Fields of Poo

Why is it that the bad things always seem to happen to those already socially challenged?

I don't know if my "nerd" phase was a phase or my time spent in the limelight of popularity was a phase, but the day I discovered the hard way where Dwight Spaulding spread his manure, I was in my nerdy phase.

We were camping behind the Spauldings with our Boy Scout leaders, chosen because it was convenient and close. The skinny gravel road led back to a smattering of old cottonwood trees scattered randomly along the bank of a slough. It was quiet, as all of Idaho is, and unfamiliar enough that it felt like a treat to be there. We made tinfoil dinners, charred to perfection and eaten with relish amongst dirty talk from the popular boys because the leaders were too far away to hear. While mine was cooking, I followed my desire to wander in unfamiliar territory. I began crossing the field to my destination, my eyes searchingly forward. The ground beneath me softened and before I realized the fact that I was sinking to my calves in wet manure, I was half way through the field. I ran in any direction, the anticipation and anxiety of my parents anger that my single pair of school pants were ruined raising to my skull in heated rage. The crust broke easily beneath my 13 year old awkwardly lumpy, slightly lardy body. I ran blindly toward freedom, not knowing where that would be. I emerged relieved and enraged. Upon escaping, I searched the horizon in all directions to see if any one had seen. I was safe. I ran to a quiet corner of the canal, hidden by the trees and over grown weeds. I heard rustling and approached carefully, relieved when I saw Eric Bernotski, the other nerd of the Scout troop, washing manure from his pants and shoes.