The Fraternity

Cooke, Montana: In a cheesy, touristy "trading post" where I would eventually buy my bitchin', authentic, made-in-Mexico, straw hat, I was looking at the toy cap guns.

They were the quality variety: metal; with real weight. I was in the act of hefting one, appreciatively, wondering if Eric and Spencer would be willing to wear them around if I bought one for each of us, when I noticed a little dude, no more than six, looking at me from the other side of the rotating wrack.

He was obviously impressed by the fact that he had at last found an "adult" who could appreciate the finer things (toys and a potentially inappropriate reverence for the mock-violence embodied in the pistol). When he realized that I had noticed him there, looking at me, he walked around the wrack to more closely inspect the revolver in my hand.

"Pretty cool?" I suggested, seeking the approval of an obvious authority on the subject.

He nodded, "Yeah." A co-conspirator; soberly cheerful. A confidante.

"Do you have a sister?" he asked, quietly - perhaps not yet quite satisfied that I was, in fact, a compatriot.

"I do."

"You should use these on her."

He held up a package of toy handcuffs, revealing it like a secret weapon, or a rich delicacy.

"Are you going to put those on your sister?" He could hear the approval in my voice.

"Yeah." His sly, confidant smile only hinted at the impending excitement he envisioned.

We consummated the exchange with a solemn high five and casually returned to our respective contingencies, effusing innocence and propriety, our faith renewed and mischief in the making.