If you're old enough, perhaps you had
to deal with bullies, the physical ones, in school or your
neighborhood in general. Today they've outlawed it, but thanks to
SnapChat, a group of 11 year old girls can reduce to tears one of
their peers for wearing the wrong color leggings. Better mousetraps
create better mice.
The one I had to contend with, actually
most of us in the 3rd grade was Sean Duda, a toe headed
Polark who was in the fifth grade. He was two years older than us and
a foot taller. He also had that kind of miss-shapen head that might
lead one to conclude there was an addition of a 24th chromosome. What
he lost in skull shape he made up in bulk. He had freak strength like
Lenny in “Of Mice and Men.” Looking back on him, he had nothing
but anger in him that was borne from God Knows Where. Perhaps Dad,
every older brother, even sister, abused him? So, in order to get
that poison out, you beat on others smaller than you. That's my
armchair diagnosis.
Due to his being a bully, no one liked
him. He'd pick his targets, torture them for a while till they howled
in submission. Then he'd feel fulfillment. In addition to that,
nearly failing every grade since kindergarten probably didn't help
his self worth too much. Low man on the Totem Pole Syndrome.
Sean got ahold of me one day in a sort
of ambush. I had been walking down Armistice Blvd when he came up
from behind and kept repeating my last name over and over. “M*h*n!
M*h*n! M*h*n! What kind of a name is that?” I almost wanted to say
what kind of name is “Duda,” as it sounded like it described the
person who owned it. Dud. I just kept walking forward hoping this
wouldn't lead anywhere as I knew I wasn't going to win anything
against this gorilla. No luck. Next thing I knew I was face down on
the front lawn of somebody's house.
“Eat it! EAT IT! EAT THE GRASS!” he
kept yelling. The funny thing was that he had pushed my face so hard
into the lawn that it was impossible to open my jaw. I also was so
thick headed then that I wouldn't do it, even though my nostrils were
filling with dirt. I kept trying to get his bulk off my body but it
was too much. After much shouting from both of us the owner of the
house, an older woman, comes out to shout at Duda to stop it.
Duda does, but he's sooo rebellious
that he starts yelling at the lady of the house. “You're not his
MOM! You CAN'T tell ME what to do!” She responded by telling him
it was “her property” and to get out. It took the kid a few
minutes to relent and leave.
**
Now, I was born with arms far too
skinny for use in many street fights. But what I had to do, what I
found effective, with duels against kids my age, was to go NUTS on
them. I needed to trip a particular circuit breaker. I may lose the
fight, but I am going to injure that son of a bitch somehow,
someway. After a while, most others learned it wasn't all that
profitable to deal with me if my temper was finally lost. When lost,
I knew of NO rules in fights...mud in the face, kicking you in the
gut...whatever worked. The fight ended with the other in a bit of
shock at seeing me wanting their liver on a stick. It was the switch
to anger that worked...if I got there.
There was one move I learned from my
brother. I learned it because that prick used it on me! He knew where
your adenoids were located, which is just behind the ear, that soft
spot in your skull and he'd press his finger into it as hard as he
could. The pain is exquisite!
So, in one tussle with Chuck, I managed
to jam my finger into his adenoids and the screaming was wonderful!
That until he lost it and sunk his fist into my nose. The point
being? No fight was going to have me lose 100%. Nope...I'll get my
pound of flesh somehow.
But all of that was worthless against
Duda. I was outmatched entirely by his age, size and mental instability.
**
After that tussle with Duda on the
front lawn, I seethed for days. I mean SEETHED. I wanted that
bastard to get hit by a truck, train...a group of apes carrying
bricks. As many 8 year old boys will attest, fantasy is great and
mine was seeing Duda dipped in molten lead. These fantasies went on
but they began to change into a rational, cool-headed plan for
revenge.
We kids in that neighborhood loved
street hockey. We all had hockey sticks and if we didn't have one
personally, we looked around and one would come up. All of them
probably said “Bobby Orr Special” on them as he was a local hero
then. Some of you are saying..”Bobby Who?” Aghh! I'm old!
If you take the blade off the end of a
hockey stick, you have one hell of a strong piece of wood. We boys
had those too and we'd turn them into guns, swords, canes, tai chi
warfare sticks or whatever we imagined. These sticks were nearly
indestructible! Because there were so many of them lying around in
1973, you could pick one off the street or garbage nearly anywhere in
this neighborhood.
While walking to school one day, I
passed a house on Bloomfield St and sticking out of the can was a
nice looking hockey stick sans the blade. I examined it then tossed
it in the narrow passage of a garage and line of thick yew bushes,
knowing that it would be there to pick up and take home.
I walked home and forgot about it
entirely. Till a few days later when I got an idea.
One thing I did noticed at times, and
this was a survival tactic for us younger kids, was to know where
Duda was if he was around. I began to notice he'd walk the same path
as me on the way home, for about half of it and I worried that he'd
find my hockey stick. So while he was busy, about 50 feet back, I
stepped off the sidewalk and kicked the stick even further into the
passage.
I began to dream of way to get him
again and I thought of whacking him with the hockey stick. But I
couldn't do that one on one. He'd be momentarily shocked, due to his
having 3 brain cells. He'd come around then use the stick on me. I
needed a smarter idea.
Here's what I came up with. I figured
if I ran ahead my way home one day, I'd get to that well tree'd and
hidden passageway by the garage before he did. I could ambush him
there. Ahh...another problem arose. Identification. I can't have him
know it was me that nailed him. He'd plan his own revenge and it
would be merciless. I needed a disguise.
Back in the early 70's, we kids had a
jacket called Lumberjack coats. They were cheap, bought at Ann &
Hope and looked like a very heavy, rug insulated flannel shirt. I had
one. Mine was autumn colored with browns, reds and oranges. I noticed
that you could turn it inside out and only the rug insulation side
would be exposed. I also had a few ski mask for winter. Hey! It's
all coming together!
I got to the passageway way before
anyone else did as I ran nearly the whole way there. I took off my
coat, reversed it, took off my glasses and put them in my pocket and
then pulled out the ski mask. I then got the hockey stick, crouched
and waited. Kid after kid came by but none were Duda. Then finally,
there he was! He was walking alone, lost in simple thoughts as he
approached. I got up, went as close to the end of the yews as I
could and I just tightened up, wound up like a bear trap. I could see
him approaching through gaps in the yew and then...then..wait...NOW!
I stepped out like a batter on home
base and I swung like I was going to crack this one out of the park.
I probably had perfect from too. I knew enough not to crank him in
the face so I aimed at his gut with all of my 8 year old arms.
WHACK!
I didn't stay long enough. I darted
back down the passage way that opened into the next neighbor's yard.
By the time I hit the opposite street, Hatfield, I had reversed my
coat back to it's normal side and had pulled off the mask. The stick
I shoved into another bush to be claimed later. I tried to calm down
from that and look as normal as possible and look like just another
kid walking home from school. Hmmm..this sounds like Micheal Corleone when he hit McCluskey and Sollozzo, all planned and executed.
**
Duda hadn't shown up for school for
three days and on the fourth, he finally did, with his Dad, just
outside of our class with Mr. Collette, the principal. Our teacher,
Mrs. Keough, goes out there to find out what's up and we can overhear
the conversation. Duda's Dad was incensed that someone from this
school ambushed his kid and ended up at our class because Duda
fingered me. I guess Duda had seen just enough of me to whittle down
the possible suspects. All three come into the classroom and then
I'm asked to show my coat that I wore. To tell you the truth, I
wasn't worried. I showed them. The Principal Collette then says to
Duda's Dad, “It's a multi-colored coat...not solid brown like your
son says.”
“But it's brown on the inside!” the
moron retorts.
Collette looks askance at the kid and
Dad when he heard this. Obviously an 8 year old doesn't have the
frame of mind to turn it inside out when committing crimes. I stood
there with this look of confusion on my face, just to add to the principal's
doubt.
Duda's Dad has to say something, “Mr.
Collette..someone has been going after my son and I KNOW it has to be
one of the students here!”
Collette, who seemed annoyed that his
time was being wasted says again, “THAT coat is multi-colored and
your son said it was someone in a BROWN coat....”
They both left our room and I sat there
with this beautiful, shit eating grin.
I had found out later why the Dad was
involved. I had hit the kid so hard that I didn't leave just a red
mark nor a raised red welt but a scary, half foot long deep bruise
across his abdomen.
A week or so later, the same Duda kid
comes to our recess period to beat on some other kids. He had one
pinned in the corner of the school building, whomping on him. Mrs. Keough sees this and runs over to stop it. We then ask her why he wasn't in
class and she wondered the same thing as he was in 5th and this was a 3rd grade recess. The kid we found out routinely
would wander off when he wanted too and torment others, go to the
store or go home early.
Within a few months of this, we found
out Duda wasn't in our school anymore. He had screwed up his grades,
social standing and his misbehavior was culminating to his being
thrown out of Potter's school. He was then sent to...gasp! Fallon
School! Fallon School back then was where they stuck all the
dimwitted ones. Fallon was the last stop before they shipped you to
the Ladd Center in Exeter.
I never saw him again.
I don't regret one single thing I did.
This was 44 years ago and I fully
admit my actions. You're the first to know!
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