Boys being boys

When I was young, I was tiny. Not just short, but malnourished and puny. Add a not-insignificant dose of what is now called Asperger’s, and you have a recipe for a little boy who will be picked on incessantly for years. Not just by the other kids in school, but by my (many, older, female - never hit girls!) cousins. (Dad died when I was 4, so Mom had to work long hours to keep the house and feed us. I spent a lot of time at the homes of my aunts & uncles.)

When I was young, the farm across the street turned into suburbs and a school for the mentally retarded. I liked to ride my bike around the parking lot and paved walking trails behind the school. (You couldn’t play on the playground equipment because it was normally covered in human feces from all the window-licking mouth-breathers.)

One day, I was riding my bike aimlessly around and around when four boys decided I was intruding on “their” turf. I knew them all. Three were from the third grade like me, and one was a big second grader. I was used to passively accepting abuse, because I knew without a doubt that nobody cared about me, but I would get in even more trouble if I ever hit back. So I took it. They eventually got some clothes line and tied me up. (They did a bad job of it, and one of my favorite “games” was escaping from being tied up by my cousins.) Then they made a huge mistake - they started kicking my bike.

Skin heals. Pain passes. But we were hungry poor, things were expensive, and we couldn’t afford to replace a bike.

So I stopped being passive, slipped free of the cords, and attacked.

Did I mention that each of the four had their pocket knives out, and had already showed they weren’t afraid to cut me? (Shallowly cut, not stab. They weren’t psychos.)

I ended up taking possession of all four knives, along with a length of electric cable they found somewhere to use as a whip on me. They ran home bruised and bleeding, and I walked home with my bike to put the chain back in place.

An hour or so later, after I had cleaned myself up a bit and applied merthiolate to the open wounds, a police officer showed up and talked to Mom. It seems the mothers of the other boys had all called the police to complain about me beating up and threatening their little darlings. Unusually for her, Mom then asked me to explain what had happened. (She had no idea. Why should I tell her, when she never cared about any of the other incidents?)

So I told the officer my story, took off my (fresh) shirt to show all the wounds, showed him the cut and bloody shirt I had been wearing, and handed over all four knives I’d taken from the other boys. He had a thoughtful look, apologized for bothering us, and left. Mom made sure I wasn’t bleeding on the furniture, then went back to ignoring me.

None of the kids that went to my elementary school ever messed with me again.

Have a happy New Year!