By Grant McGee
The
political candidate collapsed at the campaign event. The cameras were rolling, she was stumbling, she didn't look so hot. And they whisked her away to her house.
“Why didn’t
they take her to the damn hospital?” The Lady of the House said to the TV.
“I would’ve,”
I piped up. “I learned that lesson a
long time ago. In my Boy Scoutin’ days.”
“Oh do
tell,” she said turning to me.
It was a camping trip in the
Appalachians. I was part of a rogue Boy
Scout troop. Actually there were several
accidents in the years I was part of my rogue Boy Scout troop. You should know the troop I was in was in an
unnamed state and was not representative of what goes on in most Boy Scout
troops across the country…I think…that’s why it was a rogue troop. It was run by a cadre of men who wanted to
get away from their wives for a weekend of drinking and carousing under the
guise of taking a bunch of kids camping.
Anyway, one
night after all the scouts were asleep in their tents Scoutmaster Ray and his
pals decided to sit around the campfire drinking copious amounts of Canadian
Club, the official whiskey of Troop 62.
At one point Scoutmaster Ray stood up, lost his footing and fell into
the campfire. It wasn’t the fire that injured
him, it was the spout of a coffee pot.
It pierced him deeply between the ribs.
Scoutmaster
Ray was injured and needed medical attention, there were weird noises coming
out of his chest. Assistant scoutmasters
Henry and Bob were too drunk to drive him to town. “Get McGee,” said Scoutmaster Ray. “He’s got a learner’s permit.”
I was
roused from a deep sleep. I stumbled
down to the lodge and was told of the situation. Being a kid of 15 I was more excited about
driving Scoutmaster Ray’s ’56 T-bird with the hand brushed exterior of yellow house
paint. We got him into the car.
Scoutmaster Ray’s ’56 T-bird was
one of those fickle cars that seemed to only start under it’s “master’s”
touch. I tried and tried and tried to
start the thing. Loud cussing by Scoutmaster
Ray as to why the hell I couldn’t start his damn car didn’t help. Finally, “va-ROOOOM,” it started up.
I smiled big.
I was told to take Scoutmaster Ray
to the hospital. I eased the car down
the fire trail out of the woods, Scoutmaster Ray cussing along the way as each
bump jarred him.
“Damn, McGee, I’m gonna call you ‘Cowboy’
from now on, you drive this damn thing like a cowboy.”
When we got out to the pavement
Scoutmaster Ray bellowed at me even louder to take him to his house. I figured he knew what he was talking about ‘cos
I was a kid and he was Scoutmaster Ray so that’s where I headed. I dropped him off and left him in the care of
Mrs. Scoutmaster Ray. And I got to drive
the hand-painted yellow ’56 T-bird back to my house.
The next
morning I got a phone call from Henry wanting to know why I hadn’t taken Scoutmaster
Ray to the hospital. I told him the man
wanted to go home so that’s what I did, besides, he was an adult and I was a
kid. Henry said I should have known
Scoutmaster Ray was in shock and I shouldn’t have paid attention to him, just
gone to the hospital which is where Mrs. Scoutmaster Ray ended up taking
him.
“You have a First Aid merit badge,
you should’ve known better,” Henry said.
“And that’s how I got my lesson
about you need to take people to the hospital when you need to take people to
the hospital,” I said to The Lady of the House.
“Somehow,” she said turning back to
the TV, “I don’t see you getting the job of political candidate chauffeur
anytime soon.”
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