just drink iced tea. You have to savour it, make sure it's perfect. Every piece of mix must be stirred into solution. No remnant of powder could be left.
Nice firm grip, easy strokes, that was the way to achieve beverage Utopia.
Matt took another sip.
Ah, refreshment.
He smiled and let his mind wander.
Somehow, everyone managed to arrive at the Church in the Acres on time that night, even Hughes. In the few minutes they had to mill around before the meeting started the five of them had a pre-emptive chat.
"So guys," Matt was asking, "any interesting things happen lately?"
Mike blinked. "No."
"Not really."
"Nothing out of the ordinary."
Aaron shook his head. "Nope."
They were gathered along with the rest of the troop in the main hall of the church, a large wood-panelled room with a lot of windows and folding metal chairs. Strewn about the room were jackets and handbooks, and people talked amongst themselves in little groups. The meeting wasn't due to start for a few more minutes.
"Hey, anybody know who they are?"
The other four turned to look in the direction Hughes had pointed and spotted two people they didn't recognize as members of the troop.
"Oh, those are the new scouts we're getting today," said Bill Gelinas.
"New scouts?" Mike winced.
From time to time Troop 192 received new recruits, either from the Cub Scout pack or some other area troop. A lot of times there were good kids, people who made friends and stayed with the group, becoming knowledgeable and respected scouts. Then again, there were always snivelling little brats who tormented everyone as much as they possibly could and then left for good after a particularly upsetting episode.
You had to be careful.
"Hey, I wouldn't be so quick to judge," Matt suggested, "all of you were new scouts once."
"Yeah, you're right," Mike conceded with a grin. "Then again, we're obviously gifted."
"We'll just have to wait and see," said Bill. He looked up at the clock. Six thirty-five. "Looks like everybody's here. Let's get started."
He took his place at the front of the crowd and called a sign's up. It took the normal amount of time, too long in other words, for some of the more rambunctious members of the troop to quiet down and find their places in the accepted patrol formation.
Today was a special meeting, as everyone, especially Bill, knew. Tonight was election night, the night when Troop 192 voted on who would become the next Senior Patrol Leader, the next man-in-charge.
It wasn't nearly all it was cracked up to be. Bill Gelinas was counting the seconds until he could hand the silver bars over to someone else. They could take the job.
As the Senior Patrol Leader-for-now dropped his signs and began his last round of announcements, Aaron leaned over to where Mike was standing. "You still running?" he asked.
"You bet."
"I'd say you've got a shot."
Mike feigned remorse. "I don't know, competition's harsh."
They laughed. The two candidates for Senior Patrol Leader were Mike and Justy Yung, the troop's spineless brown-noser.
"It's about time you got the job," Aaron said.
Mike nodded. He'd served as Assistant Senior Patrol Leader now for three years in a row. The benefits of being the second-in-command wore thin after a while.
"Shhh!"
It was from one of the adults in the back of the room. The two of them fell silent, and as Bill went through his final necessary but boring spiel, Mike took the opportunity to look around and see who had showed up for the meeting tonight.
Besides the five of them, there were the other regular members of Troop 192. All faces of people who Mike was convinced would finally get him the position he'd wanted for quite some time. There were about twenty of them in the hall, a pretty good turn out.
A few adult leaders were also in attendance, seated in the back of the room. Some had sons in the troop, some didn't. Most of them were good people. There was Mr. Jack McGraw, the bitter old man from camp, and Mr. Pruyne, the Troop's venerable Scoutmaster.
And there were these two new scouts.
Mike looked them over for a minute. The one on the left was the younger one, a short and scrawny kid with sandy blonde hair and a pair of fiercely thick glasses. He looked barely over the minimum Boy Scout age limit of eleven and also had a frightfully thick book under one arm, whose title Mike couldn't make out from where he stood. To Mike's surprise, his uniform was neat and appeared to already display all the appropriate insignia in all the appropriate places. The boy didn't seem to be talking much, but that was to be expected. No one was overflowing with confidence on their first day with a new group of people.
The other new recruit was taller, standing almost painfully straight. He seemed to be the epitome of discipline until you looked at his face, which held a lazy, lopsided grin. Mike noticed he held the first class rank. He must have transferred from another troop.
Mike was speculating on the names of the rookies when Bill interrupted his thoughts and began to do the introductions.
"We've got some new scouts here, tonight," Bill was saying, "so let's give a warm welcome to..." He looked down at his notes. "Kenneth Pendrell and... um, sorry. How do you pronounce this?"
Kenneth must have been the scrawny one, because the taller of the two spoke up. "Proctor will be fine, Colonel," he said with a grin and a smart salute.
Kenneth waved timidly to the group, and spoke just above a whisper. "Hi."
"Okay," Bill nodded. He looked over at Mr. Pruyne. "Is that all?"
The Scoutmaster walked over and almost made Bill pee in his pants with joy by announcing the next order of business.
"Well, let's see..." Mike began, thinking his response through. He was standing on the stage in the front of the hall, and the rest of the troop had pulled up chairs. The flags of the country and of 192 flanked him on either side. Jon Becker had asked him what sorts of fun things he would plan if he were elected SPL.
"I'll... make sure the troop goes to all the District Camporees, and events," he said, watching for any reaction as he talked. Public speaking was an acquired skill. "And on more camping trips to neat places and up to Moses..." Nothing. His mind sifted through the mountains of mental debris for anything that could help. "And, um... hey! All of you like that instant soup we get sometimes on campouts, right?"
A few heads nodded.
"All right, then! Instant Raman noodle soup will be the official food of Troop 192!"
"What flavour?" someone asked.
Mike thought. "Um, chicken."
There was unanimous applause, and Mike walked down the steps to take his seat. Aaron elbowed him when he got there. "Nicely done, Squid," he said.
"Thank you."
Mr. Pruyne called for the next contestant. "Hey, Justy, say a few words!"
Justy Yung ascended to the stage, clad in a freshly pressed uniform adorned with numerous patches. No one knew for sure what he was 'Trained' in or how he had become an 'Honorary Recipient for the Coveted Award in the Field of Excellence' or what that even meant, but he evidently had the patches to prove it.
Justy reached the centre of the stage and smiled. "If I am elected Senior Patrol Leader, you will all bow down to me," he said.
"That doesn't sound very fun." It was Becker.
"Of course it does," Justy said, his grin widening, "what could possibly be more fun than calling me Supreme Lord and Master of Troop 192, than answering my every command and whim? You are all nothing but pawns, mere insects to be crushed under the heel of my boot!!" He threw his head back and laughed wildly.
After a minute or so he settled down and wiped the spittle from his lip. "Vote for me," he said, and left the stage.
The troop blinked.
"I like him," said Proctor.
After that, little slips of paper were passed out, and all the twenty-some odd active members of Troop 192 began scribbling down the name of the next Senior Patrol Leader.
Matt Atanian, recognized as an adult by the Boy Scouts of America if not by most of his fellows, was not allowed to cast a vote. He sat and watched the democratic process unfold.
Kenneth Pendrell and Proctor were given ballots, but not really expected to vote, since they were new and didn't really know the candidates that well.
It took about five minutes, and then everyone was done. All voters folded their ballots neatly in half and tossed them into the hat of Scoutmaster Bill Pruyne. After collecting everyone's slip of paper, he and the other adults assembled by the exit.
"Well, we'll go and count these," Mr. Pruyne informed the troop, "and then come right back out and tell you who won the election."
The adults went through the door and left.
The troop began to mill. It would be necessary to start a group activity in a few moments, lest things got out of hand and windows started breaking themselves.
Near the front of the stage, Mike approached Bill Gelinas, who was lying quite nonchalantly across the steps. It was obvious how relieved he was.
"So," Mike began, "you up for a game of Steal-the-Bacon, maybe?" (If you're not familiar with it, Steal-the-Bacon is a nice little game that happens to be a favourite of Troop 192 and can get quite violent, let me tell you.)
Bill looked up. "Sure."
"You want to call the numbers?"
"Nope," Bill sighed, settling back down for a well-deserved rest. "You can do it, now."
Before going forward with the story, it might be necessary to get you the audience familiar with the appearance and general layout of the Church in the Acres, weekly meeting place of Troop 192.
The church is a squat, two-story structure with both the steeple and garish white paint of centuries of New England tradition. It is set back from a major road, across from a garden supplies store and a densely settled residential area. A field of scraggly grass and shrubs sweeps behind it and joins the forest in about a half-mile.
Everyone once in a while, well, Sundays mostly, the bells within the steeple start ringing to some hymn or another, and you can hear them far and wide. You can also hear the traffic as it whizzes by on Wilbraham Road.
The building is typical in all respects.
Within, there is the church proper, with offices and other rooms used by the congregation of the church. Off to the side lies the main hall, where 192 meets. The back door of the hall leads to a staircase and the ground floor, where Sunday School and other such things take place. The rooms down there are small and carpeted and the walls are covered with pegboards and pictures of Jesus made out of construction paper. If you don't go down that staircase, you end up in the church kitchen, a large, yellow room with counters and refrigerators. It is an important room. It's where the troop keeps its food if it has any, and where conversations are held or minor scuffles are ironed out.
It is also where the adults went to count the ballots.
"Number... SIX!!" Mike yelled, then held the brim of his red hat and leaped out of the way as two of his fellow scouts rushed towards him at full speed. There were after the little marker board eraser at his feet. It was 'the bacon'.
The object of the game was to grab the bacon before the other person did and either carry it or throw back to your team for a point. Of course, if the other person tagged you, you were out, and they got the point instead.
Teeth had been lost over this.
In the kitchen, the adults were busy deciding the future of the troop.
They sat around the large counter in folding metal chairs, chatting anxiously as the Scoutmaster tallied the votes on a yellow legal pad.
Most of the troop elders were there, including Mr. Pruyne, of course, and Mr. McGraw. Gathered with them were Mr. Bob Martin, the outspoken and portly spokesman of the group and Mr. Tim Walker, the deceptively slow Midwestern philosopher. His easy-going and cautious air hid a twisted, calculating mind. Also in attendance was Mr. Ted McCarthy, the ill-tempered Troop Committee Chairman.
All eyes were on their colleague as he counted the ballots. The results were almost in.
The huge panels of fluorescent lights that lined the ceiling cast everything in a sterile whiteness. Every piece of metal in the room glinted, and the whole scene took on a surreal look.
"Okay, then," said Mr. Pruyne as he quickly re-checked the number of tally marks he'd scribbled down on the yellow legal pad. "The results are in."
"Yes?"
"And it would appear that the troop has chosen Mike Quadrozzi as their next Senior Patrol Leader."
"What?"
There was much grumbling. "Recount the votes."
Mr. Pruyne held up his yellow legal pad for all in the room to see. "Twenty-four votes for Mike. None for Justy Yung."
The group of middle-aged men was not pleased.
"This cannot be allowed," grumbled Mr. McGraw in his bitter, guttural snap.
Mr. Martin spoke in his wheezy, authoritative voice, sounding a bit like Marlon Brando, "How did this happen?"
Mr. Pruyne smirked. "Would you like another recount?"
"This is a dreadful mistake!" continued Mr. McGraw. "Mike cannot be put in power! Under his care-free authority and guidance the troop would... it just might..." He couldn't say it.
"Prosper?" Mr. Martin offered.
"Yes. We would lose our stranglehold," the elder sputtered, "The youth would begin to take charge, to actually plan the program they are meant to... enjoy."
"We should have seen this coming."
"It might not be that bad," said Mr. Pruyne, "we might be able to suggest things to Mike, to make him—"
Mr. Martin grimaced. "No, he would not listen. Any pursuit to mould him would be fruitless, as it was with the young Atanian."
They nodded.
"What about the others? We could give him an assistant—"
"No, no. That would only make him—"
"But listen to what I'm—"
The troop elders were beginning to quarrel, but it would soon be put to an end. None of them had noticed the other man who had entered the room, and they were startled into silence when he suddenly spoke.
"Gentlemen, gentlemen," said Mr. John Hawley, "This is getting us nowhere."
The adults all looked up as their colleague entered the room.
"Oh?" snapped Mr. McGraw. "And what do you suggest?"
Mr. Hawley stood by the door, a slight smile on his face. Slowly, with the quiet dignity the regal post of Council Camping Committee Chairman gave a man, he reached into his pocket to procure a long, thick cigar. He bit of the tip and reached into another pocket for his lighter. With a flick of the wrist he brought forth a flame and began to smoke. Within seconds, the kitchen was filled with the acrid, distinctive smell of cigar smoke.
All of this done, Mr. Hawley deemed it ready for the conversation to resume. "We may be caught unawares," he said, his voice calm and careful, "but we are not nearly powerless." He approached the counter and, pulling up a chair, sat down with the rest of them. "The problem is not what has been done," he resumed, "but what we are going to do to correct it."
He turned to stare coldly at one of the men at the counter. "I suggest we come up with a serious solution, Mr. McGraw. Don't you agree?"
The colour had faded from Mr. McGraw's face. He opened his mouth to speak and found it hard to form words. "Ah, yes. Yes... of course, I do."
"Good," said Mr. Hawley. "So, what are we going to do?"
From the other end of the counter, Mr. Walker tipped up the brim of his ten-gallon hat and gave the group his opinion. "Our friend is correct, gentlemen," he said in a melodious twang, "and I think the solution we need is quite simple. We know that Mike will not listen to us, so what we need is a puppet."
"What do you mean, exactly?" asked Mr. Martin, though he himself had been ready to propose the same thing.
"Well, it appears that dear Michael really didn't win the election," Mr. Walker said. "Justy did."
Mr. Martin smiled. "Yes, the little weasel will jump at the chance."
"And he'll be so wrapped up in it, he won't notice who's really in charge."
The elders were pleased, except for one.
Mr. Pruyne couldn't believe what he was hearing. "Are you suggesting we just disregard the election results completely? Put Justy Yung in charge?"
"Well," Mr. Hawley said, his voice drenched in vile nastiness, not to mention cigar smoke, "that seems to be the general consensus."
"But, I mean—"
The others glared at him. "That doesn't bother you, Mr. Pruyne, does it?"
It was a futile battle. In the world of adult scout leadership, it was survival of the fittest. One could not afford to not be one of the fittest.
"I'm sure it will work," he said.
The group of elders nodded satisfactorily. A crisis had been averted. The future of Troop 192 as they knew it was no longer in danger.
After all, these men were in the business of predicting the future, and the best way to predict the future is to invent it.
Mr. Hawley stood up and tapped cigar ashes on to the floor. "I'm sure you have to inform the kids, gentlemen, so I'll take my leave of you. Good night."
The others looked to Mr. Pruyne.
"Yes," he said, and his voice was low, devoid of the spirit he usually had in full. "I'll tell them."
The game of Steal-the-Bacon was winding down. Most of the scouts were too sore to even think about continuing to play.
That was okay, because Mr. Pruyne came through the door from the kitchen and called a sign's up when he reached the front of the stage. "All right, everybody," he said. "Gather round."
It took the normal amount of time, and then everyone was in formation, ready to receive the news and find out who was going to be SPL.
Off to the side, Mike was especially anxious.
"Oh, would you knock it off!" Aaron told him, "You look like you're gonna explode!"
"I just want to know if I won."
"Of course you did! Who would vote for Justy?"
The Scoutmaster began to speak. "The results are in," he said. "And for the next year, as of now, the Senior Patrol Leader of Troop 192 is . . ." He closed his eyes. "Justy Yung."
Silence.
Still more silence.
Then Justy threw back his head and laughed.
Mike, Aaron, Matt and the Bills stood, stunned into absolute silence, along with the rest of the troop. The only person who spoke was the new kid, Kenneth Pendrell.
"Is this bad?" he asked.
He didn't know why he was always late to scout meetings. Well, actually he did. It was because every Wednesday before every meeting he waited until the last possible second to get his things together and usually ended up running around frantic until he fell down the stairs and bruised his knee.
Hughes rubbed his bruised knee and looked at his digital watch.
"Crap," he said.
He was upset because he lived in the town of Palmer, Massachusetts. Well, living there wasn't the thing that bothered him. Palmer was a perfectly normal if rather hilly New England town. The thing that bothered him was that it took a good half-hour to get anywhere from Palmer. Especially to Springfield, where Troop 192 held its weekly meetings.
First of all, he would have to get his head through the appropriate opening of his jacket. Struggling on the floor, feet kicking wildly in the air, he managed to get both arms through both sleeves, but now the jacket was inside out over his head.
Hughes sighed. He was quite clearly going to be late again.
Meanwhile, roughly 17 miles away in East Longmeadow, another perfectly normal if not very hilly New England town, Mike Quadrozzi had most of his body out his front door when he suddenly remembered something incredibly important.
"Hat!" he said, turning around mid-step to run back into the house to get his repulsively lived-in baseball style Troop 192 red hat. Returning to the door, he reached around the knob to lock it and just before closing the door behind him he smacked himself in the forehead.
"Book!" he said, remembering something else he had forgotten. He dashed back inside to get his Boy Scout Handbook. On the way back, he continued dashing right into his living room sofa because he'd also forgotten his—
"Binder!" It was on his desk in his room.
After retrieving this last bit of necessary equipment, he convinced himself he had everything he needed and stepped out the door, which he locked and shut behind him. A thought struck him, and he reached into an inner recess of his coat.
"Pen!" he said, holding it up defiantly just to make it clear it was the one thing he hadn't failed to remember to bring. Finally prepared, Mike walked down the few steps to his driveway and his mother's idling car.
Just before he reached the car, the driver's side door was thrown open and his mother yelled, "What do you think you're doing?"
Mike was confused until he looked down and realized that the reason he was cold was that he didn't seem to be wearing any pants.
He was standing in his driveway in his blue and green striped shorts.
In October.
"Well," he said, "I'll be right back."
At that exact moment and just a few miles away in the Springfield suburbs, Troop 192 Senior Patrol Leader Bill Gelinas was having his butt sniffed by a dog.
It was his dog, actually, and although he enjoyed doing many things with it, this was not one of them. This wouldn't normally have happened except for the fact that he was a dog himself at present time.
He hadn't set off to have his behind inspected. It had just happened. He was in his back yard, and was trying to figure out a quick way not to be a dog because he had to get to the scout meeting in a little while, and he knew for a fact that he couldn't show up at the church as a small black German Shepherd.
He had to think.
Hot water. That was the trick. But where did a dog get hot water?
His problem was instantly solved as a pot of hot water with a bunch of carrot pieces in it was emptied over his head and he became his human self. His dog scampered away, shaking off the water.
Bill's mother, who had dumped the water out the window after she'd finished boiling the carrots, stuck her head out the window to look at him, sitting wet and naked and with carrot pieces stuck all over him on the grass.
"I don't want to know, Bill," she said. "Just get dressed for scouts." She had long ago ceased being surprised at any of the bizarre things her son did on a daily basis. In fact, this particular event scored pretty low on the Bizarre-Stint-O-Meter.
Bill blinked and hurried inside his house to get dressed.
In a different section of semi-urban sprawl, Aaron Abdowmassy was screaming.
It wasn't a high-pitched girly scream of fear or a guttural yelp of pain. It was one of those hellish, red-faced spasms of rage that Aaron had perfected over the years by having two immature younger brothers who were his constant tormentors.
The youngest of the demon spawns was jumping around the Abdowmassy living room holding the sketch Aaron had been working on yelling fifth grade insults at him.
"Derek," Aaron managed between clenched teeth, "If you give me that back right this instant I promise I'll have a much harder time killing you."
His sibling laughed a high-pitched imp laugh. "No way, fart brain!"
Aaron opened and closed his fists a few times. "Derek—"
His brother began singing to himself.
Aaron picked up a football from the rug and threw a perfect forward pass that caught Derek on the left side of his face, knocking him off the couch onto the floor.
The little person lay on the carpet, looking up at his brother. A number of expressions, among them pain, anger and a sulking "what-did-I-do?" look flicked across his face before he finally settled on an evil delighted grin.
The tears came, and then a yell to end all yells: "MMOOOOOOOMMMMM!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"
Aaron's mother rushed into the room. "Aaron, what did you do?" she demanded to know, bending down to her whimpering offspring.
"Oh, come on, now!" Aaron said, "It was his fault! He always does that!"
As usual, his mother took the devil child's side. "I don't want to hear it, mister. It's almost six o'clock! Go get dressed for scouts!"
Smouldering, Aaron stomped off to his room, his brother's grin dancing in his head.
Meanwhile, (did you ever imagine so many things could happen at the same time?) at 257 Sparrow Drive in Springfield, Massachusetts, veteran scout and self-made man on the fringe of disturbing behaviour Matt K. Atanian was sitting peacefully by his television stirring a freshly poured glass of iced tea.
People could scurry about, bombs could explode, civilizations could rise and fall; it didn't matter. As long as there was iced tea and tall glasses, Matt Atanian's world was okay.
And unlike so many other members of Troop 192, he was pretty calm and relaxed. In fact, since he lived no that far from the Church in the Acres, he still didn't have to even put his shoes on for another fifteen minutes.
Just the right amount of time to enjoy a perfectly chilled glass of iced tea, Matt thought lazily as he watched Hawkeye and Honeycut hit the dirt, hoping to avoid the latest wave of enemy shelling.
He took a sip.
It wasn't quite there, yet. After all, you can't just drink iced tea. You have to savour it, make sure it's perfect. Every piece of mix must be stirred into solution. No remnant of powder could be left.
Nice firm grip, easy strokes, that was the way to achieve beverage Utopia.
Matt took another sip.
Ah, refreshment.
He smiled and let his mind wander.
Somehow, everyone managed to arrive at the Church in the Acres on time that night, even Hughes. In the few minutes they had to mill around before the meeting started the five of them had a pre-emptive chat.
"So guys," Matt was asking, "any interesting things happen lately?"
Mike blinked. "No."
"Not really."
"Nothing out of the ordinary."
Aaron shook his head. "Nope."
They were gathered along with the rest of the troop in the main hall of the church, a large wood-panelled room with a lot of windows and folding metal chairs. Strewn about the room were jackets and handbooks, and people talked amongst themselves in little groups. The meeting wasn't due to start for a few more minutes.
"Hey, anybody know who they are?"
The other four turned to look in the direction Hughes had pointed and spotted two people they didn't recognize as members of the troop.
"Oh, those are the new scouts we're getting today," said Bill Gelinas.
"New scouts?" Mike winced.
From time to time Troop 192 received new recruits, either from the Cub Scout pack or some other area troop. A lot of times there were good kids, people who made friends and stayed with the group, becoming knowledgeable and respected scouts. Then again, there were always snivelling little brats who tormented everyone as much as they possibly could and then left for good after a particularly upsetting episode.
You had to be careful.
"Hey, I wouldn't be so quick to judge," Matt suggested, "all of you were new scouts once."
"Yeah, you're right," Mike conceded with a grin. "Then again, we're obviously gifted."
"We'll just have to wait and see," said Bill. He looked up at the clock. Six thirty-five. "Looks like everybody's here. Let's get started."
He took his place at the front of the crowd and called a sign's up. It took the normal amount of time, too long in other words, for some of the more rambunctious members of the troop to quiet down and find their places in the accepted patrol formation.
Today was a special meeting, as everyone, especially Bill, knew. Tonight was election night, the night when Troop 192 voted on who would become the next Senior Patrol Leader, the next man-in-charge.
It wasn't nearly all it was cracked up to be. Bill Gelinas was counting the seconds until he could hand the silver bars over to someone else. They could take the job.
As the Senior Patrol Leader-for-now dropped his signs and began his last round of announcements, Aaron leaned over to where Mike was standing. "You still running?" he asked.
"You bet."
"I'd say you've got a shot."
Mike feigned remorse. "I don't know, competition's harsh."
They laughed. The two candidates for Senior Patrol Leader were Mike and Justy Yung, the troop's spineless brown-noser.
"It's about time you got the job," Aaron said.
Mike nodded. He'd served as Assistant Senior Patrol Leader now for three years in a row. The benefits of being the second-in-command wore thin after a while.
"Shhh!"
It was from one of the adults in the back of the room. The two of them fell silent, and as Bill went through his final necessary but boring spiel, Mike took the opportunity to look around and see who had showed up for the meeting tonight.
Besides the five of them, there were the other regular members of Troop 192. All faces of people who Mike was convinced would finally get him the position he'd wanted for quite some time. There were about twenty of them in the hall, a pretty good turn out.
A few adult leaders were also in attendance, seated in the back of the room. Some had sons in the troop, some didn't. Most of them were good people. There was Mr. Jack McGraw, the bitter old man from camp, and Mr. Pruyne, the Troop's venerable Scoutmaster.
And there were these two new scouts.
Mike looked them over for a minute. The one on the left was the younger one, a short and scrawny kid with sandy blonde hair and a pair of fiercely thick glasses. He looked barely over the minimum Boy Scout age limit of eleven and also had a frightfully thick book under one arm, whose title Mike couldn't make out from where he stood. To Mike's surprise, his uniform was neat and appeared to already display all the appropriate insignia in all the appropriate places. The boy didn't seem to be talking much, but that was to be expected. No one was overflowing with confidence on their first day with a new group of people.
The other new recruit was taller, standing almost painfully straight. He seemed to be the epitome of discipline until you looked at his face, which held a lazy, lopsided grin. Mike noticed he held the first class rank. He must have transferred from another troop.
Mike was speculating on the names of the rookies when Bill interrupted his thoughts and began to do the introductions.
"We've got some new scouts here, tonight," Bill was saying, "so let's give a warm welcome to..." He looked down at his notes. "Kenneth Pendrell and... um, sorry. How do you pronounce this?"
Kenneth must have been the scrawny one, because the taller of the two spoke up. "Proctor will be fine, Colonel," he said with a grin and a smart salute.
Kenneth waved timidly to the group, and spoke just above a whisper. "Hi."
"Okay," Bill nodded. He looked over at Mr. Pruyne. "Is that all?"
The Scoutmaster walked over and almost made Bill pee in his pants with joy by announcing the next order of business.
"Well, let's see..." Mike began, thinking his response through. He was standing on the stage in the front of the hall, and the rest of the troop had pulled up chairs. The flags of the country and of 192 flanked him on either side. Jon Becker had asked him what sorts of fun things he would plan if he were elected SPL.
"I'll... make sure the troop goes to all the District Camporees, and events," he said, watching for any reaction as he talked. Public speaking was an acquired skill. "And on more camping trips to neat places and up to Moses..." Nothing. His mind sifted through the mountains of mental debris for anything that could help. "And, um... hey! All of you like that instant soup we get sometimes on campouts, right?"
A few heads nodded.
"All right, then! Instant Raman noodle soup will be the official food of Troop 192!"
"What flavour?" someone asked.
Mike thought. "Um, chicken."
There was unanimous applause, and Mike walked down the steps to take his seat. Aaron elbowed him when he got there. "Nicely done, Squid," he said.
"Thank you."
Mr. Pruyne called for the next contestant. "Hey, Justy, say a few words!"
Justy Yung ascended to the stage, clad in a freshly pressed uniform adorned with numerous patches. No one knew for sure what he was 'Trained' in or how he had become an 'Honorary Recipient for the Coveted Award in the Field of Excellence' or what that even meant, but he evidently had the patches to prove it.
Justy reached the centre of the stage and smiled. "If I am elected Senior Patrol Leader, you will all bow down to me," he said.
"That doesn't sound very fun." It was Becker.
"Of course it does," Justy said, his grin widening, "what could possibly be more fun than calling me Supreme Lord and Master of Troop 192, than answering my every command and whim? You are all nothing but pawns, mere insects to be crushed under the heel of my boot!!" He threw his head back and laughed wildly.
After a minute or so he settled down and wiped the spittle from his lip. "Vote for me," he said, and left the stage.
The troop blinked.
"I like him," said Proctor.
After that, little slips of paper were passed out, and all the twenty-some odd active members of Troop 192 began scribbling down the name of the next Senior Patrol Leader.
Matt Atanian, recognized as an adult by the Boy Scouts of America if not by most of his fellows, was not allowed to cast a vote. He sat and watched the democratic process unfold.
Kenneth Pendrell and Proctor were given ballots, but not really expected to vote, since they were new and didn't really know the candidates that well.
It took about five minutes, and then everyone was done. All voters folded their ballots neatly in half and tossed them into the hat of Scoutmaster Bill Pruyne. After collecting everyone's slip of paper, he and the other adults assembled by the exit.
"Well, we'll go and count these," Mr. Pruyne informed the troop, "and then come right back out and tell you who won the election."
The adults went through the door and left.
The troop began to mill. It would be necessary to start a group activity in a few moments, lest things got out of hand and windows started breaking themselves.
Near the front of the stage, Mike approached Bill Gelinas, who was lying quite nonchalantly across the steps. It was obvious how relieved he was.
"So," Mike began, "you up for a game of Steal-the-Bacon, maybe?" (If you're not familiar with it, Steal-the-Bacon is a nice little game that happens to be a favourite of Troop 192 and can get quite violent, let me tell you.)
Bill looked up. "Sure."
"You want to call the numbers?"
"Nope," Bill sighed, settling back down for a well-deserved rest. "You can do it, now."
Before going forward with the story, it might be necessary to get you the audience familiar with the appearance and general layout of the Church in the Acres, weekly meeting place of Troop 192.
The church is a squat, two-story structure with both the steeple and garish white paint of centuries of New England tradition. It is set back from a major road, across from a garden supplies store and a densely settled residential area. A field of scraggly grass and shrubs sweeps behind it and joins the forest in about a half-mile.
Everyone once in a while, well, Sundays mostly, the bells within the steeple start ringing to some hymn or another, and you can hear them far and wide. You can also hear the traffic as it whizzes by on Wilbraham Road.
The building is typical in all respects.
Within, there is the church proper, with offices and other rooms used by the congregation of the church. Off to the side lies the main hall, where 192 meets. The back door of the hall leads to a staircase and the ground floor, where Sunday School and other such things take place. The rooms down there are small and carpeted and the walls are covered with pegboards and pictures of Jesus made out of construction paper. If you don't go down that staircase, you end up in the church kitchen, a large, yellow room with counters and refrigerators. It is an important room. It's where the troop keeps its food if it has any, and where conversations are held or minor scuffles are ironed out.
It is also where the adults went to count the ballots.
"Number... SIX!!" Mike yelled, then held the brim of his red hat and leaped out of the way as two of his fellow scouts rushed towards him at full speed. There were after the little marker board eraser at his feet. It was 'the bacon'.
The object of the game was to grab the bacon before the other person did and either carry it or throw back to your team for a point. Of course, if the other person tagged you, you were out, and they got the point instead.
Teeth had been lost over this.
In the kitchen, the adults were busy deciding the future of the troop.
They sat around the large counter in folding metal chairs, chatting anxiously as the Scoutmaster tallied the votes on a yellow legal pad.
Most of the troop elders were there, including Mr. Pruyne, of course, and Mr. McGraw. Gathered with them were Mr. Bob Martin, the outspoken and portly spokesman of the group and Mr. Tim Walker, the deceptively slow Midwestern philosopher. His easy-going and cautious air hid a twisted, calculating mind. Also in attendance was Mr. Ted McCarthy, the ill-tempered Troop Committee Chairman.
All eyes were on their colleague as he counted the ballots. The results were almost in.
The huge panels of fluorescent lights that lined the ceiling cast everything in a sterile whiteness. Every piece of metal in the room glinted, and the whole scene took on a surreal look.
"Okay, then," said Mr. Pruyne as he quickly re-checked the number of tally marks he'd scribbled down on the yellow legal pad. "The results are in."
"Yes?"
"And it would appear that the troop has chosen Mike Quadrozzi as their next Senior Patrol Leader."
"What?"
There was much grumbling. "Recount the votes."
Mr. Pruyne held up his yellow legal pad for all in the room to see. "Twenty-four votes for Mike. None for Justy Yung."
The group of middle-aged men was not pleased.
"This cannot be allowed," grumbled Mr. McGraw in his bitter, guttural snap.
Mr. Martin spoke in his wheezy, authoritative voice, sounding a bit like Marlon Brando, "How did this happen?"
Mr. Pruyne smirked. "Would you like another recount?"
"This is a dreadful mistake!" continued Mr. McGraw. "Mike cannot be put in power! Under his care-free authority and guidance the troop would... it just might..." He couldn't say it.
"Prosper?" Mr. Martin offered.
"Yes. We would lose our stranglehold," the elder sputtered, "The youth would begin to take charge, to actually plan the program they are meant to... enjoy."
"We should have seen this coming."
"It might not be that bad," said Mr. Pruyne, "we might be able to suggest things to Mike, to make him—"
Mr. Martin grimaced. "No, he would not listen. Any pursuit to mould him would be fruitless, as it was with the young Atanian."
They nodded.
"What about the others? We could give him an assistant—"
"No, no. That would only make him—"
"But listen to what I'm—"
The troop elders were beginning to quarrel, but it would soon be put to an end. None of them had noticed the other man who had entered the room, and they were startled into silence when he suddenly spoke.
"Gentlemen, gentlemen," said Mr. John Hawley, "This is getting us nowhere."
The adults all looked up as their colleague entered the room.
"Oh?" snapped Mr. McGraw. "And what do you suggest?"
Mr. Hawley stood by the door, a slight smile on his face. Slowly, with the quiet dignity the regal post of Council Camping Committee Chairman gave a man, he reached into his pocket to procure a long, thick cigar. He bit of the tip and reached into another pocket for his lighter. With a flick of the wrist he brought forth a flame and began to smoke. Within seconds, the kitchen was filled with the acrid, distinctive smell of cigar smoke.
All of this done, Mr. Hawley deemed it ready for the conversation to resume. "We may be caught unawares," he said, his voice calm and careful, "but we are not nearly powerless." He approached the counter and, pulling up a chair, sat down with the rest of them. "The problem is not what has been done," he resumed, "but what we are going to do to correct it."
He turned to stare coldly at one of the men at the counter. "I suggest we come up with a serious solution, Mr. McGraw. Don't you agree?"
The colour had faded from Mr. McGraw's face. He opened his mouth to speak and found it hard to form words. "Ah, yes. Yes... of course, I do."
"Good," said Mr. Hawley. "So, what are we going to do?"
From the other end of the counter, Mr. Walker tipped up the brim of his ten-gallon hat and gave the group his opinion. "Our friend is correct, gentlemen," he said in a melodious twang, "and I think the solution we need is quite simple. We know that Mike will not listen to us, so what we need is a puppet."
"What do you mean, exactly?" asked Mr. Martin, though he himself had been ready to propose the same thing.
"Well, it appears that dear Michael really didn't win the election," Mr. Walker said. "Justy did."
Mr. Martin smiled. "Yes, the little weasel will jump at the chance."
"And he'll be so wrapped up in it, he won't notice who's really in charge."
The elders were pleased, except for one.
Mr. Pruyne couldn't believe what he was hearing. "Are you suggesting we just disregard the election results completely? Put Justy Yung in charge?"
"Well," Mr. Hawley said, his voice drenched in vile nastiness, not to mention cigar smoke, "that seems to be the general consensus."
"But, I mean—"
The others glared at him. "That doesn't bother you, Mr. Pruyne, does it?"
It was a futile battle. In the world of adult scout leadership, it was survival of the fittest. One could not afford to not be one of the fittest.
"I'm sure it will work," he said.
The group of elders nodded satisfactorily. A crisis had been averted. The future of Troop 192 as they knew it was no longer in danger.
After all, these men were in the business of predicting the future, and the best way to predict the future is to invent it.
Mr. Hawley stood up and tapped cigar ashes on to the floor. "I'm sure you have to inform the kids, gentlemen, so I'll take my leave of you. Good night."
The others looked to Mr. Pruyne.
"Yes," he said, and his voice was low, devoid of the spirit he usually had in full. "I'll tell them."
The game of Steal-the-Bacon was winding down. Most of the scouts were too sore to even think about continuing to play.
That was okay, because Mr. Pruyne came through the door from the kitchen and called a sign's up when he reached the front of the stage. "All right, everybody," he said. "Gather round."
It took the normal amount of time, and then everyone was in formation, ready to receive the news and find out who was going to be SPL.
Off to the side, Mike was especially anxious.
"Oh, would you knock it off!" Aaron told him, "You look like you're gonna explode!"
"I just want to know if I won."
"Of course you did! Who would vote for Justy?"
The Scoutmaster began to speak. "The results are in," he said. "And for the next year, as of now, the Senior Patrol Leader of Troop 192 is . . ." He closed his eyes. "Justy Yung."
Silence.
Still more silence.
Then Justy threw back his head and laughed.
Mike, Aaron, Matt and the Bills stood, stunned into absolute silence, along with the rest of the troop. The only person who spoke was the new kid, Kenneth Pendrell.
"Is this bad?" he asked.
To be continued...
Disclaimer:
Again, no publisher babble and I hope you've enjoyed my contribution to Boy Scouts ½. I understand this particular story was long awaited, and I must apologize. I do promise, though, that future episodes will be delivered promptly, or at least on time.
Many of the characters that appear in this story, especially the adults, are in fact real people. For my sake, I hope they never read this.
Thanks. Goodnight, everybody.
-Michael D. Quadrozzi
Many of the characters that appear in this story, especially the adults, are in fact real people. For my sake, I hope they never read this.
Thanks. Goodnight, everybody.
-Michael D. Quadrozzi