Merit Badge

The thing about the rifle shooting merit badge is the target practice. To earn the badge a boy scout needs to hit the bullseye five out of five times in a single round. The bullseye is a black spot about the size of a quarter on a white paper target. The target is tacked to a wooden board fifty feet from the firing range.

Jimmy was losing his race against time. He knew it and it bothered him as he lay on the thin nylon mat sweating in August heat. His armpits were damp with body odor. The endless buzzing of cicadas rose and fell throughout the afternoon. The only break came from the intermittent firing of bolt action .22 rifles which sounded like the clapping of small wooden batons.

He was 13 years old with red hair, a tight crew cut and the loose-jointed awkwardness of puberty about to pop. His mom had included two bottles of Coppertone Sunscreen (SPF 8) in his suitcase, but he often forgot to put it on. That’s why he had freckles across his cheeks and along the tops of his shoulders, and his nose was beet red.

The first time he ever held a rifle was six days earlier. Mr. Williams, Scout Master and rifle range instructor, spoke to him at breakfast. Mr. Williams was a fifty something year old Black man with medium brown skin, a big belly and perfectly trimmed mustache. He learned to shoot in the Marines. After serving his time in the Korean War he stayed for another twenty years, retiring as a Gunnery Sergeant.

He noticed Jimmy sitting by himself, so he carefully placed his tray of food on the picnic table across from him. The bench and table were bolted to each other which made it tricky for him to swing his bulky leg underneath. Once he settled in, he took a quick sip of orange juice.

“Tell me something, son, have you ever fired a weapon?” asked Mr. Williams. His fork held a chunk of scrambled eggs halfway to his mouth. The eggs quivered but didn’t fall.

Jimmy shook his head. “No, sir. I’m from Philly, so we don’t really have guns. I mean, not my family anyway. No hunters or anything like that.”  

“That’s okay, I can teach you everything you need to know. You’re here for a week, so we have plenty of time. I’m at the range from 10-12 and from 1-3 every day. If you’re interested come visit.” He leaned forward over his food and started eating with gusto. Jimmy stood, dropped his tray in the dirty dish window and exited the mess hall.

The scout camp was called Treasure Island. Located about an hour north of Philadelphia, the island was shaped like a stretched-out oval, oriented north to south. It lay in the middle of the Delaware River, exactly along the Pennsylvania and New Jersey borders. Directly north of Treasure Island was Eagle Island. The two were connected by a narrow foot bridge. The firing range was on Eagle Island because it was in New Jersey where they had more relaxed gun laws.

Jimmy blinked himself out of the reverie and focused on shooting. It was Friday afternoon. He had completed every requirement for the merit badge except the target practice. He shifted his elbows on the mat. They had red pressure marks from supporting the rifle for hours each day. The gun was comfortably snug against his shoulder. His left hand held the wooden stock and his right hand the grip.

“Commence firing,” said Mr. Williams. Several of the boys shot immediately, the soft blasts echoing off the hill at the back of the range.

Jimmy closed one eye and stared down the iron sights, aligning them with the target. He exhaled slowly and squeezed the trigger. Bullseye! With practiced ease he pulled the bolt up and back, watching the empty shell case jump out of the gun and land on the wooden floor with a dull metallic clink. Grabbing another bullet, he pushed it into the barrel with the bolt and dropped the bolt into the firing position. The entire procedure took six seconds.

“Nice shot, son,” said Mr. Williams.

Jimmy smiled. “Thanks.” He liked when Mr. Williams called him “son”, except when it reminded him of his dad. After his parents divorced his dad moved away. Jimmy wasn’t sure why his dad was always angry. In some strange way he knew it was his fault, although he couldn’t quite figure out what he’d done wrong. They didn’t talk much, especially since he couldn’t call his dad after 5 pm because of the drinking. And his dad stopped coming over the house when his mom married Simon.

“Hey, son, get your head straight. You need four more bullseyes, and you’ve only got fifteen minutes. This’ll be your last round, so make it a good one,” said Mr. Williams.

Jimmy adjusted the rifle, sighted carefully, exhaled and fired. Bullseye. Two down, three to go, he thought. He quickly reloaded the gun, sighted, squeezed the trigger and hit a bullseye. Three down.

Turning his head to the right he glanced at the clock. It hung from the wood paneled back wall and was emblazed with the Treasure Island logo. 2:48 pm. He looked back across the dirt and grass field at the target. A faint breeze rustled the corner of the paper. The light wind washed over him pleasantly, cooling the sweat along his brow and neck.

Then tension crept up his back, gently at first, like the slow closing of a vise. He shut his eyes to focus, and as he lay there Simon’s head popped into his mind, a kind of sneering jack in the box. Jimmy pushed the image down with difficulty. He pulled the butt of the rifle tighter against his shoulder, sighted, exhaled and fired. Bullseye. Four down.

Jimmy allowed himself to smile a little. He felt pretty good. One more bullseye and he’d be done. He pictured his mom sewing the badge on his uniform. And then the strangest thing happened, his heart started to race. He was surprised, confused and even a little scared. The gun felt heavy and unfamiliar. His mouth went dry. A queer metallic taste swept along the floor of his mouth. The target seemed further away and the bullseye smaller. Suddenly, he recalled that awful moment with Simon from last autumn. Why was this happening, he wondered in a panic. He tried pushing the image away, but this time it didn’t work.

Simon sat lounging on the sofa with his feet up on the coffee table. He was watching television when Jimmy got home from school. Simon took a swig of Budweiser and looked over at Jimmy. “What’s that,” he asked.

Jimmy held a thick textbook covered in brown construction paper. “Um, this is my new biology text. They asked me to join an honors class with three other eighth graders.”

Simon smirked, shook his head and whispered, “Dork.” The word landed like a slap in the face. Simon turned back to the Phillies game. The commercial break was over.

“Okay, son, time for one more shot,” said Mr. Williams. He was at the far end of the range. The other boys were finishing up.

Jimmy lay on the mat, heart racing and mouth dry. He knew they’d see the tears if he wiped them away, so he let them fall.

He tried to sight down the barrel, but everything was blurry. He could hear the clock ticking on the wall. Boy’s voices near him sounded deep and muffled, like they were talking underwater. His vision tunneled, he took a firm grip on the gun, tried to aim carefully, and fired. A puff of dirt leapt off the hill behind the target.

He lifted his head and swallowed. Laying the gun aside, he stared at the edge of the mat for several seconds. Then he stood and walked robotically down the range to retrieve his target. An eerie quiet fell over the range. The older boys looked at each other, down at the floor and out toward the hill. They pretended not to see his tears. Mr. Williams patted his shoulder as he passed. When he was ten feet from the targets, he quickly wiped his eyes and cheeks.

 “Hey, son, I’ll walk you back to camp,” said Mr. Williams, placing his arm around Jimmy’s slumped shoulders. They went to his cabin. He gave Jimmy an ice-cold Crush from a little refrigerator tucked between the cot and the wall. “You like orange soda, son?”

“Yeah,” whispered Jimmy. “Thanks.” He felt a little shaky and completely wrung out, like a deflated balloon.

Mr. Williams pulled a card out of an olive-green tackle box he used as a filing cabinet. He checked a few boxes using a ball point pen. Then he signed the back before handing it to Jimmy, and said, “Here you go.”

“What’s this?”

“It’s certification for your rifle shooting merit badge. You deserve it, son. You’re a talented shooter and a fine young man.” He rustled Jimmy’s hair. “Now hurry back to your cabin, your mom will be here soon. Make sure everything’s packed.”

Mr. Williams shook Jimmy’s hand. Jimmy didn’t look him in the eye.

On the way home Jimmy sat in the front passenger seat of his mom’s Buick Skylark. His shoulder rested on the door and his forehead on the window. It was stifling in the car because his mom didn’t like wasting gas running the air conditioner.

“Did you have fun at camp, sweetie?” she asked.

“Yeah.”

“That’s nice. Did you make any friends?”

“I guess.”

“Did you earn any merit badges?”

Jimmy looked at his mom quickly to see if she knew something. She just sat there staring blissfully at the road, hands at two o’clock and ten o’clock on the steering wheel. He rested his head back on the window. The densely packed evergreens of the Pine Barrens rushed past in a brown and green blur. He could feel the card Mr. Williams had given him. It was crammed into his back pocket.

“No. I didn’t earn anything.”

“That’s nice,” she said.