The Bully

The Bully

by
JASON STARR ©

I was sitting by myself at a table in the corner of the cafeteria eating a salami-on-rye sandwich, when Billy Owens came over and sat down next to me. I expected him to steal my Twinkies or slap me on top of my head and walk away like he usually did, but he just sat there staring.

Billy was the ugliest kid I’d ever seen. He had a crew cut and his face was covered with dark freckles. His nose was wide and flat and his teeth were crooked and chipped. He looked like Alfred E. Newman, except more deranged.

“If you want my Twinkies, you can have ’em,” I said, hoping this would make him leave me alone.

He kept smiling at me in his demented way, for what seemed like a very long time, then said, “I don’t want your Twinkies, blubber ass.”

I continued eating my sandwich, ready for Billy to punch me or smack me. I was the fattest kid in school and I was used to getting picked on, especially by Billy.

But instead Billy said, “Today’s the day, fatso. I’m gonna beat you up so bad, your mama won’t recognize you no more.”

Other kids nearby heard Billy threatening me and a commotion started. Soon the entire cafeteria was chanting, “Fight, fight, fight, fight, fight…”

The cafeteria attendant, Mrs. Ferretti, came over and told Billy to leave me alone. I was trying not to cry, but finally I couldn’t help it. When the tears came, all the kids started laughing.

“After school,” Billy said to me. “Get ready to die.”

* * *

The rest of the day, I couldn’t stop staring at the clock above Mrs. Rosenberg’s desk. I wanted the hands to freeze, for three o’clock to never come. I imagined it would be just like the time Billy beat up Rodney Foster. Rodney was a big, tough, mean black kid. I’d watched the fight with everyone else after school, hoping to see Billy get beat up, but Billy knocked Rodney down with one solid punch to the face and the fight was over. I can still remember the cracking sound the punch made, like two rocks smashing together.

At ten to three, Mrs. Rosenberg was finishing her math lesson. I was in my usual seat in the back of the class—we were seated alphabetically and my last name is Zimmerman—and Billy Owens was sitting in the middle of the class, several rows ahead of me. I was hoping Billy would just forget about me, but at five to three he turned around in his chair and looked at me, smiling cruelly, showing me his fist. Then when I was at my cubby, putting on my jacket, he came over to me and whispered, “They’re gonna have to put you in the hospital tonight, blubber ass.”

As usual, the class lined up behind Mrs. Rosenberg, and then she led us downstairs. I made sure that I was behind Billy as the class exited. When Billy entered the stairwell, I sprinted down the hallway in the other direction, toward a stairwell leading to a different exit. At over 150 pounds, I couldn’t run very fast, but I don’t think I’ve ever run faster than I did that day. My lungs hurt as I dashed down the stairs and out of the building, and then across Glenwood Road toward my house on East Twenty-second Street. The whole time, I kept looking back over my shoulder, convinced Billy was following me. Only when I reached my house and was safely inside did I start to relax.

But my relief didn’t last for very long. Maybe I’d made it home today, but tomorrow I had to return to school, and I knew I couldn’t run away from Billy Owens forever.

* * *

As usual, my father was home, working in his study. Several months earlier, he’d quit his job at an advertising agency in Manhattan and he was trying to finish the novel he’d started before I was born. He never told my mother or me what the novel was about, but he was convinced it was going to be a bestseller and make him a fortune.

Usually, I didn’t bother my father while he was working. He had a bad temper and sometimes drank too much and I was always afraid he’d yell at me or hit me with his belt. But that day I knew I had no choice. I guess I could’ve asked my mother when she came home from work—she was a receptionist at a doctor’s office in Manhattan—but I knew I’d feel like a baby, running to my mommy for help. There was something more manly about getting help from my father.

I knocked on the door to the study. There was no answer, so I knocked again.

“What?” my father said in his usual irritated voice.

I opened the door slowly, ready to get yelled at.

My father was at his desk, staring at a blank sheet of paper in his typewriter. He was very tall, over six feet, with broad shoulders. When he quit his advertising job, he’d started growing a beard, vowing not to shave until he finished his novel. The beard was already long and thick and it would grow even longer.

“What is it?” my father asked without looking at me.

“I just…I just need some help,” I said.

“This isn’t a good time, Jonathan.”

“I know dad, but it’s really important ’cause—”

“Can’t you see I’m busy?”

“I know but—”

“And why did you come in here without knocking?”

“I
did
knock.”

“No, you didn’t. You just started opening the door. How many times have I told you that when the door is closed and you know I’m working that you shouldn’t, under any circumstances, interrupt me.”

“But I
knocked
.”

“I don’t care if you knocked or if you didn’t knock—you interrupted me. Now I lost my train of thought—you know what that means? It means I forgot what I was going to write.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, looking at the floor.

“That doesn’t help me, does it?” my father said. “Now the words are lost forever—I’ll never remember what they were. So go ahead. Tell me what’s so important that you had to come into my office without knocking. Come on—tell me.”

“Nothing,” I said.

“Nothing?
Nothing
? So you just came in here and interrupted me for no reason at all?”

“No.”

“No?…What do you mean, no?”

“No, I didn’t interrupt you for no reason at all.”

“Well, will you please tell me what you want so I can get back to work?”

“It’s about school.”

“School? You mean your homework? When your mother comes home she’ll help you with that. Is that what’s so important?”

“It’s not homework,” I said.

“Then what is it?”

Looking at the floor, I started to cry again, then I said, “Something else.”

My father breathed deeply. I was afraid he was going to start yelling at me again.

“I’m sure whatever you’re crying about can’t be very important.”

“It
is
important,” I said.

“Well, if you don’t tell me what it is, I can’t help you, can I?”

I cried for several more seconds, then I got a hold of myself and said, “It’s this kid.”

“What kid?”

“Billy Owens.”

“Who’s Billy Owens?”

“A kid in my class.”

“What about him?”

“He wants to beat me up.”

“And?”

“And I’m scared.”

“Why are you scared?”

“Because I don’t wanna get beat up.”

“Why do you think you’re going to get beat up? You’re a big kid. You’re probably the biggest kid in your class. Why’re you scared?”

“You don’t understand,” I said.

“What don’t I understand?” my father said, looking at the typewriter again.

“I don’t know how to fight,” I said, “and Billy Owens is the toughest kid in the whole school. He even beat up Rodney Foster and I’m afraid he’s gonna beat me up too.”

My lips were quivering—I didn’t want to start to cry again, but I was afraid I was going to.

“Trust me, there’s nothing to be worried about,” my father said. “If this Willy Owens—”

“
Billy
Owens.”

“Billy, Willy, what the hell’s the difference? If he really wants to fight you, you can’t dodge him forever. So the best thing to do is to jump him when he’s least expecting him it—surprise him. These schoolyard fights never last very long anyway. Maybe you’ll get a few good punches or kicks in, then the other kids’ll break it up. After that, this kid’ll think you’re tough and a little crazy and he’ll leave you alone.”

“You don’t understand,” I said. “Billy Owens is really, really, really strong. He’s like the toughest kid in school and he’ll kill me in a fight.”

My father was looking back toward his typewriter, obviously anxious to get rid of me.

“If he wants to fight you, you have no choice but to fight him. You can’t keep running away forever.”

“But, daaaad—”

“Enough, Jonathan. I told you what to do, now why don’t you be a good kid and leave me the hell alone, okay?”

* * *

I didn’t have an appetite for dinner, which was pretty unusual for me. Normally I had two Hungry Man frozen dinners and at least a few scoops of Breyer’s mint chocolate chip for desert.

“Is something wrong?” my mother asked.

I didn’t say anything. I just sat there, staring at the tray of sliced turkey and stuffing. My father was still at work in his study. The sound of his fingers banging on the keys was echoing throughout the big Victorian house.

“Well, when you’re ready to tell me what’s going on, you can,” my mother said.

* * *

The next day, in the schoolyard, I saw Billy Owens standing near the handball court, talking to a few other kids. I remembered what my father told me, about how I should take Billy by surprise. I wasn’t sure this would work, but I knew my father was right about one thing—I couldn’t hide from Billy. Eventually, I’d have to fight him so now might be as good a time as any.

I took a few deep breaths, then I ran toward Billy as fast as I could. A few seconds before I reached him he must’ve heard me coming because he turned toward me, looking completely surprised. I tackled him and, using my weight, I held him down. A crowd quickly formed around us and kids were yelling, “Fight, fight, fight…” Billy was finally able to turn me over, but he only got one or two punches in before the schoolyard monitor came over.

Billy and I were both sent to the principal’s office. It was the first time I’d been sent there, but Billy had gotten into trouble dozens of times before. Even though Billy claimed I’d started the fight, Mr. Greenberg let me go with a warning about fighting in school and he didn’t call my parents. But Billy had to stay with Mr. Greenberg and later in the day I found out he’d been suspended.

When school ended, it was a relief to be able to exit with the other kids and not have to worry about getting beaten up.

At home, my appetite was back and I was eating chocolate doughnuts in front of the TV as a pre-dinner snack. I watched cartoons, then I started watching
Gamera Verus Gyaosu
on The Four-thirty Movie when the doorbell rang. My father was busy typing in his study so I went to answer it. I parted the shade on the glass door to see who it was. At first I didn’t see anyone, then Billy Owens’ ugly face appeared. He looked angrier and scarier than he’d ever seemed before.

“Open the door, pork ass—right now!”

I let go of the curtain and ran upstairs to my room and locked the door. I was hoping that Billy would go home, leave me alone, but he kept ringing the doorbell. Then it sounded like he was keeping his finger pressed on the bell because there was just one steady ring.

“Jonathan!” My father’s voice boomed. “Jonathan!”

He started banging on the door to my room.

“What?” I said.

“What’s going on? Didn’t you answer the doorbell?”

I didn’t say anything. The doorbell was still ringing.

“Jonathan, open this door right now. Is that some friend of yours playing games?”