The Troop

Max pushed these thoughts away. Scoutmaster Tim had made the right call by sending them off. It was easier out here: the dry rustle of leaves tenaciously clinging to the trees, the slap of waves on the rock face. He glanced at Newt—his wide ass hogging the trail, each cheek flexing inside tight dungarees. He reminded Max of a Weeble, those old kiddie toys.

Weebles wobble but they don’t fall down…

Newt never did fall down. He withstood the boy’s torments with stoic determination, which made it easier—Newt could take it, right? Picking on Newt uncoiled the tension in Max’s chest. It was awfully selfish, yet awfully true.

9

“WHAT WOULD you rather,” Ephraim said, “eat a steaming cowflop or let a hobo fart in your face?”

It was one of their favorite games, a great way to pass the time on long hikes. Had Scoutmaster Tim been leading, the game would’ve been far more vanilla—What would you rather: get bit by a rabid dog or swallow a wasp in your Coke can?—but now, no adults around, it took on a saltier tone.

“What kind of hobo?” Max asked. It was common to mull these choices from several angles in order to make an informed selection.

“How many types of hobos are there?” said Ephraim. “Your run-of-the-mill smelly old hobo, I guess, the ones who hang out at the train yard.”

“How big a cowflop are we talking about?” Kent called back.

“Standard size,” Ephraim said. The boys nodded as if that was all he’d needed to say—he’d perfectly set the size of this hypothetical cowflop in their minds.

“Is this hobo diseased or anything?” Max asked. “Like, his ass rotting out?”

“His morals are diseased,” Ephraim said, after a pause to think. “But he’s been given a clean bill of health.”

“I’d eat the cowflop,” said Newton.

“What a fucking surprise,” Ephraim said.

Eventually they all agreed that, of both scenarios, scarfing a cowflop was marginally better than a strange, smelly man’s hairy ass cheeks ripping a wet grunter in their faces.

“It’d singe your eyebrows off,” Kent said to appreciative laughter. “It’d put a center part right down your hair!”

“What would you rather,” Newton said, “give a speech in front of the whole school or get your bathing suit sucked down the filter at the public pool?”

Ephraim groaned. “Oh, for fuck’s sake, Newt, that’s so laaaaaaame.”

“Yeah, but,” Newton mumbled, “you’d be naked, right? Your bum hanging out.”

“Your bum?” Ephraim scoffed. “Your bum, really? Your pink little tushie?”

Ephraim pulled a cigarette out of his pack, along with a brass Zippo. He fixed the smoke between his lips and lit it with an elaborate flourish: drawing the Zippo up his thigh, popping off the lid, then swiftly running it down again, sparking the flywheel on his trousers. He touched the flame to the tobacco, inhaled, and said:

“Nothing like a smoke when you’re stuck out in nature.”

Ephraim was the only boy in their grade who smoked. A recent affectation. He bought them in singles—four, five cigarettes at a time—from a high schooler named Ernie Smegg, whose doughy carbuncled face looked like a basket of complimentary dinner rolls.

“You smoke the wrong way,” Kent said. “You’re holding it all wrong.”

“What?” Ephraim said. He pinched the cigarette between his thumb and pointer finger, the way you’d hold a pipe. “What’s the matter?”

“My dad says only Frenchmen smoke like that,” said Kent. “And fags.”

Ephraim’s jaw went stiff. “Shut your big fucking mouth, K.”

“You shouldn’t smoke,” Newton said fussily. “My mom says it turns your lungs black as charcoal briquettes.”

Ephraim’s chin jutted. “Yeah? Your mother’s so dumb she stares at an orange juice carton all day because it says: concentrate.”

“Hey!” Kent barked, bristling. “Don’t rag on his mom, man.”

Ephraim snorted but eventually said, “Sorry, Newt. So what would you rather: jerk off a donkey or fingerbang Kathy Rhinebeck?”

Kathy Rhinebeck was a sweet girl who’d been branded the class slut due to the rumor—unsubstantiated by anyone aside from Dougie Fezz—that she’d masturbated Dougie Fezz “to climax” in the back row of the North Point Cinema. Christ on a bike, she didn’t know what the hell she was doing, Fezz told a gaggle of pop-eyed boys in the school yard, his tone one of withering scorn. What, was she yanking weeds out of a garden?

“What’s a fingerbang?” Newton asked, predictably.

“I’d jerk off the donkey,” Shelley suddenly said. “Who wants sloppy seconds?”

This, the boys silently acknowledged, was precisely the sort of response you could expect from Shelley Longpre—he had this way of sucking the air out of the game; out of any game, really.