Post by sasha on May 16, 2023 14:26:43 GMT -5
I remember… Bruce Tindall. What an asshole. If he was that despicable at 8, I can only imagine what he was like in his teens. He lived a few houses down from us in the row of older houses jammed side to side on South Street, and never failed to harass me should our paths converge on our daily walk to school. In all likelihood it was he who stole the water bubbler screwed onto our outside faucet, and who smashed our Halloween jack’o’lantern.
Bruce Tindall – ominous music seemed to play in my head whenever he came into view.
I was walking home one evening from a party thrown by one of my 3rd-grade classmates – I no longer remember who. It was dark enough for the street lights to have come on, but our house was on the same block only a half-dozen or so away, so I thought nothing of being alone outside at night. Nor did my parents. This was the 1950s after all.
But then I had the pleasure of bumping into Bruce Tindall. I knew as soon as I saw him approach that this was not going to go well. We were alone on the street, we’d made eye contact, and I still had 2 or 3 doorsteps to pass before reaching my own. All too soon we were face to face in the middle of the sidewalk.
“Hey,” He said.
“Hi,” I said, and stepped to one side to go around him.
He moved to one side to block me. “Where ya goin’?” he said.
“Home,” I said, trying again to get past him.
“Where ya comin’ from?” he said, sidestepping again.
“Um – a birthday party,” I said.
“A party. How come I wasn’t invited?” he said.
“I dunno,” I said, though I had a pretty good idea. Bruce worked hard on his image, and had earned his reputation honestly.
“Well,” he said. “Not very nice to leave me out. Why’d they do that? Why’d they ask you and not me? You think you’re better than me? Huh? Do ya? Huh? Huh?” He’d begun jabbing me with his finger, and ended his disquisition with a little shove that sent me stumbling back a step or two.
I was getting scared now. We were about the same size, though I was on the chubby side and disinclined to athletics. He was leaner, so I assumed fitter. I’d never been in a physical confrontation with anyone before, least of all with him, and the last thing I wanted was to break that streak. All I wanted was to get to the safety of home.
“No, I don’t think I’m better…” I began, but he’d begun shoving me again, with both hands this time, taunting me while continuing his expressions of disapproval over the current sorry state of invitational etiquette. Eventually he backed me into the shrubbery lining the sidewalk, and when he got me off balance, I stumbled and dropped to one knee. He seized this opportunity to wrestle me the rest of the way to the ground and onto my back, where he sat on me and pinned my arms to the sidewalk.
I was in unknown territory now, but I recalled what an older and wiser boy had told me – that in this situation, the guy pinned to the ground has an advantage because the guy on top thinks he’s in charge, and is prone to carelessness. I also had the additional advantage of desperation. So I drew up my knees and arched my back to throw him forward, and before he could regain his balance I twisted around, rolling him to one side and then onto HIS back. I scrambled up so I could sit on him. At this point, I wasn’t sure what to do.
So I punched him in the mouth. Twice. Maybe a third time – I can’t recall for sure.
He was stunned. Like all bullies, he was at a loss when his victim went off-script. He tremulously touched his lip and looked at his fingers. “Blood,” he said. Then: “You’re going to pay the doctor bills.” His voice was shaking, but I was too scared to grasp what that might have meant. “If I let you up,” I said, “will you let me go home?”
He didn’t answer for a moment. He seemed to be mulling it over. “Okay,” he said. “I’ll let you go this time.”
So I stood, and before he’d gotten to his feet I was running for the safety of my own driveway. Like any prey animal, my flight triggered a chase reflex in him, and he took after me in pursuit, crying “I changed my mind,” or some such. But by the time he did, I was already partway down our driveway, and I stopped for a backwards look.
He was standing where the driveway crossed the sidewalk, but he didn’t follow me. According to some unspoken tribal canon, one’s own yard is a Safe Zone – where it is forbidden to trespass with the intent to do personal harm. So Bruce and I eyed one another for a moment before I turned and walked – yes, Walked – to the side door and let myself inside.
I met Dad in the kitchen. He must have noticed I was agitated and out of breath, and asked what had happened. I recounted the experience as briefly as I could, placing more emphasis on Bruce’s actions than my own – and was a little surprised by his reaction. Though he didn’t offer any judgment one way or another about my behavior, he didn’t even seem angry that I'd gotten into a fight. He was well acquainted with Bruce. He just nodded, then very quietly said:
“I don’t think your mother needs to hear about this.”
A few months later Dad changed jobs and we moved to New Hampshire, but I don’t recall any further confrontations with Bruce Tindall beyond boilerplate verbal abuse. I’d like to think that mine was not the last whuppin’ he’d receive during his formative years....
Bruce Tindall – ominous music seemed to play in my head whenever he came into view.
I was walking home one evening from a party thrown by one of my 3rd-grade classmates – I no longer remember who. It was dark enough for the street lights to have come on, but our house was on the same block only a half-dozen or so away, so I thought nothing of being alone outside at night. Nor did my parents. This was the 1950s after all.
But then I had the pleasure of bumping into Bruce Tindall. I knew as soon as I saw him approach that this was not going to go well. We were alone on the street, we’d made eye contact, and I still had 2 or 3 doorsteps to pass before reaching my own. All too soon we were face to face in the middle of the sidewalk.
“Hey,” He said.
“Hi,” I said, and stepped to one side to go around him.
He moved to one side to block me. “Where ya goin’?” he said.
“Home,” I said, trying again to get past him.
“Where ya comin’ from?” he said, sidestepping again.
“Um – a birthday party,” I said.
“A party. How come I wasn’t invited?” he said.
“I dunno,” I said, though I had a pretty good idea. Bruce worked hard on his image, and had earned his reputation honestly.
“Well,” he said. “Not very nice to leave me out. Why’d they do that? Why’d they ask you and not me? You think you’re better than me? Huh? Do ya? Huh? Huh?” He’d begun jabbing me with his finger, and ended his disquisition with a little shove that sent me stumbling back a step or two.
I was getting scared now. We were about the same size, though I was on the chubby side and disinclined to athletics. He was leaner, so I assumed fitter. I’d never been in a physical confrontation with anyone before, least of all with him, and the last thing I wanted was to break that streak. All I wanted was to get to the safety of home.
“No, I don’t think I’m better…” I began, but he’d begun shoving me again, with both hands this time, taunting me while continuing his expressions of disapproval over the current sorry state of invitational etiquette. Eventually he backed me into the shrubbery lining the sidewalk, and when he got me off balance, I stumbled and dropped to one knee. He seized this opportunity to wrestle me the rest of the way to the ground and onto my back, where he sat on me and pinned my arms to the sidewalk.
I was in unknown territory now, but I recalled what an older and wiser boy had told me – that in this situation, the guy pinned to the ground has an advantage because the guy on top thinks he’s in charge, and is prone to carelessness. I also had the additional advantage of desperation. So I drew up my knees and arched my back to throw him forward, and before he could regain his balance I twisted around, rolling him to one side and then onto HIS back. I scrambled up so I could sit on him. At this point, I wasn’t sure what to do.
So I punched him in the mouth. Twice. Maybe a third time – I can’t recall for sure.
He was stunned. Like all bullies, he was at a loss when his victim went off-script. He tremulously touched his lip and looked at his fingers. “Blood,” he said. Then: “You’re going to pay the doctor bills.” His voice was shaking, but I was too scared to grasp what that might have meant. “If I let you up,” I said, “will you let me go home?”
He didn’t answer for a moment. He seemed to be mulling it over. “Okay,” he said. “I’ll let you go this time.”
So I stood, and before he’d gotten to his feet I was running for the safety of my own driveway. Like any prey animal, my flight triggered a chase reflex in him, and he took after me in pursuit, crying “I changed my mind,” or some such. But by the time he did, I was already partway down our driveway, and I stopped for a backwards look.
He was standing where the driveway crossed the sidewalk, but he didn’t follow me. According to some unspoken tribal canon, one’s own yard is a Safe Zone – where it is forbidden to trespass with the intent to do personal harm. So Bruce and I eyed one another for a moment before I turned and walked – yes, Walked – to the side door and let myself inside.
I met Dad in the kitchen. He must have noticed I was agitated and out of breath, and asked what had happened. I recounted the experience as briefly as I could, placing more emphasis on Bruce’s actions than my own – and was a little surprised by his reaction. Though he didn’t offer any judgment one way or another about my behavior, he didn’t even seem angry that I'd gotten into a fight. He was well acquainted with Bruce. He just nodded, then very quietly said:
“I don’t think your mother needs to hear about this.”
A few months later Dad changed jobs and we moved to New Hampshire, but I don’t recall any further confrontations with Bruce Tindall beyond boilerplate verbal abuse. I’d like to think that mine was not the last whuppin’ he’d receive during his formative years....