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“Oh
ya,” I mumbled as I walked away, “Good luck, hoping for no cavities buddy.”
Phillip’s
words of comfort didn’t last long. By 5th period I had fallen victim
to that nervous (and particularly rank) sweat you only give off under severe
stress. It slathered my armpits, back and brow.
As
6th period arrived, my heart raced, seemingly around my stomach,
which was doing loop de loops as if I
were on a roller coaster. I didn’t know what was worse, that I still had nearly
two hours until my demise or that I would have to tolerate this torture until that
time finally came.
The
final fifteen minutes of 7th period was: Hell. On. Earth. At one
point I was certain the hands on the clock were lurching forward, then
backwards, then laughing at me as though the mechanisms were snickering instead
of ticking.
As
the bell rang, I sighed heavily. Hearing the funeral dirge in my head, I
gathered up my books, throwing them into my bag and went to meet my maker.
Slowly,
I made my way outside to the back lot of the school. All around me excited
children that would get to see tomorrow’s sun rise were elated to be done with
another day. Inside I was pleading with myself: Find the biggest kid you can, pay him, do his homework, something!
Despite
halfheartedly searching for a savior, I had watched enough episodes of The Wonder Years to know that this was
one of those things I was supposed to do on my own.
By
3:18 I was in the prearranged spot.
Seconds
ticked by like hours. I was astounded to notice that the fear had left me, I
had even stopped sweating. I looked at my camo-colored digital watch; 3:20 gave
way to 3:25. Before I knew it 3:30 had arrived.
Maybe
Phil was right, Brad had balked after all!
“Alright
dickless you ready for yer ass whoopin’?”
I
turned to see Brad approaching. The bus kids were still shuffling past me in
droves. Apparently, I was so unpopular no one even wanted to see me get my ass kicked.
Then
he was there, right there in front of me. Somehow, he seemed even bigger than he
had that morning. I planted my feet and stared at him, “Ya, let’s get this over
with.” My voice lacked any tone that would indicate I thought I might win but I
raised my fists anyhow.
“Okay
bitch,” That was the only warning I’d get. Brad reeled back and tried to muster
his first punch.
I
always say; It’s better to be lucky than good (© 2017 DAVID
IWRITESTUFF All Rights Reserved).
I
feigned with my right shoulder, Brad instinctually dodged, moving to his right.
Then I heaved my left arm forward as hard as I could. Fist and teeth clenched,
I threw that punch with everything I had, and things I didn’t even know I had.
Every bit of my weight, every tear I had cried, every name I had been called
was behind that left hand. And you can bet, every bully that had ever picked on
me, hell every bully that had ever picked on anybody, was in front of it.
All
of it hit Brad squarely in the right temple.
He
stood there for a moment, unmoving, his eyes not registering what had happened,
as though the very thoughts had been knocked from his head.
Then
slowly the lights came back on in his eyes. Somebody was home again. Brad
looked at me and saw a little fat kid standing there ready to throw another
punch. I looked at him and saw something akin to a deflated balloon.
Without
speaking, Brad nodded, began to whimper, and slunk backwards, inserting himself
into the crowd of kids that flowed nearby. The last glimpse I got was him cradling
his head in his right arm.
I
looked around and waited for the cheers and adulation from my peers. There was
none. No one cared about me vanquishing my foe. No one cared that some unknown
nerd had beaten back the typical schoolyard bully.
It
didn’t matter because I didn’t do it for recognition. I didn’t even do it for
them. I did it for myself and it felt remarkable.
