getting bullied
There was a ditch near my house. I grew up in the heart of Dixie. The ditch was our refuge, a forgotten canyon. It stank pretty bad.I have no idea why we thought that was a great place to play. The thing was concrete, sloping down at a 45 degree angle. It had various tunnels and caverns where we would go exploring. We would ride our bikes up and down the sides. It was usually dry, for the most part.
My primary playmate in the ditch was Carson Fentworth. He was a skinny kid with something of a curly blond puffball encircling his head. He was 50 pounds of white kid with 100 pounds of name.
One day we were down there, daring each other to ride skateboards down the sides, when a famous eighth grade bully showed up. He looked about 6 feet wide and ten feet tall to me.
His name was John Barnscroft. I had heard of him. He wore a pair of cowboy boots, jeans, and had a shock of reddish hair pointing every direction from his head. He spotted us. Oh shit.
Of course you all know that when the bully spots you and starts walking over, you don't run. Running will get you pounded worse later. You stand there and try to be cool.
John clomped over in his boots and grabbed Carson, throwing him down. I continued to try to be cool. Carson was chattering excitedly.
"Hey John! How's it going?" he said, as he was pulled around by his leg, but his words fell around like dead leaves.
"I am going to pound you two little shits into the ground!" John shouted, "Your whore mothers are going to have to put you back together with super glue!" He dragged Carson in faster and faster circles, finally spinning him in the air. Carson wailed as he took flight, his shrieks having a kind of siren-like doppler effect.
"John you know you are one bad mother fucker!" Carson shouted on his orbit.
John slowed Carson, letting him skid to a stop on the concrete.
"Yeah I am," he said "I was born with my boots on and a bottle of Jack Daniels in my hand!"
I maintained my cool posture. I was Clint Eastwood. I was James Dean. I was about to have my ass kicked by an ill-tempered eighth-grader in a pair of K-mart boots.
Carson got up. John looked around. I played it cool. A bird chirped. A dog barked.
"Well see you fucks later." John said, and walked off.
Carson looked at me.
"Thanks, dickweed" he said, but he knew as well as I did there was nothing I could do.
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