Young Boy: approximately 6 or 7 years of age. Dressed in an immaculate pair of fawn shorts, white polo shirt, brown sandals and short white socks. He’s of average height, on the thin side with light brown hair, cut short
Father: Mid to late 30’s. Dressed in dirty, washed-out red t-shirt, cut-offs, flip-flops and a baseball cap. He sports a significant beer belly and hair that’s unkempt and too long. He needs a shave.
Scene: Beachside park. Noon. Lovely summer day. Man and boy are sitting on the grass near the water. They are watching as structures are being set up for a weekend event – tents are being hoisted, porta-potties trucked in, seating assembled.
The boy suddenly springs up and starts running toward a bank of porta-potties.
Father: (yelling) HEY! Where are you going?
Boy: To pee.
Father: There’s a tree right here (pointing to tree in front of him)
Boy: But there’s a washroom right here, too. (pointing to bank of potties)
Father: (shakes his head in exasperation and mumbles something unintelligible as he scratches his rear)
Several minutes elapse. Young boy re-appears from one of the porta-potties and peers around anxiously.
Father: (spotting son peering). What’re you doing now?
Boy: Looking for the handwashing place.
Father: There is no handwashing place. Get back here, we’re going home in a minute.
Boy: But I need to wash my hands and there’s always a handwashing place. (He’s right and there are a bank of handsantizing stations further along the path that haven’t been set up yet.)
Father: (really angry all of a sudden). GET BACK HERE NOW! We’re leaving!!
Boy: (still anxiously peering around). But, Dad, I really need to wash my hands! (then adds in a loud whisper) I touched my willy!