Kelly Moll
SHAWN, 40
SHAWN and his son, Ethan, age 8, are in their garage packing supplies for Ethan’s first big camping trip with his Boy Scout troop. Ethan is nervous about the trip and spending the night in the woods. SHAWN tells his son the story of his first big camping trip to reassure him.
SHAWN I loved camping as a kid. When I was eight, I was invited to go along with my friend, Pat, and his dad on a camping trip to the Boundary Waters in Northern Minnesota. Pat’s uncles and some other manly dudes were also going. I was so excited. Pat and I were the kind of kids that made exploring the woods by my house our full-time job. We would make up elaborate scenarios about survival in the woods. We regularly acted out the Rambo movies and painted our faces with camo paint and then covered our bodies in mud and tried to blend into the trees. It was all incredibly sophisticated. We would lie in wait for the enemy, who was usually my sister and her shrill nitwit friends, and then jump out and pretend to slit their throats with our plastic machetes. Charming.
I was a spaz about the woods. I would run home from school and throw my shit on the kitchen table and immediately go into Rambo mode, strapping on my makeshift survival tool belt and homemade weapons—complete with plastic machine gun bullets. I would be nearly panting as I dashed out the door with my sights set on the rendezvous point. My mom was usually shouting after me about some bullshit regarding spelling homework and I would shriek back in my squeaky voice, “MOM! I gotta go now! The enemy is approaching!!” She usually let me go without further protest and eventually she even let me have a BB gun, which immediately became my prized possession. “Hey, the kid seems to be obsessed with war games, I think a real gun is in order.” She was a good woman my mother. She really understood me.
So this particular trip to the Boundary Waters had me pissing myself with excitement. The pretend jungle warfare was going to be so epic! Pat and I spent afternoons before the trip plotting on maps and crafting combat strategies. When we arrived at the campsite, four of Pat’s uncles were standing around the fire drinking beer and comparing who could crush their cans with more brute force. There was quite the alpha male hierarchy going on and the head dog was Pat’s oldest uncle named Carl. Carl was busy peacocking around the campsite, his magnificent beer gut glistening with a sheen of bug spray and sweat swelling over his belt. He loved barking orders at his younger brothers and delighted in calling them names like “numb nuts” and “dick bag.” I decided to steer clear of Big Carl, and quietly went about unpacking all of the sweet supplies and weaponry I had brought along. I’m pretty sure I didn’t bring a toothbrush, but by God I had a pretend snare trap made out of string and duct tape, among other essentials. In the center of the spread, I carefully laid out my shiny BB gun and stood back to admire my lot. Carl, who had been orchestrating an elaborate plan for roasting hot dogs, honed in on me then and lumbered over to inspect my stuff. He snorted and sneered as he called his brothers over, “Check this kid out! He’s gonna protect us all from the big bad wolf!” Had I known better expletives back then I would have told him to “fuck off,” but instead I offered a stern “shut up.” It seemed to do the trick for the moment.
I strapped my BB gun over my shoulder to help elevate my standing in the pack of sweaty hounds and tried to broaden my shoulders as I came up to stand at the fire. Carl was cooking something in a cast-iron skillet, and he shoved it in front of me and Pat while trying to stifle a cross between a soggy belch and a belly laugh and he says, “You guys ever eaten a horse cock before?” The uncles nearly fell to pieces howling at Carl’s hilarity. “Come on, you guys are tough, you gotta take a bite of this horse cock!” Okay, looking back, I clearly know that the member in the fry pan was some type of kielbasa, but at the time, it was all pretty upsetting. Pat and I exchanged nervous looks and his dad calling us over to the other side of the campsite saved us. He had set up some targets for us to shoot at. Now we’re talking. So I set up shop behind the line he had marked off, and Pat and I took turns aiming at the target and pretending that we were avoiding enemy fire. All of a sudden we hear a squeal followed by the greatest string of swear words my eight-year-old ears had ever heard: “What the motherfucker, son of a bitch, whore’s mother, ballsucker, shit, ass shit, fuck me, GODDAMMIT!” The realization, filled with both fear and victory, washed over me in slow motion. Big Carl had wandered off to take a piss and, in his inebriated wisdom, had decided to take care of business by the tree behind our target. My beautiful prized stallion of a BB gun had landed a bullet right in Big Carl’s upper ass cheek—really more of his lower back—but with his bacony build, it was hard to tell.
Pat and I slowly backed away and strolled triumphantly back to the fire. “Who’s the horse cock now?” Pat whispered under his breath as we plopped down and each took a bite of the kielbasa.
Camping at its finest.
Now, you ready to go on this Scout’s adventure son? Grab your rucksack and let’s tear this experience up.