Copyright © 1999, 2000 by Gene Michael Stover. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without prior written permission of the author and publisher, Gene Michael Stover.
There's Brad Rollins, town sheriff. I've known him most of my life. He's made pretty well with himself, considering his beginnings. Or maybe what he is now, a respected member of the community with some power and authority, followed naturally from his beginnings. I've never known which, though I have some fears.
I remember back in fourth grade or so. I was walking down the hallway at school, and I saw him coming. I was nervous about it because he used to bully me. Since first grade or even kindergarten; as long as I can remember, he bullied me. Here he was coming down the hall, and I didn't want any hassle.
So as we passed in the hall, it looked like I'd get lucky, like he'd ignore me this time, but all of a sudden, my feet were locked up-stuck, held back. Then they were behind me and off the ground, and I was falling forward, hands straight out. I landed like that with a loud slap-hands out, palms stinging, on my knees, kneecaps throbbing. The hallway was paved with thick, hard, slick concrete. I haven't seen other concrete like it. Maybe it was an artifact from a time when they didn't know about making concrete with good traction or when they liked to polish concrete almost like a mirror. Anyway, it was about the hardest stuff I can think of to fall on, and I was hurting.
Rather I would have been hurting if I weren't so angry. For some reason, when I had cowed and taken his abuse all those years, this time, I was burning angry. I jumped up, turned around, and saw that he was taking no notice of me. His back was to me, and he was walking away confident that I'd be happy he hadn't done worse to me. Considering his past experiences, I wasn't surprised he was so sure he didn't need to watch his back.
I got up quietly and charged him silently. He must have heard something behind him because he started to turn to see, but he was too slow and too late. I grabbed his shoulder and spun him around to face me. I expected him to throw a nasty punch and then beat the Hell out of me, but he just looked at me, with his arms to his sides. I never have known if he was trying to intimidate me by not reacting or if he was too surprised to show it.
All your life, since you were a toddler, now and again you're told that bullies are weaklings who live by intimidation, and if you stand up to them just once, you never need to do it again.
So he stood there, blank expression, arms to his sides, for the half-second from the time I faced him until I made a fist and drew it back to my ear, ready to hit with with everything a kid could bring to bear, to stand up to this bully, just this once, like I'd been told so that he'd never hassle me again.
Just then, Mrs. King, one of the teachers, came around the corner. She shouted ``Bill Simpson! Fighting! I'm ashamed of you! Go to the principal's office!''
