On Bullies
Coming to Your Neighborhood Any Day Now
I knew a bully in grammar school, whose name was Ted. I feel comfortable sharing his name because anyone as mean and nasty and prone to physical violence as Ted was is probably dead or incarcerated by now. “But then,” you might say, “if meanness and lack of humanity condemns one to death or incarceration, how do you explain the clear and present danger of Donald Trump and his minions?”
To which I have no answer, except to point you toward the history of civilization….
One day after class, in seventh grade, I saw a crowd of kids forming a circle around a section of an asphalt running track. Thinking someone had passed out or had been injured, I pushed through a few rows of kids where I saw Billy Cunningham, on his knees, looking up at Ted with tears in his eyes. Ted was big for his age. He always wore blue jeans and tight white T-shirts with the sleeves rolled up a few inches. His hair was short and black as his eyes, which were framed by tiny Hitler-like moustaches, so that his face looked more like a mask than a face.
In contrast, Billy was a skinny little redhead, a kid I sat with at lunch a few times when the one friend he had was sick or absent. It always scared me to see Billy alone, probably because the year before a kid who was a loner and often bullied had hung himself from a tree overlooking a nearby pond.
And now it seemed as if Ted had singled out another loner. He had gotten it into his disturbed head to make Billy get on his knees and place his tongue on the hot asphalt while forcing him to move forward, slowly as a snail. Everyone seemed mesmerized by this prospect. I knew the kids in the audience. They weren’t bullies, so how could they accept this behavior? Even I watched for a few moments until Ted decided he wanted to tie Billy’s hands behind his back with a red bandanna before making him do the deed. That’s when I interrupted Ted’s fun, helped Billy to his feet, and led him away toward the school’s entrance, hoping Ted wouldn’t follow.
As we walked, I waited to get tackled from behind or punched in the back of the head, but those attacks never occurred. Certainly, Ted wasn’t afraid of me. I was tall and athletic, but I was no fighter. But I was popular, so maybe he did the mental math that he would forever lose his audience if he beat up someone like me.
I’d like to say that this story proves that I am a superior person but that would be nonsense. I just knew, intuitively, that it was the right thing to do. But if so, what was wrong with all the other kids who were ready to watch Billy be humiliated in such a way that he would never be the same again.
I relate this event when I visit middle schools that have adopted one of my novels as the all-school read. Then I remind them that most middle school and YA novels have bullies, and nearly every kid who reads those books say they hate these bullies. “But if that’s true,” I say, “then why do kids stand by like idiots while these bullies inflict physical and emotional pain on vulnerable classmates.? All you’d have to do is to surround the bully and tell him to back off.”
I never really get a good answer to this question. And yet it’s important question because middle-grade bullies become adult bullies, or worse, politicians who have the ability to mobilize other bullies to do weird things like storming the U.S. Capitol or marching with torches and shouting, “Jews will not replace us.”
The following is a short story from my relatively recently published novel-in-stories, called SHOT (URL at the bottom of this essay). In it we find some of my favorite geek characters who end up encountering two bullies: one unredeemable; the other who lives by a bully code of honor that we can almost find noble.
Muscle
At the sound of the bang, Robert nearly fell off the edge of his bed.
He’d been teaching himself Latin when he’d nodded off to amo, amas, amat echoing in his ears. The discipline of conjugating Latin verbs would’ve been torture for most kids, but to Robert the letters and words sang as sweetly as any backyard bird, each utterance a tiny door leading him to a past world so different from his own.
From his bedroom window he could see in the distance the calm flatness of Echo Pond. The noise seemed to come from there. Probably someone clumsily loading a boat onto a trailer after a late night of fishing.
But then again maybe the bang was a dream sound. It wasn’t unlike Robert to be chased or shot at in nightmares, though at that moment he couldn’t remember what images had filled his head only minutes before.
Besides Latin verbs, Robert was thinking about his name. How formal it was. Kids had tried to call him Bob, or Bobby, or Rob, but his mother made sure the Robert stuck. It was her father’s name, and, as she never failed to mention, “No one ever called him Bob. Nicknames are for pets.”
He wondered if a name actually changed a person. He pictured a kid named Rob, fifteen pounds lighter than him, running track or sinking a three-pointer to win the big game, a kid with a flat stomach who Dory Scheff and her crew would admire as he swaggered past their lockers. He wondered if you could be that kind of guy and still be interesting, because, in spite of his looks, Robert knew he was interesting.
“There are two kinds of people in this world,” his mother once said, “those who read and those who don’t read,” and Robert had certainly read. He had devoured novels by authors other kids hated. He had read biographies, mythology, sports books, science books, even a book on the invention of dirigibles.
Could you be this imaginary Rob and still be able to carry on intelligent conversations with other interesting people? One thing for sure, no one could ever say Robert didn’t have interesting friends. There was Marty Scanlon, who knew more about film than Spike Lee; Marty’s girlfriend, Lucille Gorski, who’d read even more than Robert; and X-Ray, a black kid who spoke like a poet and was so far out on the fringe he sometimes spooked people.
But of all of Robert’s friends, Rishi Patil and Barney Roth were the ones he found most interesting.
Barney Roth. No chance of being cool with that name. But Barney and Rishi and the others got along, so much so that since sixth grade, they were banished (happily, from their point of view) to their own lunch table because no one knew what to make of them. A kid might ask Barney, “What’s up?” and he was more than capable of quoting a price from the Stock Exchange. Or if he was in a real bad mood and wanted to bust someone, he’d say, “What’s up? The Carbon Index, because of that gas-guzzling Land Rover your dad just bought,” or “What’s up? The ticket price to La Traviata,” which would make kids run off to the Internet to see if they’d been insulted.
It was one thing to be smart, but another to be so smart that only two or three other people knew what you were talking about, so that your jokes either went totally unnoticed or appeared to be insults that seriously annoyed people.
And that’s what happened to Robert about three weeks before that bang jolted him from his nap. It started when he ran into Campbell McVeigh one night outside of the hardware store where he’d gone to buy plastic for a miniature hovercraft he was building. Campbell usually looked like that good-looking, confident Rob who Robert imagined himself being, though, at that moment, he was sitting unhappily on a curb. He tried to smile at Robert, but nothing could hide the fact that he was having a bad night: not his wavy blond hair, perfectly clipped an inch above his collar; not his electric blue eyes; and not those annoyingly adorable dimples God had blessed him with.
So Robert was stunned when Campbell said, “What’s up, Hammersmith?”
Robert thought about saying, “The Carbon Index,” but he was more politic than Barney, not to mention it would be bush league to steal Barney’s material.
Campbell smiled again, those two dimples sinking deeper into his cheeks. “I said, What’s up?”
“Just buying a few sheets of plastic,” Robert said.
“Plastic?”
“Yeah, for a hovercraft.”
Campbell started to laugh.
“A miniature hovercraft.”
“I wish that’s all I had to think about,” Campbell said.
All he had to think about? Did he have any idea how hard it was to make a hovercraft?
“Yeah,” was all Robert could counter with.
Campbell stood, then slowly raised his hands over his head, as if stretching. He was a foot taller than Robert. “Would you mind walking with me, Maurice?” he said.
“My name’s Robert.”
“Sorry, I thought it was Maurice. I’m probably thinking about your friend, the tall Pakistani dude who’s always in the Science Olympiad.”
“His name’s Rishi, and he’s Indian.”
“Well, I know there’s some ridiculously smart kid named Maurice somewhere.”
“That would probably be a safe bet.”
Campbell looked startled, and then pissed off. He could be unpredictable and spooky like that. He rarely blinked, as if wires were crossed and constantly misfiring in his head. Robert had also heard that his family was into guns. “You making fun of me?” Campbell said.
That certainly wouldn’t be hard, Robert thought, but he decided not to be too smart that night. His mother always said it was important for “people like us” to “reach out” to people like Campbell, “not to kiss their behinds, mind you,” but “to let them know we Hammersmiths can carry our own weight.”
So Robert decided to do some reaching out. “No, I wasn’t making fun of you. I guess I’m just distracted.”
That response seemed to relax Campbell. “Well then, Maurice, would you mind walking with me?”
“It’s Robert.”
Campbell rested a hand on Robert’s shoulder. “Sorry, it won’t happen again. I’m on my way to Rite Aid, and I have a problem you might be able to solve.”
A problem? Robert thought. What kind of problem does a kid like Campbell McVeigh have? Jock itch? A pair of lost Wayfarers?
“There’s this girl,” Campbell said, “and, well, you know how it goes. One thing, then the next, and it looks like I’ll need some condoms. The problem is, the pharmacist is my mother’s friend and the condoms are right under her nose.”
“Why don’t you go to the Rite Aid in Riverside?” Robert suggested.
“No, that’s too far and I have to meet this girl right now,” Campbell said, winking. “Get my drift?”
Although Robert did, indeed, get Campbell’s drift, he knew absolutely nothing about condoms.
“So,” Campbell said, “when I saw you going into the hardware store, I thought, ‘Now there’s a smart dude who might be able to help.’”
Robert kept placing one foot after the other, walking mindlessly with Campbell.
“Being smart doesn’t have anything to do with buying condoms,” Robert said.
“For some reason, Robert, I have a feeling you won’t have a problem.”
Robert knew exactly what accounted for that feeling. He knew that Campbell knew that when the cashier took one look at Robert, this short, slightly overweight kid with freckles and longish curly black hair, she’d think he was buying the condoms for someone else, maybe his older brother.
“You think you could do this for me, Robert?” Campbell asked. “I’ll make it up to you. Promise.” He spoke almost in a whisper, as if he and Robert were partners in some grand conspiracy.
Robert’s first reaction was to tell Campbell to go to hell, but he was intrigued by the idea of being on an adventure with a guy like Campbell. He often thought the cool kids would like him if they ever took the time, and here was his chance. No doubt Campbell would tell everyone how Robert helped him to get laid. But Robert wanted more than that.
“Who’s the girl?” he asked.
Campbell’s head snapped back. “Ah, come on, I can’t tell you that.”
“No name, no condoms,” Robert said, enjoying his advantage.
Campbell’s eyes narrowed as he sized up Robert. “So you’re a tough little guy, huh?”
Hey, why not? Robert thought, smiling.
Campbell hesitated, then said, “Dory Scheff.”
Robert tried to look unaffected, but he couldn’t stop his heart from plunging somewhere in the general vicinity of his large intestines. Since sophomore year, Dory’s face had been the one he had mentally transplanted onto his fantasy girls. This put him in a strange position. How could he buy the condoms, then go home and sleep soundly with the image of a dummy like Campbell mounting the main object of his desire?
So he was surprised to find himself five minutes later clutching the twenty-dollar bill Campbell had given him and staring at dozens of brands of condoms dangling from a row of metal hooks. It was more disorienting than navigating the cereal aisle in the grocery store. So many brands and no way to know the best one. There were latex condoms, others made from polyisoprene (whatever that was). There were condoms that sped up or slowed down ejaculation. There was one brand with a “reservoir tip and a silky smooth and long-lasting lubricant,” and another one you could put on with one hand. There were regular, large, and extra-large condoms, and even one that gave you a coupon for a vibrator.
Faced with such mind-boggling variety, Robert was almost (almost) glad he was still a virgin. But he was also angry he’d put himself in this situation. To make matters worse, Heather James, a classmate and an acolyte at his church, was working the cash register. He knew he couldn’t look into those God-fearing blue eyes and ask her to ring up a package of Durex Avanti Bare Latex Condoms. But most of all he was mad at Campbell, who was probably sitting on a promotional lawn chair outside sliding glass doors laughing his ass off.
And that’s when he got his idea to steal a box of the largest condoms available. It was a black box with NINJA printed boldly in gold on the outside. Under the NINJA, in smaller type, was be a warrior, and under that, extra extra large and long condoms. He thought Campbell would like the warrior part, but with his huge ego he’d never consider whether the condoms would be too big.
Although Robert had never stolen anything before, a different Robert (maybe that Rob with the flat stomach) was in charge now, so he scanned the store to see if he was being watched before sliding the box into his pocket. Once it was hidden, he opened it with one hand, took out the three attached packets, then hid the empty box next to a display of protein bars. He bought a bar on his way out and even chatted with Heather James about church school.
Outside, he handed the condoms to Campbell.
“Ninja,” Campbell said, looking at the packet. Then, “Warrior. I like that.” Followed by, “Why aren’t they in a box?”
“I stole them,” Robert said.
Campbell looked around as if expecting the condom police to show up. “That took balls, Maurice.”
Robert sure didn’t feel ballsy. In fact, he felt just the opposite, as if he had somehow betrayed all the interesting, unattractive people all over the world, particularly those kids who had ever been called geeks or losers, the ones who sat home on Saturday nights watching old Twilight Zone episodes while the cool kids smoked dope and got laid.
“Yeah, Maurice,” Campbell said. “Real balls.” Then he thanked Robert before walking away.
“It’s Robert,” Robert said, but Campbell wasn’t listening.
A few days later Robert was hanging out after school by the bike rack with Barney and Rishi. Barney was describing an old X-Files episode about an archangel who was sent to bring girls he’d fathered back to heaven. “He had to fry them with heavenly light before taking their souls,” Barney said. “Now that’s the kind of God I could believe in.”
“I remember that episode,” Rishi said. “But it wasn’t based on the Bible. It was from a story even the Church thinks is bogus.”
“You mean in contrast to the fact-based Garden of Eden with the talking snake?”
“It was about love,” Robert said.
“What was?” Barney said.
“That episode. The angel loved the girls. He wanted to put them out of their pain.”
“So he fried them? I mean, there was smoke coming out of their eyes.”
The three of them would have argued all afternoon if they hadn’t been interrupted by the tennis team heading for the courts, led by Campbell McVeigh. Robert had seen him a few times since he’d bought the condoms. He had expected him to say hi or at least to pat him on the back, but it seemed Robert’s plan had worked too well and Campbell had figured it out. Robert had told Barney and Rishi about the Extra Extra Large and Long Condoms and had sworn them to secrecy, which was driving Barney nuts.
But all that was about to change.
At first, Campbell looked like he might pass harmlessly by, but then he veered off, stopping a few feet away.
“You guys having a good time?”
Rishi and Barney weren’t used to being talked to by kids like Campbell unless they were being insulted, so even Barney was speechless for a second.
“You knew about the condoms, didn’t you?” Campbell said.
“The condoms?” Robert said.
Campbell pointed his racket at Robert. “You know what I’m talking about, Maurice.”
Robert continued to play dumb, and for a second he thought he might pull it off, but then Barney had to get cute. “His name’s Robert.”
“Maurice. Robert. What does it matter? You guys are almost invisible anyway.”
“You mean like your penis?” Barney said.
“Cool it, Barney,” Robert said.
“You told these geeks?” Campbell said. “Anyone else know?”
“Relax, Campbell,” Robert said. “I think there’s been a misunderstanding.”
“More like a mismeasurement,” Barney said. “Dude, do you know the penis you have at eighteen is the one you’re stuck with for the rest of your life?”
“Now you’re in real fucking trouble, Maurice,” Campbell said.
“What’s with this guy?” Barney said. “He’s got the short-term memory of a squirrel.”
Robert almost laughed at that one, but the demented look on Campbell’s face stifled that impulse.
As Campbell continued to glare at him, gripping his racket, Robert wondered if anyone had ever been murdered with such a weapon.
“Fuck all of you dinks,” Campbell said before trotting off toward the tennis courts.
Barney was about to offer a wisecrack, probably on the word dink, when Robert said, “Shut up, Barney. You just made everything worse.”
“You mean you won’t be going to the prom with him? What’s up, Robert? That fuckhead can’t even get your name right. Why do you care what he thinks?”
“Barney’s got a point,” Rishi said.
“Oh, fuck you, Reesh,” Robert said.
“Totally unnecessary,” Rishi said.
Which got them all sniping at each other until they went their separate ways.
The next week was torture for Robert. Every time Campbell or one of his friends passed him in the hall, they’d bump him hard, trying to knock off his backpack. One time, Campbell, pretending to be helpful, picked up the backpack but then swung it into Robert’s balls. Robert went to his knees while a group of jocks laughed loudly. For the rest of the day he found himself involuntarily twitching as he moved from class to class, wondering when the next attack would occur. He knew it was just a matter of time until Campbell got him alone and beat the hell out of him.
“We have to do something,” Barney said one day when he and Robert were sitting on a boat launch at Echo Pond, throwing tiny stones into the water.
“We?”
“Hey, it was my fault.”
“You’re evolving, Barney. It only took two weeks to admit that.”
“Sorry, but I couldn’t stand listening to that asshole.”
“Whatever, dude. I think I’m going to have to ride it out until school ends.”
“No, that’s too long. It’s time for Muscle.”
Robert laughed. “You don’t really think that exists, do you? That’d make you as dumb as Campbell.”
All of senior year there was a rumor that some badass guys had started a club called Muscle, and for a price they’d intimidate someone or even smack them around if necessary. Everyone knew that one of those guys had to be Adam Igoe, but who’d ever publicly say that unless they wanted to get punched out.
“I’ve done some checking,” Barney said, rubbing his hands together, very pleased with himself.
“You don’t let up, do you?”
“Just talk to Igoe. I told him you’d meet him at nine under that gazebo by the kids’ park.”
“Should I wear a disguise?”
“It’s up to you.”
Robert shook his head. “I was joking, Barney. What did you tell him?”
“Just general stuff.”
“And what did he say?”
“He said he’d been waiting a long time to hear from one of us. What do you think he meant by that?”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“I’m actually not.”
“He meant that we’re the kind of guys who get made fun of a lot.”
“Well, I don’t see that,” Barney said.
“Yeah, you probably don’t.”
Barney stood and threw a handful of dirt and stones into the woods behind him. “Whatever, Maurice, it’s your call. Do you want to be in therapy the rest of your life, flinching every time you walk by some kid at college, or do you want to strike back?”
And so Robert found himself under the gazebo shortly after nightfall, arranging to pay Adam Igoe twenty dollars down to intimidate Campbell McVeigh, then twenty dollars a few weeks later if Robert was satisfied. Much to Robert’s surprise, the first payment was worth it, since Campbell had stopped hassling him. That’s why he was glad that loud bang had jolted him awake. He owed Adam the remaining twenty dollars that night, and he didn’t want to keep him waiting.
For early June it was hot. By the time Robert reached the gazebo, the moon, almost full, had risen, a few stars taking their expected places in the sky. Adam was late, so Robert hoped he hadn’t messed up on the time. Normally, by 9 p.m. Robert’s town was as dead as Lindsay Lohan’s career, but red flashing lights and the wail of sirens filled the night. Cop cars went rushing by, and for a moment Robert thought they might be coming for him. Three weeks ago, who would’ve thought he’d end up stealing condoms and hiring a hit man?
Fortunately, the lights and wails disappeared down Spruce Street in the direction of Echo Pond. Before Robert could guess the reason for this unusual activity, he saw a figure in a white T-shirt exiting a wooded path behind him and walking slowly toward the gazebo.
It was Adam.
Adam wasn’t a tall dude, but he was solid. Barney called him The Hulk because he was so muscled that his arms and legs looked like thick intertwined ropes covered with a thin layer of skin. His head resembled a stripped skull—a chiseled appearance that was exaggerated by his shaved head. He had a strange habit of pursing his lips when annoyed, as he was now. “You didn’t call them, did you?” Adam said, in a voice as hoarse and menacing as a garbage disposal.
“Who?” Robert asked.
“The cops.”
“If I had, they wouldn’t have driven away.”
“You making fun of me?”
In fact, Robert wasn’t. “I’d never do that, dude,” he said.
Adam pursed his lips again. “I told you the last time not to call me dude. You stupid wangstas make me sick.” He pointed to the bench on the gazebo and gestured for Robert to sit down. “Welcome to my office.”
“What?”
“It was a joke, jerk-off.”
If Adam thought it was a joke, then that was good enough for Robert, so he laughed and sat down. He was surprised when Adam joined him. Adam rested his arm on top of the backrest behind Robert, so that Robert could see the dark hairs sprouting from his armpit. Noticing that Robert’s eyes were fixated there, Adam lowered his arm and placed his hands onto his lap, interlocking his fingers and sliding them slowly back and forth. “Campbell bothering you anymore?” he asked.
“No.”
“So do you have the rest of the money?”
Robert handed Adam some bills, which Adam stuffed into his back pocket.
“I want you to know I don’t have anything against you,” Adam said.
“Yeah, you made that clear before.”
“I mean, you don’t piss me off or anything.”
“Good.”
“Before I go, I need to show you something.”
“What?”
“Just follow me, okay?”
Robert shadowed Adam as he climbed down the gazebo and headed toward a path in the woods.
“Where’re we going?” Robert said.
“Just a little farther,” Adam said, leading Robert a few paces into the woods.
When they stopped, Adam said, “Nothing personal,” and he punched Robert in the face.
Robert lay on the ground, too afraid to stand.
“You can get up,” Adam said. “I’m not going to hit you again.”
Robert stood and rubbed the area below his cheekbone.
“I made sure I didn’t hit you square in the eye or nose,” Adam said, proud of his expertise.
“Why did you hit me at all?” Robert asked.
“Because Campbell paid me fifty bucks to do it.”
“But I paid you, too.”
Adam nodded. “Yeah, and I did what you wanted, right?”
“Does that mean we’re all square now?”
“Why? Are you going to the cops?”
That option had crossed Robert’s mind. “No,” he said.
“Why not?”
“Why do you care?”
Adam seemed offended. “I may seem like a dumb shit, but I’ve always wondered why people do things.”
“Like punching someone in the face?”
“No, I know why I did that.”
“If I don’t say why I’m not calling the cops,” Robert said, “are you going to hit me again?”
“No. Like I said, I like you better than Campbell. For another twenty-five bucks, I’ll kick his ass for you.”
“Only twenty-five?”
“Like I said, you’ve never done anything shitty to me. He has.”
“I’m not telling anyone, Adam,” Robert said, “because I’m afraid of you, and because I probably deserved to get punched for messing around with an asshole like Campbell.”
“Still, tell me if he hassles you. He knows I’m watching him.”
“I guess I’m supposed to say thanks.”
“You trying to be funny again?”
Robert rubbed the welt beginning to rise from his cheek. “I’m not feeling very funny right now.”
“Just one more thing,” Adam said.
Robert was waiting for Adam to pull out a knife and stab him a few times. What was the going rate for that?
“What?” Robert asked.
“Part of the deal was that I had to say something before I left.”
“Sure, go ahead.”
“Campbell said to say, ‘Fuck you, Maurice, since you’ll never get the pieces of ass I’ve had, even if you have a dick that fits those condoms.’ Remember, that’s coming from him, not me.”
“I appreciate that.”
“I won’t ask what he meant.”
“I appreciate that, too.”
Before Adam left, he held out his hand, and Robert shook it. “I’d put some ice on your face when you get home,” he said, then turned and disappeared into the woods, apparently unafraid of any wild animals or nutcases lurking there.
To get home, Robert had to take a road that crossed Spruce Street. Up ahead he noticed flashing lights from two police cars that were parked in a lot near the bike path. He went up to a cop and asked what was going on.
“Just move along,” the cop said.
Robert was about to leave when another cop ran up. “Somebody got shot.”
“Shit,” the other cop said, then looked at Robert. “You live far away?”
“No,” Robert said.
“You want a ride home?”
“No, I’m all right.”
“Okay then, but get moving.”
Robert turned in the direction of his house, thinking the cops must’ve made a mistake. As far as he knew, no one had ever been shot in his town. Punched in the face, maybe, but not shot. As he walked away he could feel his face beginning to swell. He wanted to get home and ice it, hoping to keep the visible damage to a minimum. He didn’t want his mother to drive him nuts with questions.
He wondered what Barney would say about Adam’s bizarre attack, though he fancied the idea of looking like he’d been in a fight. He also knew that if Campbell hassled him again, Adam would be waiting in the wings.
And for only twenty-five dollars.
You can find Peter Johnson’s books, along with interviews with him, appearances, and other information at peterjohnsonauthor.com
His most recent book of prose poems is Old Man Howling at the Moon
His most recent book of fiction is Shot: A Novel in Stories
Terrific story, but the real-life intro is maybe the best thing about it.