That was why I routinely found myself walking home alone from a local Cub Scout meeting late at night, sporting a cap, shorts, and colorful neckerchief. So you can imagine my concern one night when,with only yards to go before reaching the big white wooden gates that opened up to our backyard, I spied two kids, notorious bullies from school, emerging from the shadows and crossing the street to head me off.
To a nine-year-old kid, it can feel as though there is a fine line between being the subject of ridicule and being beaten up for looking ridiculous. And don’t go bad-mouthing my parents for not picking me up by car. Back then, no one owned a minivan or spent their nights and weekends working as a chauffeur. So what if the neighborhood could be a little iffy. Everyone knew that if you were sensible, kept your head down, and didn’t talk to strangers you’d be fine.
Carrot and the Slouch had other ideas, though.
I didn’t know Carrot’s real name but I knew enough not to refer to him as Carrot. He was an overweight redhead, relying more on fat than muscle to intimidate, always flaunting a lit cigarette as proof of his advanced maturity. His sidekick, the Slouch, was actually Simon Louch, a gangly kid with bad posture and a stutter that made him perfect for keeping his opinions to himself and simply grunting when Carrot sought his approval or disapproval.
“Isn’t it past your bedtime?”
Carrot got the question off before the two of them reached me. I was pretty sure neither of them knew where I lived, but they stood between me and the white gates, blocking my path.
I didn’t say anything, wondering if I could run at them, get past, and open the gate.
A cloud of cigarette smoke hit me in the face and I watched Carrot’s smile fade in disappointment when he failed to induce a coughing fit. Those day trips trapped inside a car with my father’s forty-a-day habit had to count for something.
“Where’ve you been?” Carrot asked.
I really wanted to look around for the hidden camera and say, “Where do you think I’ve been dressed like this, you big fat idiot!” but opted for a meek “Cubs.”
Carrot nodded, flicked away his cigarette butt, and elbowed the Slouch.
“You pay your subs?”
“Yes,” I said, thinking that since he had said “subs,” short for “subscription” (dues), at one time or another Carrot had probably been a Cub Scout.
“Any left over or did you spend it on candy?”
This clinched it. Only an insider would know that the one upside to carving woodland animals out of bars of soap and trying to earn your first-aid badge was getting your hands on some seriously unhealthy candy at the end of the night.
“I don’t have any money,” I said, trying to sidle around them.
They saw the move for what it was and backed up all the way to the gate, trapping me on the wrong side of sanctuary.
The wooden gate must have given a little, emitting a slight creak as the Slouch leaned back into it, and that was enough. From inside the house, Patch, sensing a threat on the perimeter, let out a solitary but thunderous woof.
Carrot and the Slouch looked at each other, looked through the gaps in the gate, and saw nothing but darkness between the driveway and the house.
“You got a dog?” asked Carrot. He was truly gifted in the art of the redundant question.
“Yes,” I said.
“What sort?” he said.
“Alsatian.” (No one said “German shepherd” until the late 1970s.)
He scoffed and faked a wince of disapproval as though he was not impressed.
“They don’t scare me,” he said and the Slouch grunted his agreement that he too would not be intimidated by such a dog.
Carrot moved in close, close enough for me to smell his nicotine breath, and grabbed the front of my shirt in his meaty hand.
“He can’t help you out here,” he whispered, “so you best have some change left over to give me, or else.”
The Slouch had taken his cue to muscle in closer, and just as he did,
To a nine-year-old kid, it can feel as though there is a fine line between being the subject of ridicule and being beaten up for looking ridiculous. And don’t go bad-mouthing my parents for not picking me up by car. Back then, no one owned a minivan or spent their nights and weekends working as a chauffeur. So what if the neighborhood could be a little iffy. Everyone knew that if you were sensible, kept your head down, and didn’t talk to strangers you’d be fine.
Carrot and the Slouch had other ideas, though.
I didn’t know Carrot’s real name but I knew enough not to refer to him as Carrot. He was an overweight redhead, relying more on fat than muscle to intimidate, always flaunting a lit cigarette as proof of his advanced maturity. His sidekick, the Slouch, was actually Simon Louch, a gangly kid with bad posture and a stutter that made him perfect for keeping his opinions to himself and simply grunting when Carrot sought his approval or disapproval.
“Isn’t it past your bedtime?”
Carrot got the question off before the two of them reached me. I was pretty sure neither of them knew where I lived, but they stood between me and the white gates, blocking my path.
I didn’t say anything, wondering if I could run at them, get past, and open the gate.
A cloud of cigarette smoke hit me in the face and I watched Carrot’s smile fade in disappointment when he failed to induce a coughing fit. Those day trips trapped inside a car with my father’s forty-a-day habit had to count for something.
“Where’ve you been?” Carrot asked.
I really wanted to look around for the hidden camera and say, “Where do you think I’ve been dressed like this, you big fat idiot!” but opted for a meek “Cubs.”
Carrot nodded, flicked away his cigarette butt, and elbowed the Slouch.
“You pay your subs?”
“Yes,” I said, thinking that since he had said “subs,” short for “subscription” (dues), at one time or another Carrot had probably been a Cub Scout.
“Any left over or did you spend it on candy?”
This clinched it. Only an insider would know that the one upside to carving woodland animals out of bars of soap and trying to earn your first-aid badge was getting your hands on some seriously unhealthy candy at the end of the night.
“I don’t have any money,” I said, trying to sidle around them.
They saw the move for what it was and backed up all the way to the gate, trapping me on the wrong side of sanctuary.
The wooden gate must have given a little, emitting a slight creak as the Slouch leaned back into it, and that was enough. From inside the house, Patch, sensing a threat on the perimeter, let out a solitary but thunderous woof.
Carrot and the Slouch looked at each other, looked through the gaps in the gate, and saw nothing but darkness between the driveway and the house.
“You got a dog?” asked Carrot. He was truly gifted in the art of the redundant question.
“Yes,” I said.
“What sort?” he said.
“Alsatian.” (No one said “German shepherd” until the late 1970s.)
He scoffed and faked a wince of disapproval as though he was not impressed.
“They don’t scare me,” he said and the Slouch grunted his agreement that he too would not be intimidated by such a dog.
Carrot moved in close, close enough for me to smell his nicotine breath, and grabbed the front of my shirt in his meaty hand.
“He can’t help you out here,” he whispered, “so you best have some change left over to give me, or else.”
The Slouch had taken his cue to muscle in closer, and just as he did,
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