Sometimes a bully only needs a target. Maybe I did something to this guy, maybe I didn’t. All I can recall is he traumatized (and continues to traumatize) me throughout my youth.
I lived in fear. And paranoia. I still do.
Is he around the next corner? And what will I do if he is?
I’d like to think, that as adults, we’ll continue to ignore each other’s very existence. Yet, what about when the alcohol flows. What then?
—
Bullying was encouraged in my high school. How else were these little pussy boys going to learn to defend themselves?
Hell, even my gym teacher was a child… taking a wet towel snap at a student in the shower.
I suppose we turned out alright. For the most part, anyway. And perhaps, we should be thankful that if a fight broke out on his watch—or the guidance counselor, or the shop teacher—that an effort was made to keep it fair. But, no interference.
Thanks, coach.
—
I don’t remember much about my bully’s youth. His little brother had palsy, or some shit like that, and he used it to be an asshole, just like his big brother. Victim of shitty genetics AND a bully. How does that even work? My god, they were both assholes.
And, I remember their dad had died when they were very young. Toddlers, maybe. Legend has it he was an asshole too. Lost his head—literally—running a snowmobile through a barbed wire fence.
And their mom was pretty, and had no trouble finding shelter for her and her boys.
Oh, I’ll bet those boys resented all of the father-figures that strolled in and out of their lives.
I don’t think that qualifies as a license to be a total asshole. Yet, what do I know?
—
I haven’t even seen this man in decades. Nor thought about him. And there he was, in real life, standing there with a shit-eating grin next to his best buddy, wearing the same grin—minus about forty IQ points.
Then they locked eyes on me. And realized who they are looking at. And I discovered the years had been kinder to their teeth than they had to mine, for I could count them all.
And I felt the familiar sensation. Pure, unadulterated fear. As he moved across the room to pick up a pool cue. And his asshole buddy followed, grabbing one of his own.
Then they approach. Slowly. Deliberately. Still smiling those idiotic smiles.
All I wanted to do, tonight, is finish my laundry, finish my beer, and go to bed.
And now, these assholes, and in my laundrobar, walking toward me, performing test swings with pool cues like they’re testing the balance of a hatchet for cutting fire wood.
Fucking wonderful. Some things never change.
—
Confession: I never learned to fight. Saying that as a grown man is shameful. Looking back at my childhood, my high school bullies are part of that. As a small, chubby kid, it was far easier to hide.
To pretend I didn’t exist.
How small can I get against the wall? The edge of the seat on the bus? Or inside a locker in the girls’ locker room?
Yeah, I let the girls hide me.
No wonder I am a fucking mess with no friends. And can’t relate to men, at all. Nor can I keep a woman. I wouldn’t be attracted to me either. After that first fuck, anyway.
Unfortunate penis, indeed.
—
These assholes are still approaching me. They’ve split up, and one of them has a fucking Roman candle in his back pocket.
I feel so small. I’m in the best shape of my life, yet have no idea what to do or how to do it, there’s two of them—each one twice my size, with no qualms about fighting dirty.
Maybe this is a reckoning. Lady Fortune is dealing judgement for my growing up to be such a pussy. For not doing anything about this asshole when I was a fat youth. As such, somehow I’ll be to blame when the incendiary device burns down the fucking laundrobar.
At least, I can probably miss jury duty tomorrow.
