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It was customary for my dad and step mom to go to the Elks club in town on Saturday nights. About once a month they would dine out beforehand. On these occasions they had my little stepbrother sleep over at his grandmother's house down the road and I would go down the street to the hotel to get my Saturday evening meal. They had an arrangement with the owners wife to pay for my eats the following Friday night and I would just go in the back door into the kitchen area and the owner's wife, who did most of the cooking, would just toss whatever I wanted to eat in with the rest of the orders that were being cooked up for the patrons in the hotel dining room. Friday and Saturday nights were their big dinner nights so generally the bar room area which had tables, as well as the dining room were usually quite crowded by 7 O'clock or so.

I always drank a glass of Coca-Cola with my meal and since she and the waitresses were usually busy I would just go into the bar room directly from the kitchen and have the bar tender fill me a tall glass. Most of the people who frequented the bar area were locals who were accustomed to seeing me in my 'scoutfit' so the brief appearance of a bare kneed sixteen year old boy didn't create too much of a stir.

The hotel had perhaps about a dozen rooms on the second and third floors that probably hadn't seen a transient guest since the horse and buggy days. At the time there were a number of major construction projects in the area and these rooms, along with those in other similar small hotels dotting the countryside, were rented out on a monthly basis to the construction workers who lived too far away to make daily commuting practical. Normally all but a few of them would head for their homes either Friday or Saturday afternoons when they finished work to be with their families. They would then come back late Sunday night and leave for work from the hotel Monday mornings.

Weeknights the men didn't get back to the hotel from work until after 7:00 PM. and to minimize the potential for a negative confrontation, the boys and I in our cute sexy shorts made a point of staying off the street especially after they had eaten and had any number of beers. After their meal they often were sitting on the hotel porch. The men who stayed over on weekends were either single or lived too far away for just the overnight visit. They had seen the boys and me outside several times before as well as me coming into the bar room to get my Coke; and I was used to their good nature razzing.

The last weekend of September there was a big push on one of the construction jobs and most of the guys had to work Saturday as well as Sunday, so most of them stayed over the weekend and were in the crowded bar room when I went to pick up my Coke. The workers were always in there drinking beers. The Saturday night regulars, who knew me, regulated their intake so they were not tipsy, loud or rowdy.

This night, however, the rest of the construction crew was there and a burly middle aged guy with a fat beer gut that was already too full of brew started to belabor my sissy, wimp, queer outfit in a loud bellowing voice that got everybody's attention. A couple of his buddies were trying to quiet him down while at the same time laughing and smirking themselves. I had an uncontrollable urge to ram my fist into his fat beer belly and watch him collapse like a tired punctured balloon.

He really pissed me off, and laying any inhibitions aside, I hopped up on the table he was sitting at with a single leap and stood with my bare knees staring into his fat flushed face. I said firmly, "All right loudmouth. What seems to be your problem?"

Instant silence; you could have heard a pin drop. I think all the conversations in the dinning area stopped as well. I couldn't have gotten any more attention if I had pulled out a gun and fired a shot into the ceiling. I saw the bar maid heading for the phone and the hotel owner heading in our direction.

My sudden assertiveness left fat boy at a momentary loss for words but he quickly recovered; again calling me a sissy and queer. I could see that several of his pals felt the same way. A big guy that had been sitting at the bar pushed his way through the crowd as he commanded, "Let the kid go. At least he isn't afraid to show off his legs like the rest of us would be."

That was my cue. Staring at fat boy I said in a loud tone, "All right fat boy. See how big a sissy I am. Go ahead, burn my leg with that cigarette you are smoking. If I don't scream I get to do it to you and we can see how tough you are."

His face red from drinking along with my effrontery, caused fat boy to immediately grab his cig from the ashtray. He put it to his lips and took a long drag. At this point the big guy had reached us and was about to restrain him when I signaled him away with my hand and said, "Let him go. I want this settled here and now."

Fat boy wasn't too smart, and unlike dad who allowed the glowing tip to burn slowly through my flesh to produce the maximum pain, he simply crushed out the tip like you would in an ashtray. It still burned like hell but I had no trouble hiding any sign of discomfort. Fat bay was surprised that I didn't even flinch let alone cry out like the baby he thought I was should have. I said, "light it up again. Maybe you'll have better luck with my other leg."

He didn't and I gloated. As I jumped down from the table I said, "OK, fat boy. Now it's your turn."

My stinging retort plus the fact that searing my legs with his cigarette hadn't produced the results he expected angered him. I could see he was getting ready to swing one at me. However before he could let fly the guys flanking him swept him off his feet and flopped him spread eagle over the table. There was a guy securing each arm and leg. At this same moment another guy thrust an open switch blade knife into my hand. I looked at him bewildered and said, "What am I supposed to do with this? Cut his nuts off?"

That got a good laugh. I was kidding of course, but the look on fat boy's face indicated he wasn't too sure. Someone in the crowd said, "Let's see how he looks in short pants. It will also make it easier for you to burn his legs."

I went to work quickly. About a third of the way down his thigh I jabbed the long blade through the material of his jeans on either side of the outer leg seam and pulled the knife toward me cutting neatly through the thick folded denim. A quick pull down the leg ripped the heavy denim front and back all the way over to the inseam. I made a careful cut of the inseam so as not to cut his other leg or areas he would consider important. The guy holding his leg pulled the detached cotton down to his boot exposing a well muscled, very hairy, bone white leg. I passed the knife to a fellow across the table from me and he performed the same surgery on his other pants leg.

Somebody called out, "Stand him on the table so we can get a look at our new boy scout." He was not about to so willingly become the spectacle of attention until the big guy who was the 'big guy' said in a booming voice, "Get up on this table now or you're fired."

As he stood there in total embarrassment everybody in the bar room roared. I amusingly thought that if he were fifty pounds lighter and I had left him an additional six inches or so of pants length he wouldn't have looked all that bad. He had the short stocky legs that tend to look really good in shorts.

Another guy thrust his lit cigarette at me and said, "Burn his legs. See if he is as tough as you are."

I said, "No, no. He's been embarrassed enough. Let him go."

As soon as these words left my mouth I realized my chivalrous thought put fat boy in a bind because if I didn't burn him he would always be looked down on by his peers. Everyone stared at him. His only recourse was to say, "Burn me smart ass boy. I can take it."

I took the cigarette I was handed, just blew across the tip a bit to get it to glow, then quickly crushed it into his knee cap. I knew this would be less painful than if I had applied it to the side of his leg where the flesh is deeper. I was handed a second cigarette and I branded his other knee in the same fashion. He took the pain in silence.

He hopped off the table, kicked what had been most of the legs of his jeans off his boots, and stood in front of me. I was ready to instantly react if he threw the punch I was expecting. I could just feel the hate toward me boiling off him. The last thing I needed was to have this big bruiser plotting ways to catch me alone and even the score. So I said to the construction crew in general, "Hay look; I'm sorry I over reacted. I know you guys were just having some fun with me and I should have just ignored it. I didn't mean it to get out of hand here. Look, I don't want any trouble with you guys."

I could see some of the hate tension drain from fat boy as he quickly turned and pushed his way back through the crowd. Then to my surprise, the boss man smiled and thrust his big hand toward me saying, "I only shake hands with men. Shake, and we'll call it even."

I instinctively stuck out my right hand and he clamped down on it like a "C" clamp. I returned his squeeze will all the grip I could muster. He said his name was Jim and I told him mine was Henery, with an extra "E". Then the apparent boss of the crew continued, "Well boy. You proved to us that you are man enough to wear shorts so by damn you had better wear them. If we catch you in long pants we'll turn them into shorts for you like Mickey's." They all laughed.

Everyone seemed to be crowding around me and I somehow felt I had been initiated into some kind of men's society. Boss man Jim had his arm around my shoulder as he swept me over to the bar and announced to the owner, "Give this man a whisky."

This was illegal even in 1951 since the owner knew I was only sixteen. I guess he was so impressed by my manly bravado, but more likely by the possible negative reaction from the construction workers and other bar patrons, that he poured out an over full shot glass Segrems 7 without any hesitation.

Foolishly riding on the euphoria of the moment I grabbed the glass and tossed it down my throat with the same nonchalance that my Saturday cowboy matinee heroes did. Bad move. I instantly understood why the Native Americans called the stuff 'fire water'. I had never had whisky before and the ounce plus slug felt like it took the lining out of my esophagus on it's way down. I couldn't breathe and I didn't do at all well in maintaining my composure as I had during the cigarette burn initiation. All the guys laughed, shook my hand or slapped me on my back. When I finally regained speech I asked for my Coke and beat it back to the kitchen to eat dinner.

About two weeks later I was walking home from my friends house at about dusk when one of the construction crew members who were sitting on the hotel porch yelled out. "Hey Henery; come over here I got something for you."

I immediately suspected the worst. They wanted to grab me and give me a working over in the wooded area behind the hotel. The fact that he had used my name instead of the term boy scout along with other derogatory slurs that had been used the few times before when they had seen me pass by, however, caused me to cross the street and go over to the porch. It turned out it was fat boy that had called out and he had something he wanted to give me. Yah I thought; probably a knuckle sandwich. He waved me toward the steps down at the end leading up to the porch as he said, "Come on up to my room. I've got I big box full of stuff you and your buddies can use."

His tone of voice wasn't at all threatening and I decided if he were to attack me in the hotel proper and I screamed bloody murder plenty of people would be able to hear me. The old wooden hotel wasn't that big.

Rather than walking down to the end of the porch and up the stairs, I grabbed the railing, hoped up to the edge of the porch floor that extended out underneath, and vaulted over, landing on my feet right in front of him. He thrust out his big paw and as I shook his had he said his name was Mickey. We entered the hotel through the door that opened onto the porch and he led the way up to his room, unlocked the door, and turned on the light.

As I entered the room he was picking up a large cardboard box off the floor in the corner and plopped it on the bed. As he was opening it he said, "You may be surprised but I was boy scout myself for several years until I was seventeen. Later my dad told me to get rid of all my scouting stuff but I just bring myself to just torch it, so here it all is."

He then proceeded to pull out several sets of scout uniforms with both long and short pants. He continued, "Some of these will fit your friends but I know these newer uniforms should easily fit you because I was sixteen when my dad bought them for me."

Following the uniforms his box disgorged a back pack and frame, mess kit, canteen, and other sundry camping items. Among the clothing was a large number of colorful neckerchiefs that he said he collected from trading with other scouts at camp. Most were decorated with camp or troop logos.

After unloading his box he apologized to me for his derogatory remarks and he deserved getting put in his place. I was glad he didn't bare me any grudge because it isn't comfortable having someone hate you. In a case with a guy like him it could be down right dangerous. I thanked him for all the stuff as he was packing it back in the box. Then as he was about to put in one of the long pair of uniform pants I said, "Hey wait a minute. You owe me one."

He stopped and looked at me quizzically as I grabbed the pants out of his hand. I quickly unbuckled, unbuttoned, and dropped my scout shorts and put on the long pants. They were a little big in the waist but the length was just right. Mickey had short stocky legs like me and saw from the previous week that he still looked good in shorts.

Mickey look at me and said, "Great, they look like they fit just fine."

He still wasn't thinking about his boss Jim's comment so I reached down to the one pants leg and shook it. Suddenly it dawned. He grinned as he reached in his pocket and brought out his pocket knife. "How long do you want 'em," was his comment.

I allowed for an additional two inches to turn under for a hem and showed him where to cut. The long scout pants weren't as full cut in the leg as the shorts but cut off just long enough to hide the side pockets they would still have sufficient leg clearance to provide plenty of movement freedom. His knife was very sharp and it zipped through the cotton pant legs effortlessly. He asked, "Do the other pair?"

I removed the newly formed shorts and donned the second pair of long pants and he repeated the leg amputation. I then put on the shorts I had been wearing and he put the cut-offs and the rest of the uniforms into the box.

I took his leave thanking him again for all the scout stuff. I told him it would be put to good use. I was thinking along sexual lines of course. The thought of wearing uniforms that some other guy had sweat up and maybe even jacked off in and enjoyed wearing as a kid I found stimulating. I made a commitment to myself that his gear would get worn until it was worn out. The next day I took the uniforms that were too small for me down for the boys to use, and I asked their mom if she would sew up hems on the cut-offs if I would give her a dollar. She was more than happy to do so and refused to take my money. Now I had an additional two nice pairs of a bit more than gym short length shorts to run around in; and they actually had pockets to boot. The real find was the neckerchiefs, since I only had one to wear because I had to give the other one up to my step brother the time he caught me with my balloon head, arm, and leg bands.                     Rev. Date 4/03.

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