Bullied

by Patrick Connolly

  I feel the fear and it is worse than ever. My whole body is shaking while I stand in my bedroom wondering what will happen tomorrow and how I am going to live through it. Whatever happens in the future, I am not ready yet but I know that I will be more than ready, some day.

  In spite of everything going on and my increased desperation, the school year is moving on. This feeling of dread, mixed with the other powerful surges of sexual energy, occupies my thoughts and attention for the whole day, every day. I am relieved to hear from other boys that I was not the only one experiencing these new feelings, that some of their parents told them it was just part of growing up. Other kids would show me their boners in the rest room and tell me that for them, it was always that way, every day. “What do you do about it?” I asked. “Just rub it and think of Elizabeth’s breasts”, was the reply. I already knew about that strategy to get rid of this feeling, but, even at three times a day, it only works for just a little while and then all those feelings come back again.

  The next day, I am in the boys’ rest room on our break. I stand next to Fred at the urinals and we are both relieving ourselves. Fred showed me his boner, and said,

  “Did you see Barbara Taylor’s breasts today? The uniform she is wearing really shows them off!”

  I reply, “Yeah, her breasts look really great today. Fred, what do you think “having sex” means?” I asked. Fred gave me his theory, that having sex had “something to do with girls ears”. I know that is not right because I have looked into both my Sisters and Mothers ears and I knew I could not get a boner in there. We both zipped up and went to our next class, Religion. I guess Fred does not know any more about it than I do.

  Sister Honorine stands in front of the classroom as we take our seats. Fred was in the third row and I was in the second but our desks were right next to each other across a small aisle. When the class was ready, Sister Honorine said,

  “Today we are going to have Father O’Malley come in and speak to the boys so we are going to have all the girls come with me to another classroom down the hall. Get up now and come with me, all girls in this class. Come on.”

  The girls all stood up and slowly left the room with Sister Honorine. Fred and I saw Barbara Taylor in her tight fitting uniform get up and get in line to leave the room. Fred and I both watched her as she left. When she went out the door, Fred and I looked at each other and grinned.

  At that moment Fred and I were grinning about Barbara, Father O’Malley came into the room, walked to the front of the room and slammed a book on the desk.

  “Quiet, you boys! We have something to talk about today of great importance.” Appearing very upset and agitated for some reason, he seemed to look directly in Fred and my direction and went on,

  ”You are probably going to be familiar with today’s topic. In these days, we hear this awful music called Rock and Roll everywhere. Some of these songs are immoral and you need to know this, if you ever want to go to heaven! For example, one very popular song out there is the height of immorality! The name of this song is, Standing on the corner, watching all the girls go by, but then it goes on with the words, You can’t go to jail for what you’re thinking or that wild look in your eye. Well, you boys need to understand that,” He suddenly shouted at the top of his lungs“, you might not go to jail but you can still GO TO HELL for what you are thinking!”

  I looked at Fred and he looked back at me with a very scared expression on his face. Oh my God, Father O’Malley knows what we were thinking! That fear of going to hell came into my stomach. We sat very still, with our hands clasped, looking straight ahead, as he went on. “Another really immoral rock and roll star, demonstrates how vulgar the music is, by swiveling his hips in a suggestive manner while singing.” Fred and I both knew who this was, it was Elvis Presley but I really did not know why Elvis swiveling his hips was “suggestive”. Father continued in a very loud rant about rock and roll music and why it should be banned and how it was going to “pave the way to hell” for all the boys in this room. The room was very quiet while Father continued to speak for almost thirty minutes on this subject. Fred looked very worried at the end of the talk. I knew how he felt, because I felt the same way.

  When Father ended the talk, he said,

  “Now we are going to ask the girls to come back into the classroom and Sister can continue with the scheduled instruction.” The girls started coming back in the room. Many had their heads down, some seemed to be blushing and a few of them seemed to search the faces of some of the boys for a hint of what went on in our private session. Evidently, they had just received a female version of what we just went through with the shouting and ranting Priest.

  I know that many other boys my age are also very confused over why we have the overwhelming feelings in our chest, crotch, erections, and share a never-ending interest in the body parts of the females. It is a huge mystery and no one seems to want to tell us about what all this means. The only thing that they would occasionally say was that “making love” was only for marriage and that no one should “make love” unless they are married to each other. The main problem is that I do not even know what “making love” really means. If I had a Daddy, I would ask him. I do not have a Daddy, and I do not dare ask Grandpa.

  One day, I heard one of the other kids say," Getting a boner and having all these feelings are just part of becoming a man”. I think he said that his Daddy told him that. Whatever the reason is for all these feelings, they seem somehow related to this noticeable change in behavior in boys my age.

  One of the biggest examples of this sudden change in behavior is the son of one of my customers for the paper that I have to collect from twice a month. They have a kid who is a little older than I am and very tall. During the past two years, when I came to the door, he would just simply go get his mother to come and pay me. Now, when I go to his home he grabs me by the shirt and slaps me in the face two or three times. On the other hand, he may punch me in the chest or stomach if his Mom is not nearby. Like many kids I know, he has changed and this is bad for me.

  It makes me very scared just going to his door to collect for the newspaper that I leave at his house six days a week. What makes it worse now, is that his mother is not home much of the time and I have to come back to his door two or three times, until she is at home. This is scary, because most of the time my paper route is an escape from the daily bullying that I experience at school. This is just another terrifying situation I have to worry about every two weeks and I do not know what I am going to do, but I have to do something.

  One day in class, we are studying Geometry and Sister was talking about something called an “isosceles triangle”. If you take a regular, evenly shaped triangle and draw a line from the top point of the triangle down to the base where it splits the base evenly, and then take away one half of the triangle you now have an Isosceles triangle. What this means, according to the teacher, is if the distance from the lower sharp corner of the triangle to the bottom of the perpendicular line is the same in inches or feet or yards, the length of the line at an angle reaching the top will always be the same length. Looking at the angled line alone, it means that if the angled line is the same length, the line going from the bottom corner to the perpendicular line will always be the same dimension as well. Interesting, I thought, maybe this can help me punch that tall boy, Jerry that hurts me whenever I come to his house to collect for the paper.

  After Dinner that night, I am in my bedroom with the door closed. On a blank piece of paper taped to the back of the door, from memory, with a ruler, I carefully draw the isosceles triangle and then draw another line directly on the door at the exact height where I think Jerry’s nose is. Next, I reach up with my right hand with a clenched fist and put it on the mark, indicating the position of his nose. After that, I take my ruler and carefully measure the distance between my chest and the door. So, what this means is that if I am standing this far away from him, my fist should be able to hit him directly on the nose, if I
keep it stiff and swing it in an arc. Ok, I need to practice this and see if it works.

  Putting down the ruler, I walk up to the door, look down at my chest and put myself the right estimated distance from the door. Swinging my arm in an arc, I strike the door. Missed the line, I thought. I made an adjustment by moving slightly to my left and tried it again. Close, I thought, but let’s practice some more until I get it right every time. Remembering and feeling the punches I had already received from Jerry, I started to feel anger. My knuckles hurt now and hurt more every time I hit the door, but I had to get this right. I did it one more time, so hard it made my knuckles start to bleed, but hitting the mark exactly and leaving a spot of blood on it.

  “What are you doing in there? Stop making that noise!” Mom yelled from the kitchen.

  I look at my bleeding knuckles, some of the skin is peeling back from them and my hand is throbbing with pain. It is a good pain though, better than that pain in my stomach that I wake up with every day. I guess I cannot practice any more today but I will tomorrow, before Mom gets home from work or possibly tonight after dinner, if she goes downstairs to talk to Grandma. For now, there is an unusual funny warm feeling in my chest, my right elbow hurts a little and the pain from the fear is there. When the pain is at this level, I cannot think of anything else except the rotten people that hurt me, and how I am going to hurt them back.

  A question suddenly pops into my mind; did I really put the line at the correct location for his nose? You know, I am not sure of this. Well, maybe I ought to go back to his house to collect one more time and look. I must wait a week before it is time to collect from his Mom again. In the meantime, I continue to practice hitting the mark whenever Mom was not upstairs. One day I forgot she was there and hit the door a couple of times before she screamed at me again. That evening, when we sat down for dinner she noticed the cuts on my knuckles and said,

  “What did you do to put those cuts on your hand?” she asked.

  “I fell down” I lied.

  She looked at me skeptically and tilted her face slightly to the left. I do not think she believed me, I thought.

  Before going back to see Jerry at his house, I measured the length of a rolled up newspaper in inches and wrote that number down. When I was out peddling papers that day, I walked up to the house with a rolled up newspaper in my hand. As I hoped, Jerry came to the door.

  “Little short red ass, the little shit,” he said.

  “Collecting,” I said. Then I handed him the newspaper as high as I could reach and in an upright position, while taking careful note how the length of the newspaper looked according to the difference in our heights. Abruptly, he snatched it from my hands and started hitting me on the face with it. First, he hit me first directly on the nose, then on the right side and then on the left side of my face. With my face hurting, and some tears in my eyes, I took a long look at the position and location of his nose. Then he told me that his Mother was not home and that I would have to come back to collect another day. He grinned widely. I hate this person and want to kill him, I thought. I walked away, and for the very first time in my life that I could remember, I was feeling a lot more anger than pain or fear. I am going to fix him good.

  Back in my room that night, first, I drew another line that was about two inches below the previous one indicating a more accurate position of his nose. Then I took a rolled up newspaper and using it, again estimated where his nose would be. After drawing another line on the door that was fairly close to the last one drawn, the last line I drew seemed to be exactly in the right location. Next, I went through the process of stretching my right hand out with a clenched fist on the mark, and then measured the distance between the door and my chest again. After that, ruler in hand, I walked up to the door a lot of times to practice, stood the estimated distance from the door, and verified it with my knuckles on the mark. It was easier now to check if I was hitting the mark accurately because my knuckles would leave red marks on them from the blood. I think I am ready.

  The next day, I tried to get my route done as early in the afternoon as possible so I would not have that big paper bag on me when I went to his door. I hope that his Mom will not be home this time but, to be sure, I have to get there as early as possible. Arriving at his house, I rang the bell and opened the screen door.

  Jerry came to the door and said,

  “Hello, little redhead shit, red shit, red shit” He then grabbed me by the shirt. I looked down and measured the distance between my chest and his big belt buckle, moved slightly to my left so my right arm, when extended, would be in the same vertical location as the belt buckle, and swung my right arm in a stiff arc, as hard as I could. I did not see my fist strike his nose because I was still looking at his big belt buckle to estimate the distance, but I heard a loud smacking sound and was surprised when he dropped to one knee in the doorway. Then he then began crying hysterically and walked away toward the kitchen, screaming, “Mom, Mom, Mom”. I ran away from the door as fast as I could, very pleased with myself but still surprised at the great results. Geometry sure is a great subject!

  A few days later, I got a call from Mr. Garvey, my Manager at The Endicott Daily Bulletin and he asked me to come in to his office. I knew Mr. Garvey liked me because I was good at getting new subscriptions for the paper and had won a recent contest. As a prize for winning that contest, he had taken me and several other boys on a paid trip to New York City for a weekend.

  The next day, before delivering my papers, I walked into the Daily Bulletin office on Main Street and asked to speak to Mr. Garvey. They showed me to his office and I sat in the chair on the other side of his desk. He said, "You know I just got a visit from one of your customers and the woman brought her son in here with her. The boy has two black eyes and his Mom is very upset with you for punching her son at their front door one day last week.”

  I told Mr. Garvey the whole story about how long this kid has been hitting me whenever I came to collect for the Bulletin and that I had finally had enough. Mr. Garvey looked at me very seriously for a long moment, then finally smiled, and said, “Those were two really big black eyes you gave him, have you seen them?” “No, I replied, I just ran away so he couldn’t hit me anymore.”

  “He's a really big kid, isn't he? He looks like he is at least a foot taller than you are! He shook his head with an amused look on his face.

  “You really did a number on him.” he chuckled. He stood up and I knew our meeting was over.

  “All right, Patrick, you be a good boy and please try not to hit any more of our customers, okay?”

  As I walk out of his office, he is still standing, shaking his head and grinning as he picks up his telephone. Two days later, I got a notice that Jerry’s Mom had cancelled her subscription to the Bulletin. I was elated and never went back to collect the money she owed me, even though it would come out of my pay. I was never so glad to lose a customer.

  After that, kids starting coming up to me asking how I gave Jerry two big black eyes. The bigger kids tried to persuade Jerry and me that we should “finish the fight.” This went on for weeks. During that entire time, Jerry walked around with two black eyes from my punch to his nose. He got a great deal of interest wherever he went. I heard about him and his black eyes at least once every day. One day, after finishing my paper route and I am walking home, a number of the bigger neighborhood kids surrounded me and told me they were going to make me finish the fight with Jerry. They said that the fight should happen at the Triangle, which was a piece of land between Main Street and Broad Street that ran southeast to St Ambrose Elementary School. The Triangle was too small to build a house on and so it was just a small little public park with some big trees on it. This commotion had gone on a long time now over this fight and I wanted to be finished with it. After a lot of coercion, I finally agreed that I would come to the Triangle after dinner tonight.

  That evening, there was a knock on the kitchen door of my house on the second floor and it was a fri
end of mine named John.

  “Hey, Pat, are you ready to go to the Triangle?” he said.

  “Ok, I am ready. Do you think Jerry will show up?” I asked.

  “He is already there, with a bunch of kids, too,” he replied

  “Who else is there?” I asked.

  “Everybody from the neighborhood and some kids from school”, John said.

  “Oh, God, why are so many kids there?” I asked, astonished.

  “Everybody knows about the black eyes you gave to Jerry and they want to see this fight,” John said.

  “OK, let’s go”, I said as I put on my jacket and we walk out the door, down the back staircase and out to the front sidewalk. The “Triangle” was just at the end of this block with only one street to cross before we were there.

  As we near the Triangle, I could see the large number of kids there, waiting for the fight to begin. I was amazed, this was the only time in my life that this many people wanted to show up to watch me do anything. I did not think anyone would be interested. As I was crossing the street near the Triangle, to my surprise, some of the kids actually cheered. There was a large open area in the middle of the property where we got ready.

  Jerry was there and I laughed when I saw his two big black eyes. I guess punching a person directly on the nose can really cause some damage, in addition to the eyes tearing and resulting difficulty seeing that I experienced many times. Jerry did not look too happy to be there, so I assumed that a few of these kids forced him to show up, probably as they did to me.

  “Start the fight, come on Pat. Come on, Jerry”, Big Bernie said, with a big grin.

  Two kids actually gave Jerry a little shove into the center of the clear area.

  I really do not want to fight, but I have no choice. To back out of the fight right now would cause me a lot of trouble later. Got enough trouble already, I thought.