Webelos

by Kyle Winkler

I'm more worried about the Webelos. More than anything. They sit on the other end of the beach in blue. They have those little knee-reflex hammer jobs that doctors use. With a triangular head. Tomahawkish. I call one over. He is squat and fat, his small Webelos shorts barely keeping it all in. He smells like melted crayons, a rotten toenail. He holds the reflex thingy proudly out in front of him. What's that in your hand I ask. He says Webelos. I ask him again. He says Webelos. Why is that? Because Webelos says so. No smiling on him. What is a Webelos anyway? I don't know he says. You seem awkward I think but say out loud. What do you do with it I ask. Webelos he says. Right I say what else? Well, we suck salty air in through our lungs into our brains and then sweep the beach to keep trash away. Huh? We're not yet boys not yet scouts. Not yet an arrow of lights. Don't move forward or back. OK I say. Now go away. He fatly runs to the others, who're sticks. They scrum. I fluff. Then they're swarming on me and I'm Gullivered to the beach. Shit. They have their reflex jobs and are way off the mark let me tell you. These guys have awful aim. The knees you idiots! The knees! Not the chest! I sigh. I am strapped down but I can still sigh. This is important. The sighing. To know I can reflex. We know we know they say. You know? They continue over the chest. You know I say feeling a small fat hand plunge to my heartsides. Webelos they say.

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