I
Once upon a time, a twelve-year-old boy sat in middle school history class, enjoying the lesson taught on the American Revolution. Mr. Bell taught the course and was one of the few teachers he liked. He’d keep the information from that class because of Mr. Bell’s teaching style. He didn’t make the kids recite boring narratives from textbooks or take endless pop quizzes all year. Mr. Bell would mainly explain history using laid-back storytelling. King George was always “King Georgie.” The colonist would “Chuck his tea into the harbor,” or “General Washington crossed the Delaware with a cold and kicked some British butt.”
Our young hero always thought Mr. Bell’s stories were engaging and that he played the characters in the American Revolution perfectly.
That boy was me.
Mr. Bell was more than just my history teacher. He also supported my learning of the Apple IIe (or sometimes the knockoff Acer) to write my stories and program graphics. By eighth grade, I’d entered a contest for computer graphics and won. Unfortunately, that box of huge eight-inch disks (the ones Matthew Broderick used in WarGames) didn’t come in handy, as we didn’t own a computer at home.
When I had my accident with the gunpowder my first year in high school, Mr. Bell sent me a card printed with PrintShop, giving me the nickname “Boom Boom.” I’m sure he meant well. It was also an undesired nickname the bullies used when I returned to high school after the accident.
I saw Mr. Bell was one of the few teachers I liked. The problem I had with many other teachers was their ignorance or perceived ignorance of what the bullies were frequently doing to me. Remember, if I complained, the bully denied it, and the teacher didn’t see it, it never happened. They’d look the other way.
After that, I became a ‘narc.’ That meant extra harassment later on, usually on the bus or the next school day. Middle school truly defined the statement Gavin D’Amato gave his client in “War of the Roses.” He said, “There is no winning! Only degrees of losing!”
That sums life up nicely, I think.
It got to where if a bully shoulder-checked me into the lockers, kicked the books out of my arms, or drove their steel-tipped boots into my spine if I kneeled down to pick up said books, I’d just keep my mouth shut and move on. What else could I do?
II
Eighth-period language arts class in eighth grade was one of the worst. Mrs. Smith taught that class. She forced me to sit in the back row directly next to two of the worst bullies in the school. Bryan and Bill. Many times, a short little bitch named George would join them.
I’d sit in my seat, staring forward, bottling my temper while they launched their taunts. Mrs. Smith was usually behind her podium, ignoring what was happening in the back of the classroom.
Bryan would ball up his fist and ram it into my right arm as hard as he could. I wouldn’t react even if I was screaming on the inside. They wouldn’t get that satisfaction. I’d stare straight forward and say nothing. Then Bill would take a turn. My lack of reaction would be the same.
“Aren’t you going to say something to Mrs. Smith?” Bill would ask as if warning me.
“No,” I’d whisper, not making eye contact.
Bryan would laugh and say, “I think he’s finally learning.” He’d finish with one more punch to my arm.
I’d remain tight-lipped and grim, always staring at the back of the head of the student in front of me.
And no one ever saw the bruises. But then, no one was looking, either.
On Fridays, Mrs. Smith sometimes let us read plays from school magazines. We’d raise our hands to be assigned the various parts when Smith called them out. That little shit George, he sat right next to Smith’s desk and would shoot his hand up quickly, always guaranteeing he’d get the lead. Every. Fucking. Time.
The remaining bullies in the back of the class would get choice parts. If there were any bit parts left and I felt the need to participate, which was rare, I’d get it.
Once, I approached Smith and asked her why she always gave the lead to George and that maybe others would like a chance. George heard this and, with this oversized ego, said, “Because I’m the best, and Mrs. Smith likes me more.”
Smith would chuckle, shake her head, and say nothing.
And nothing changed.
Except that after that class, George cornered me in the bathroom and slammed me into a toilet stall. He also mentioned the leads were his, I’d never get one, and to never ask for another part.
One time I tried to tell my father, Charlie, what had happened. His reply was, “What do you want me to do about it? Stand up for yourself and fight back.”
I’d ask Mom to go to the assistant principal, Mr. VanGosen, and see if I could move to a different class. Maybe she tried, or perhaps she didn’t. All I knew was I was stuck in that hell until the year was over.
And if I ever ran into Bryan or Bill at Carrolltowne Mall, I’d better learn to run fast and hide because they’d not stop until they spilled my blood. I literally thought they wanted to kill me. And Charlie would do nothing about it. And Mom couldn’t.
I hated school. I hated all the other kids who beat me or teased me. I was so angry and frustrated and bottling that shit up.
By the end of eighth grade, I had one friend, and that’s only because our common ground was the incessant bullying.
His name was A. Myer. The bullies would call him a ‘duck’ because he waddled some when he walked and had protruding lips.
It wasn’t until high school we became tight, and he became one of my best friends and part of the Card Player’s Circle.
III
One of the worst memories of middle school was when this cunt of a boy named Reggie stole my lunch right out from under me.
I used to pack a brown bag lunch. Mom would make it in the mornings while Meg and I ate breakfast.
There’d been some event in the gymnasium that required the entire eighth-grade class to attend. I sat at the top of the risers with my back facing the wall. This way, there’d be no one behind me to kick me.
I didn’t have a book bag or a backpack. I carried my books with my jacket folded on top and my lunch in the middle. I don’t know how he did it that day, but Reggie got ahold of my lunch. I assumed he stole it. I could’ve dropped it while climbing up the risers, or it could’ve fallen out from underneath my jacket while I wasn’t looking, leaving some nefarious kid to swipe it and give it to Reggie. I don’t know. A couple of times, I caught Reggie glancing at me a few seats over and down a few rows on the risers like he was keeping a lookout.
When the assembly ended, that fucker made a B-Line for the door, glancing back my way a couple of times. I thought he was up to something and that I’d find out soon, usually with pain, what that was.
When I reached the cafeteria at the bottom level of the school and took my seat at the lone table near the door (I couldn’t sit with the other kids), I discovered Reggie’s interest in me. My brown bag lunch was gone. He had it.
I confronted him forthwith. I knew it meant a potential ass-kicking, but I didn’t care. I wasn’t afraid then; I was fucking A pissed. Naturally, he denied it, all with giggles, smirks, and that fuck awful shit-eating grin on his face. He knew I knew he’d taken my lunch.
Put aside the fact that I was fucking hungry. Now here was one of the worst bullies in school, mocking me to my face, daring me to do something about it. Had it just been him and me, I’d have knocked his dick in the dirt. I was that pissed. Instead, five other boys surrounded him, also known bullies, with those fuck awful steel-tipped boats ready to help Reggie beat me into a coma.
I walked away from Reggie, out of the cafeteria, and into the hall, racing toward the bathroom at the other end. I was on the verge of losing it. I knew I was going to scream and throw some kind of tantrum. There was all this frustration and nowhere for it to go. I couldn’t push it down anymore since there was no more space to suppress it.
I had a shitty life. My father was never home. Other kids constantly bullied me. Mom couldn’t do anything about it. Teachers looked the other way, and now I had to accept that the school’s nastiest asshole threw away a perfectly good lunch my mother had made for me.
I burst into the bathroom, balled up my fists, and screamed at the top of my lungs. As I cried, I banged on the wall of the toilet stall. I didn’t give a fuck if anyone heard me.
I turned to the sink, opened the cold water, and splashed a bunch on my face as I looked into the mirror.
I let out another bloodcurdling scream and shouted, “I FUCKING HATE YOU! I WISH YOU WERE DEAD!” followed by numerous punches at the mirror.
Was I shouting this to Reggie or to myself?
I don’t know. Both, maybe. I’ve never considered myself an attractive person. Hell, I can remember staring in the mirror at a very early age and thinking the face staring back was ugly. That’s never changed. I don’t think it ever will.
At the end of my tantrum, I sat on the floor with my head between my knees and cried.
Someone somewhere said something. I ended up in VanGosen’s office, having to explain myself to him again.
IV
The administration at Mt. Airy Middle during my tenure there between 1983 and 1985 was a fucking joke. I don’t feel bad saying this. First, it’s true. Second, they’ll all dead now, so what do I care? I’m not one of these wishy-washy people who will only say kind things about the dead because they’re dead. Fuck that. Michael Jackson did some nasty, horrible things while he was alive, yet the world collectively sucked his dead cock after he overdosed on Propofol and died.
VanGosen, the assistant principal, was a piece of shit. The principal, Mr. Devault, wasn’t much better, only he was a pussy and left the punishments to VanGosen.
The guidance counselor, Mr. Fox, was somewhere in his 80s and was as clueless as Joe Biden. One time he pulled me out of class to do an experiment. He got it in his head that if he sat me down with some of the bullies who tormented me and we could all play a board game together, this would somehow cause the bullies to rethink their punk ways.
Spoiler alert: It didn’t work, and it made their wrath twice what it normally was.
“Aww, did Charlie have to get Mr. Fox to try and force us to be friends? Fag!”
It didn’t matter that I wanted nothing to do with Fox’s ideas, and I thought they were just as stupid.
I’d end up in VanGosen’s office more than once for acting out. I don’t know if Mom ever explained to him why I was the way I was. If V.G. (as the student body called him behind his back) knew, maybe he’d have lightened up on me for a minute.
The kids mocked V.G. too. He used to give out detention slips like they were radioactive to him. “Two hours’ detention after school!” he’d snap at some kid in the hall, not following his commands. When V.G. would say this, he’d hold his hand up with the pinky and forefinger sticking out (like Vernon, the principal in The Breakfast Club, did to Bender when he said he had him for two months in detention).
The kids would walk around with their hands up, looking as if they were giving the devil’s horns sign and mock V.G. He’d walk by, and someone would rip out, “Two hours! Two hours!” while holding the devil’s horn symbol in the air.
This happened so often that “two hours” sounded like “ten hours,” spoken mockingly in a thick Baltimore accent. By the time I left Mt. Airy Middle, whenever V.G. was around, someone would yell out, “Ten hours! Ten hours after school!”
The dude got no respect. Nor did he deserve any, in my humble opinion. He was a lousy vice principal.
Yeah, I know he’s dead. I don’t glorify the dead because they’re dead. That’s stupid.
V
During seventh grade, I spent more time in V.G.’s office than I cared to remember. This was mainly because of Ms. Dixon’s reading class. Dixon hated me. I don’t know why. Not at first. When I realized halfway through the semester that there was no winning, only degrees of losing, I gave her reasons to hate me, which meant multiple trips to V.G.’s office.
She always referred to me as “Chuck,” and I fucking hated that more than anything. At the beginning of the semester, I politely asked not to use that name. She ignored me. The other kids in class wouldn’t let it go other. It became fodder for them to latch onto and throw at me.
I have to mention for posterity that Dixon was a large black woman. In mostly white 1980s Carroll County, she stood out. We didn’t have many black folks in our school. I recall four or five in each grade, maybe more. Their numbers were few. Regardless, interacting with Dixon was something I didn’t enjoy. Not that I was consciously or deliberately racist. I honestly didn’t like her as a person. I could feel her dislike for me in her scathing scowls. If she were white, I’d still not have liked her. In fact, I didn’t care for most of my teachers in seventh grade. Their looking the other way when the bullies struck played a large part in that, and for a time, I considered Dixon a school-sanctioned bully.
Since I’m being as honest as I can possibly be in these tales, it’s worth mentioning my initial experiences with black children in kindergarten at Campfield Elementary were less than ideal (I refuse to use the PC term ‘people of color.’ It’s stupid. If you’re offended, I don’t care). We lived in Lochearn, Maryland, then. I was one of the few white kid’s in that class and probably the only one with blonde hair. All these kids wanted to do was pull at my hair. Consequently, I would hide under benches where they couldn’t get me. And they tried. A few times, I had two or three kids pinning me underneath the damned bench, trying to get at my hair. Because of this, I didn’t like them and wanted nothing to do with them.
“Oh, they’re just curious. They’ve probably never seen blonde hair and want to touch it.”
Uh…no. I hate being touched uninvited.
Day one of kindergarten, and already, I hated school.
Lochearn quickly became a predominantly black neighborhood, along with increased crime and shootings. That’s what happened in the mid-seventies, so don’t shoot the messenger. Erm…no pun intended. It’s why my family left that area and moved to the then primarily white Carroll County.
I always felt Dixon went out of her way to make me uncomfortable. If there was reading to do in class, I was the first called on to read aloud. She singled me out every time.
“You’re first, Chuck!” Dixon would say.
The kids surrounding me would snicker, knowing I hated that moniker.
I’d stare at the closed book on the desk and curse them all in my head, especially that fat fuck of a teacher who made my experience in that class so fucking miserable.
Then she’d ask questions about what we read and always, always called on me first. The other kids picked up on this because they’d snicker and tease about Dixon ‘liking’ me, meaning sexually.
That grossed my shit out.
If I didn’t act as Dixon expected, she’d fill out this yellow ‘incident’ sheet, which would mean detention or parent conference. But mostly, I’d end up in V.G.’s office, having to explain myself…again.
“Ms. Dixon is always picking on me just like the other kids do, and no one will do anything about it!”
V.G. would laugh and say that wasn’t true. I was just being difficult. I should try to get along with her better. Shit, there were sometimes I feared he’d walk me back to her classroom and tell me I had to pleasure her until she’d had enough, all while Dixon would stand there, close her eyes, and grin as she rocked back and forth on her feet like an impatient girl waiting for a treat.
I vaguely remember Mom getting involved at some point because I always came home with a yellow sheet from Dixon’s class.
Eventually, Dixon backed off some, but not completely.
Still, that wasn’t the worst.
VI
There was something completely off with the boys’ Phys Ed teacher. I won’t make accusations, but if it ever came out he liked little boys more than he should’ve, I’d not be surprised. I don’t know if he’s still alive or dead, so we’ll call him Mr. Gorman.
Let’s establish now that taking showers in middle school Phys Ed class is awkward as fuck. I hated doing it. I didn’t want to see the other kids nude, especially the bullies, and I certainly didn’t want them to see me naked. Who the fuck knows what kind of mockery that would bring? I’d skip showering just to get the fuck out of there.
More than once, Gorman would line us up against the wall post-shower and walk up and down, examining and nodding like some kind of fucking drill instructor.
Not creepy at all.
I reached my limit with this guy in eighth grade when we began wrestling lessons. This is where one boy gets on all fours like a dog, and another boy comes up from behind and wraps his arms around him.
Yeah, I know that’s some kind of standard starting point for basic wrestling. But after finally escaping Dixon and what I thought was hate disguised as lust, the last thing I’d do was this creepy gay shit.
So Gorman puts a kid, we’ll call him Frank, on all fours and instructs me to basically mount him from behind and wrap my arms around him. Unfortunately for me, Frank was one of the primary bullies I dealt with regularly (we’ve mended fences since then, which is why I won’t use his real name).
I stood there, giving Gorman one of my signature eyebrow raises as if to say, “Oh, hey! Fuck you!”
I told Gorman, “No.”
He rolled his eyes impatiently and demanded I get behind Frank and wrap my arms around him, to which I announced louder, “No! I’m not doing that!”
It’s quite simple. On the whole, I don’t like being touched. I can make exceptions for girlfriends if I like them, but that’s it. Otherwise, hands fucking off! Conversely, given a choice, I don’t like touching other people either. Again, girlfriends are the exception…if we’re getting along. Otherwise, no.
And being honest, I thought what Gorman wanted me to do was fucking gay, and I wouldn’t be part of it, especially with a kid I knew would tease me later over the whole thing.
“Charlie held me doggie style! He’s such a fag!”
Yeah, I saw that coming a mile away. No, thank you. Gorman, Frank, and everyone else could go fuck themselves and leave me out of the equation.
Gorman kicked me out of the class and demanded I go to V.G.’s office.
This time, I held my ground. I told V.G. there was no way I’d crawl around on the mat with another boy. The other kids would start calling me gay and fag, more so than they usually did, and I wasn’t having it.
V.G. called Mom in. She stood up for me, saying wrestling with other boys was inappropriate for that grade and wouldn’t permit me to participate, especially if I didn’t want to.
No more Phys Ed for me in middle school ever again.
VII
Did I mention I used to have to sit alone at a table in the cafeteria’s corner because no one wanted me to sit with them?
I wasn’t good enough for anyone then, either. That changed in high school, though.
By the last half of eighth grade, I was no longer eating lunch in the cafeteria. I’d go to one of the computer stations in the eighth-grade teacher’s lounge, with permission, of course. That’s when I wrote the program that won the county computer contest.
See, I took an utterly shitty situation and turned it into something good.
VIII
Before we leave the middle school era behind once and for all, I have to tell you about the first fistfight I got myself into. It wasn’t on school grounds. It happened at Mullinix’s farm with a genuine piece of shit named Eddie. He was another one of the neighborhood kids that was initially a friend when we first moved to Woodbine. He lived next to Chris.
By eighth grade, like the other bullies, all he wanted to do was fight me. On this day, while at school, he pulled the typical shoulder check, sending me into the lockers. By this point in my life, the anger I kept corked up inside was slowly beginning to release itself. Knowing a fight during school was a ticket to a five-day suspension, I told Eddie we’d have it out at Mullinix’s farm after school.
I remember that cunt grinned like a banshee and declared in no uncertain terms he was looking forward to it.
When the school bus dropped Meg and me off in front of the Woodbine house, I put all my school shit away and proceeded to the farm. This was it! I was going to knock Eddie’s block off once and for all.
No one was around when I got there.
Another neighborhood kid, Eric, showed up a little while later to watch. Eric lived much farther down Hood’s Mill Road. That he rode his bike to Mullinix’s farm suggested Eddie was telling everyone he could about the fight to come. Eric was neutral then. He wasn’t taking sides.
Soon after, Kurt arrived and awarded himself the title of my manager, offering suggestions and basically telling me what to do. Then Meg showed up. She reminded me she had gymnastics rehearsal at 4:30 pm and that Mom wanted me home by then. This left twenty minutes or so to handle business. Meg stayed, though. I’m sure she was curious to see who would walk away the victor and who would fall.
Then Richard, Mullinix’s farm hand, arrived. It amazed me how quickly word spread that Eddie and I were going to fight in front of the hay barn.
While we waited, I helped Richard and Kurt throw down hay from the barn so Richard could feed it to the heifers in the milk barn. This left us alone as Richard began throwing chunks of hay into the feeders.
“Well, Kurt,” I said. “What am I going to do? We don’t have all day. I can’t walk out on this one. I have to follow through, or I’ll be branded a coward for all my days.”
“Ya damn right,” Kurt said.
Richard looked over and nodded with a goofy grin. “I think you could beat the shit out of him.”
“Yeah. Me too,” I said.
Eric found his way down to the milking barn, entered, and sought me out. “Eddie’s here. He says he’s gonna beat the shit out of you, Charlie. Personally, I think you could beat his face in.”
“Me too,” I said.
“Where’s your little ‘V’ gun?” Richard asked, holding his hands like he held a laser pistol. “From the T.V. show? Bzzip! Bzzip!”
“Richard, act your age!” Kurt snapped, tossing him an annoyed glance. I walked out of the barn. Eddie stood beside Little Waynie’s truck (The Old Man’s son) on the hill in front of the hay barn.
Richard walked out of the barn with Kurt and looked at Eddie. “Well, are you going to do anything?”
Eddie peered at me with disdain. He was a skinny little punk dressed in the usual Carroll County farmer’s garb. Worn, dirty blue jeans, a white t-shirt under a flannel shirt, and boots. He was the apotheosis of the typical, average white trash, uneducated Woodbine teenager.
“I’m ready to beat the little bastard’s face in,” Eddie snapped.
I scoffed. “Shut up, Zitface!”
“Yeah? C’mon then!”
“Eddie,” Kurt added, “You’re a dumb fucker. You don’t even know how to fight right.”
Eddie circled around, so he was leaning against the hay barn door.
“You guys gonna wrestle, or what?” Richard asked.
“Fistfight,” I said, glaring at Eddie.
Kurt jumped in. “I’m not gonna let anyone get killed.”
I scoffed again. “Don’t bother with Eddie. I want that bastard dead.”
Yet, no one did anything.
Eric cleared his throat. “Your both plain chicken of each other.”
I turned around to wave Kurt and Meg over. Kurt approached. “Whataya want?”
“I got an idea,” I said. “Megan, you distract Eddie. Make sure his back is toward me. I’ll wave my hand at you to move, and I’ll charge his ass to the ground.”
The three of us agreed and returned to Waynie’s parked truck.
“Eddie’s just a big dummy anyhow!” Meg said, placing her hands on her hips.
Eddie glared at her. “Shut up, Megan!”
Meg cocked her head. “Ya gonna come over here and make me?”
“Yeah,” Eddie replied and walked over toward my sister.
“Eddie,” I whispered harshly. “You better watch just what the hell you do.”
He grinned mockingly and flipped me the middle finger.
“You son of a bitch,” I hissed and threw him to the ground. The force caused him to roll to the bottom of the hill. The look on his face was one of utter surprise and shock. He didn’t expect me to knock him down as I did.
I charged. Eddie stood, met my charge, and threw me to the ground. I jumped to my feet and raced into him.
“Motherfucker!” Eddie screamed, caught off balance again.
I kicked him in the shin. He backed off.
My legs were numb, quivering jelly. Everyone stood silent, waiting for the next blow. Nothing happened.
“Well, Eddie,” Kurt said. “Looks like you got your ass kicked.”
Kurt’s statement turned into a chat among the spectators. “Eddie got his ass kicked! Eddie got his ass kicked! Eddie got his ass kicked!”
I turned around, my back to Eddie.
“You motherfucker!” Eddie screamed and hit me on the base of my neck. The surprise and force of the hit caused me to stumble.
“Aww, unfair!” Kurt spat. “Unfair!”
I could now feel the fire in my eyes and the red in my face. I turned around and belted Eddie square in the eye. He fell to the ground but quickly jumped to his feet.
“You motherfuckin’…” he began as I punched in his eye again. “…goddamned…” He swung at me as I ducked. “Son of a bitch!” I threw Eddie to the ground and kicked him as hard as possible.
“Motherfucker!” he screamed.
Anyone wanna take a guess at Eddie’s favorite word?
Eddie got back up, swung at me, and missed. I punched him twice in the same eye I’d been attacking. With one mighty burst of energy, I picked him up and flipped him over. He sat on his ass in the dirt, dazed. As the adrenaline wore off, I kicked him in the back as hard as I could muster.
“Aww, you motherfucker!” Eddie yelled. He tried to get up but fell back down.
Meg informed Kurt and me that we had to go because it was almost 4:30 pm.
I looked at Kurt. “We gotta go. Hold him off if he gets back up.”
Kurt nodded.
As Meg and I approached Woodbine Road to walk the distance of three houses home, Eddie picked himself up and began crying.
“Now you know what it feels like, don’t cha?” Kurt asked Eddie as he wept.
Upon returning home, I proudly told Mom I’d finally kicked Eddie’s ass.
Word spread fast across the neighborhood. Later that evening, Chris showed up to hear of how Eddie ‘got his ass kicked.’
Meg called Laura to tell her the news.
Kurt also stopped by on his way home to declare me the winner. He reported that Eddie sulked down to the milking barn with a black eye and a face full of cuts. There, he bawled his eyes out.
IX
The next day at school, something happened that I didn’t expect. I walked into homeroom to a round of applause. Mr. Nelson stared at me with surprise and asked if I wanted to take a bow.
I did.
I felt like I earned it.
As I heard it, Eric had spread the tale of Eddie’s ass-kicking to some other neighborhood kids, at least the ones closest to him. Woodbine is a small town. Then those friends took the tale and told other friends, and by the following day, half the eighth-grade class knew. There was some doubt, obviously, as I wasn’t known to fight or take a stand. The proof was in the pudding. Eddie had a black eye and a cut face. I didn’t sustain any injuries. Case closed.
For a while, teasing from the kids in my classes stopped.
Eventually, it’d start up again, but it was nice to have some peace and quiet for those few weeks.
It wasn’t until I was a senior in high school I had to fight another boy for pushing me too hard.
