Looking like a nerd…

Last week, I hosted an annual party for a Boy Scout (now known as Scouting America) troop at our neighborhood swimming pool. I am an adult member of the group, Troop 66, which was originally founded at our church almost 125 years ago by the legendary southern New Mexico Missionary Hunter “Preacher” Lewis.

I joined because a good friend had asked me a few years ago if the troop could have a party at the pool during the summer months. As pool members, we are allowed to have a couple of parties each year at the facility. Having been a Boy Scout myself years ago when growing up in Ruidoso, I thought it would a nice payback for me memorials as a scout and it would be more “official” if I was a member of the group that was using the pool.

Many of the adult troop leaders wear the official Boy Scout uniform shirts at these events, so I thought it would be appropriate for me to have one as well. I purchased one at the official scouting store and my wife quickly festooned it by sewing on a myriad of official patches, including one identifying our troop number, council membership and my role as a member of the ambiguously named ” Troop Committee.” (Full confession — I’ve never actually attended a meeting of that committee.)

And by the way, my wife says I look good in a uniform.

I wore my shirt to the pool event Thursday, discovering that I was the only person wearing one there. I stood out like a sore thumb, but I carried on and did whatever I could to make sure the event ran smoothly.

After the event, I had volunteered to pick up the two large bags of trash that had been generated and drop them off at our church’s lightly used dumpster. When I arrived at the church, there was white sedan with California plates in the parking lot with its hazard lights flashing and its motor running.

Curious, I went up to the car and saw a person partially slumped over behind the steering wheel. There were two yapping Chihuahua dogs in the seat next to the person and the back seat was crammed with what looked like luggage, blankets and pillows. I knocked loudly on the window of the vehicle, but got no response from the person inside. Assuming the worst, I called 911 and they dispatched a fire truck with EMTs to help determine if the guy was just sleeping, passed out or possibly dead.

The EMTs were more persistent than me and after several louder raps on the window, the man inside awakened in a stupor while both Chihuahuas yapped away furiously. One EMT determined that the door of the vehicle was unlocked so he opened it and began asking the driver questions.

The driver first mumbled that he was waiting for his wife to come back from somewhere unspecified. The EMT then asked him if he had been drinking, to which he replied “no” in an unconvincing manner.

After discussing it with the EMTs, who inquired about who owned the property, we decided to let him sleep off his drunken stupor in the parking lot, hoping he would stay off the road and not endanger others until he sobered up. I figured he was on a cross-country trip and began drinking and finally had enough sense to stop and sober up before continuing.

It was at that point that I remember that I was walking around in my Boy Scout shirt, looking for all the world like the nerd I was at that moment. I’m sure the EMTs thought I was some kind of wacko who got his thrills from wearing a uniform and looking for opportunities where I could look official and try to save people. I’m lucky they didn’t field test me for drinking or arrest me for trying to impersonate an officer or a 12-year-old Boy Scout.

Since then, I’ve been wondering how their conversation about me went when they drove back to the fire station. I’m sure it wasn’t flattering.

And I’ve also been thinking that I’ll be a bit more discreet in the future when I wear my official scout shirt.